The Scotsman and the Vamp

Jennifer Ashley

Hollywood, 1925

The best thing about a wrap party was the dancing.

Claire Armand loved the beat of the new jazz, its rapid staccato, the thump of the bass, the heartbeat-like pound of the drums. Silas Goldberg, the producer, could afford the best band in Los Angeles for his “it’s in the can” party at his Hollywood mansion. Claire would start on a new picture in the morning, but tonight, she planned to dance her heart out.

The charleston was her favourite. It let her dance alone instead of risking a man’s wandering hands in a foxtrot. Better still, she could show off her legs and the adorable silver shoes she’d bought to go with her glittering short sheath dress.

Coming to Hollywood had been the best decision of her life. She’d thrown off the shackles of the straight-laced, tradition-bound vampire community of London, and fled the role expected of her – vampire bride to Scotsman Ross Maclaren.

Sounded like a Hollywood film: The Vampire Bride of Ross Maclaren. Maybe she should pitch it to Goldberg.

“Oh, Claire, I love your dress.” The heroine of the film they’d just finished, The Ingénue and the Prince, danced up to her. Lauren Cole, indeed, looked like an ingénue with her cherubic face, soft golden hair and big blue eyes. She was shy, however, and madly in love with the film’s hero, the dark-haired heart-throb, Gavin Sanders.

“Thank you,” Claire yelled over the music. “I had it made specially for tonight.”

She didn’t return Lauren’s compliment because, as usual, Lauren had no clothes sense. The dress Lauren had chosen was frilly and frumpy and completely wrong for her figure. Claire would have to take her in hand.

“Gavin is right over there.” Claire indicated the man standing by the bar, staring wistfully at them. “Go ask him to dance.”

Lauren’s eyes widened. “No, I couldn’t.”

This from a woman who’d declared her undying love to Gavin just this afternoon. But, then, the cameras had been rolling.

“You’ll never get him to look at you if you don’t talk to him.”

“He’s not interested in me. He’s in love with you.”

“Don’t be daft. He told me the other day he found you a delight.”

Rapture. “Did he?” Rapture faded. “I bet he was just being polite. It’s you the men buzz around, Claire. You’re so beautiful.”

Of course Claire was beautiful. She was eternal. She never had to sleep or eat if she didn’t want to. She could work long hours and always look good; she never complained or got tired. Film directors loved her.

When Claire had arrived in Hollywood last year, she’d been instantly cast as the femme fatale, a villainness to lure the hero to his doom. She had lustrous black hair, a pale face with sensual red lips, and dark eyes that smouldered at her command. She’d done six pictures so far, and her seductive stare had already become famous across the United States.

Off the set, Claire had no use for Hollywood men. She disliked their lasciviousness, their unveiled offers of sex, their conviction that all actresses were eager to leap into bed. Not one man she’d met in Hollywood was a gentleman, except Silas Goldberg, but that was only because he didn’t see his actresses as women. They were dollar signs to him, nothing more.

Claire didn’t care. She preferred dancing to men. She loved beautiful clothes, champagne, wild Hollywood parties, sneaking into speakeasies, and dancing all night. At home she’d been expected to remain quietly indoors in an English country house with the women of her clan, while the males were allowed to mingle with humans in clubs and restaurants. The world was deemed too dangerous for vampire women, who lived together in gorgeously appointed houses muffled against the sunlight. Elegant, luxurious and so very, very dull.

The music changed. “Foxtrot!” Claire shouted.

She grabbed Lauren and dragged the young woman to where Gavin Sanders stood at the bar. “Gavin, do dance with Lauren. She certainly doesn’t want to dance with me.”

Claire thrust Lauren’s hand into Gavin’s, kissed the tips of her fingers to them both, and whirled away, her good deed done.

A man in full Arab costume strode to her out of the crowd. He wore the entire outfit from The Sheik and had included a dark mask under his headgear. Claire held out her arms.

“Rudy, how screaming to see you. Come and dance with me.”

Claire liked Rudy Valentino, one of the few men who didn’t try to grope her. Rudy had supplemented his early career by dancing with elderly rich ladies in hotels back east, and Claire always found him graceful and light on his feet.

Tonight Rudy seemed ill at ease. He danced with her a few steps then swept her into surprisingly strong arms. Before she could ask what on earth he was doing, he ducked with her through the crowd and ran for the door.

