“That may be all well and good for your books,” she said glumly, “but there’s no such thing as a happy ending in real life. Everybody knows that.”

He was inclined to agree with her, but didn’t say so.

“I mean, look at the statistics. Three out of five marriages end in divorce.”

“Have you ever been in love, Shannah?”

“I thought I was once, but…” She shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It didn’t work out.”

She had been hurt, though she didn’t say so. It saddened him to think that one so young should have been hurt so deeply.

“Another thing they’ll ask you about is fan mail. I get quite a lot, although most of it comes as email these days.”

“People actually write to you about your books?”

“Oh, yeah.” Most of the letters were from women, of course, thanking him for giving them a brief respite from housework, or for helping them through a rough time in their lives, or for giving them a newfound love for reading. One letter he particularly cherished had come from a teenage girl who wrote that his books had saved her life. She had been contemplating suicide and whenever she felt that way, she went to her room and read his books. He also received mail from men from time to time, though most of them were inmates at various prisons and institutions.

“Do you write back?” she asked.

“Of course. Anyone who takes the time to sit down and write a letter deserves an answer.”

“Could I read some of your fan mail?”

“If you like. But not now.”

“What about my life?” she asked. “I mean, your life. What should I say if they ask about your past?”

“Tell them whatever you wish, as long as it’s either true or can’t be proven a lie. I’m sure someone will ask you how you started writing. My typical answer is that I started writing because I was bored with television.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Another question you’re sure to be asked is how you do the research for your love scenes.”

“You’re not serious?”

“It’s a very popular question.”

“So, what do I say? That I take notes while I make love?”

He stared at her a moment, and then laughed. “That’s a far better answer than anything I’ve ever come up with.”

“I was kidding.”

“If you say it in jest, it might be answer enough,” he remarked, thinking he liked her more and more every day.

Shannah sat up straight and stretched her back and shoulders. “I’m hungry.”

His gaze darted to the pulse beating in her throat. He was hungry, too, he thought.

Always hungry, whenever she was around.

She cocked her head to the side and regarded him through curious eyes. “Why don’t you ever eat with me? I’m not that bad a cook, you know.”

“I prefer to eat in private,” he said. “It’s a particular quirk of mine.”

“That’s really weird.”

“I suppose so.”

“If you like to eat in private, how come there wasn’t any food in the kitchen when I got here?”

Damn the girl, why did she have to ask so many questions that were best left unanswered, at least for now?

“Weevils,” he said, thinking quickly. “They were into everything, so I threw it all out.”

She looked at him, her expression skeptical. “Even the dishes and the pots and pans?”

Bless the girl, she didn’t miss a trick! “Why don’t you go fix yourself something to eat?” he suggested. “I need to go out for a short time.”

“You go out every night. Where do you go?”

“Maybe some day I’ll tell you.”

She made a face at him, then left the room.

He stared after her. She was far too bright and asked far too many questions for his liking. If he was smart, he would send her on her way and forget about the book tour. Staying home wouldn’t hurt his career and he was certain he could mollify his editor and his agent. And if he couldn’t, well, he could always change his name and find a new publisher. The only thing was, he liked having Shannah around. She had bloomed in the last few weeks. Where she had once been frail and sickly looking, she was now the picture of vibrant good health. Her skin glowed, her hair was thick and lustrous, her eyes bright and clear. She was a beautiful young woman in the prime of her life.

And he wanted her.

Shannah stood at the stove, stirring a pan of chicken noodle soup, her mind filled with questions, all of them about her mysterious host. She wondered where he slept, since she slept in the only bed in the house, and where he kept his clothes. She never saw him during the day.

He didn’t eat. She had noticed there were no mirrors in any of the rooms.

The wordvampire whispered, unbidden, through the back corridors of her mind.

She dismissed it with a shake of her head. He had answered the door when the sun was still up.

He couldn’t be a vampire if he was active during the day, even though he looked like one.

She laughed out loud. Who knew what a vampire looked like? In books, they were often described as skeletal figures with hairy hands, long bony fingers, and glowing red eyes. In movies, they were often portrayed as funny and sexy, like George Hamilton, or handsome and sexy, like Frank Langella.

Ronan was definitely handsome and sexy. Maybe hewas a vampire.

A vampire who wrote best-selling romance novels. Right.

She poured the soup into a bowl, pulled a box of saltines out of the cupboard, and sat down at the table. For weeks now, she had been able to eat anything she wanted without getting sick to her stomach. She felt wonderful. The small mirror she carried in her purse told her she looked better than she ever had in her whole life. Her skin practically glowed. Her hair was thicker than before. Was this a sign that death was imminent? Her doctor had said she might enjoy a burst of good health before the end.

Her doctor. She had an appointment with him tomorrow. She had been feeling so good the last few weeks, she had forgotten all about it until now; now she was tempted to skip it. If she was better, why bother going? And if she wasn’t? Why bother going when they couldn’t do anything to help her?

She finished her soup, washed the dishes and put them away, then went into the living room.

Ronan hadn’t returned, so she picked up the book she had been reading. He really was a terrific writer. She had read three of his books so far and every one of them had been a keeper, a real page turner. She wondered where he got all his information about vampires, then shrugged. He had a computer. You could find anything you wanted to know on the Net. Plus he had hundreds of books. Some of them could be research books, she supposed, though she had never heard of vampire research books. But then, there were a lot of things she had never heard of.

Settling back on the sofa, she opened the book and lost herself in another world.

Ronan stood in the doorway, his gaze on the woman who was so engrossed in one of his books that she didn’t even realize he was in the room. It pleased him to think she was so caught up in a world that he had created that she wasn’t aware of her own surroundings. The thought made him smile. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing that others enjoyed his work.

He had a dozen boxes filled with fan letters, as well as a number of files on his computer where he stored his email according to the year it had been received. But the fact that Shannah enjoyed his stories pleased him more than anything else.

She really was lovely, he mused, and then frowned. It occurred to him that she was quite young, probably too young to have written as many Eva Black books as he had. If asked, she would have to lie about her age. These days, with collagen injections, Botox, skin peels and plastic surgery, it was hard to judge a woman’s true age. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of for an author to turn out more than one book a year. He wrote two books a year, sometimes three.

One author he knew of, who was much more famous than he was, wrote six books a year, but she was a law unto herself. He often wondered how she found time to do anything else.

Ronan took a step into the room. The movement caught Shannah’s attention and she glanced in his direction.

He jerked his chin at the book in her lap. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, very much, although I have to admit I was surprised when you killed off the housekeeper.”

He laughed softly. “Always keep the reader guessing,” he said, taking a place on the sofa. “If you kill off a major character, it keeps the reader wondering who else you might knock off before the end of the book.”

“Ah. I’ll have to remember that in case it comes up,” she said, and then frowned. “There’s so much to memorize, I know I’ll never be able to remember it all.”

“Sure you will.”

“What if I forget something?”

“Then just fake it.”

“What if my mind goes blank? What if I freeze up during one of the radio interviews?”

“Shannah, stop worrying. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“But…”

“If it proves to be too much for you, or you really can’t handle it, then we’ll just cancel the tour and come home.”

“Just like that?” she asked, snapping her fingers.

“Just like that.”

“You’re awfully kind.”

Ronan stared at her. Kind? He had been called a lot of things in five hundred years, but kind had not been one of them.

His gaze moved over her, lingering on her lips. What would she do if he drew her into his arms and kissed her? Would she be shocked? Repelled? Or would she kiss him back?

As a vampire, there wasn’t much he was afraid of, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected by this girl-woman with her tantalizing humanity and warm blue eyes.

“Ronan? Is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?”