Claire waved at the throng behind her. “Goodbye, everybody! The Sheik is carrying me off.”

They cheered, far gone in champagne. Just before her abductor swept her out of the ballroom, Claire caught a glimpse of a man who looked exactly like Rudolph Valentino in a back corner. He wore a plain suit, was conversing with Goldberg, and never looked up at Claire.

“Wait a minute, who the devil are you? Put me down at once.”

Claire struggled. She was strong, but so was he. He carried her out of the house and deposited her behind the driver’s seat of an open roadster. He swung into the passenger’s side before she could get out, and reached over and pressed the starter. “Drive,” he growled.

In fury, Claire put the car in gear and screeched past the vehicles in the circular drive. She shot through the gates and yanked the big car to the right, roaring down the road that snaked downhill to town.

As she drove, Claire pondered what to do. She could easily wreck the car with her abductor in it and walk away without a scratch. But the man might die, and maybe he was only a foolish movie fan who wanted to see how far he could get with Claire Armand. She couldn’t justify killing him because she was peeved.

Claire had no reservations about scaring the wits out of him, though. There wasn’t much traffic this late, and she loved to drive. She zigged around a hairpin turn on two wheels then stomped on the gas. Wind rushed through her hair, and she threw back her head and laughed.

The sheik clawed the cloths from his head and face. “For God’s sake, Claire, be careful.” His voice was deep, rich, Scottish, and haunted her dreams. “This car is hired.”

Claire hit the brakes. The car skidded sideways across the road then slanted into a ditch. Claire turned to stare at the big, dark-haired Scotsman who glared back at her with sinfully tawny eyes.

“Ross!”

“Aye. I’ve come t’ take ye home, Claire.”

Claire’s body went hot, then ice cold. The tables had just turned. Instead of Claire Armand teaching her kidnapper a lesson, Ross Maclaren was going to teach her one. A big, fat terrifying, never-ending lesson.

What have they done to my Claire?

Was this his promised bride – this vixen in a shimmering dress that bared her arms and revealed her long, sexy legs? His Claire who’d danced with abandon in that ballroom, laughing like she’d never been so happy in her life?

Ross burned with fury but at the same time felt a touch wistful. She’d never laughed like that around him.

Now his promised bride glared at him with dark eyes that held a glint of red. Those same eyes had burned him from a cinema screen in Edinburgh not three weeks before. She’d been wearing a pseudo-Egyptian sheath that bared her legs and a large quantity of bosom for all the world to see.

His Claire. The woman who was to turn him into a vampire so that he could love and protect her for ever.

In the movie, Claire had languidly stroked her hand across the resisting hero’s chest, while her lush lips moved silently. The next card had assured Ross that she’d said, “My darling, I burn for you with undying passion.”

Ross had stormed out of the theatre and bought a ticket on the next ocean liner to America. He knew that what he’d seen had been a play, make-believe filmed on celluloid. But his urge to rip the hero away from Claire and throttle him had been too strong.

“Ross,” Claire demanded of him now. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You are supposed to be home sewing your trousseau, preparing to become m’wife.”

She shook her head, black hair glistening in the moonlight. “That’s all off. I have a career to think of.”

“It’s no’ off, lass. It can never be off. You’re promised t’ me and that’s final. ’Tis the way of our lives.”

“You truly want to become vampire and bound to me for ever? Don’t you want a choice?”

“I did, when I was younger, aye. But after meeting you . . .”

“You burned with undying passion?” Claire rolled the eyes that had driven the hero mad in The Pharaoh’s Tomb. “This isn’t a film, Ross. It’s our lives. Or do you want me only because I can give you immortality?” Bitterness and anger edged her voice.

“Claire, how could ye think that?”

Claire clutched the wheel of the unmoving car. “I decided I didn’t want to be married off, to spend my days embroidering in some draughty Scottish castle. For ever. The world has opened up for women, and I want to live in it. Women are a large part of the movie industry now, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t be, too.”

“Aye,” Ross agreed. “Tarts are a large part of it, too. Showing everything but their knickers to the world for a tuppenny ticket.”

“Are you calling me a tart, Ross Maclaren?” Claire’s eyes flashed dangerous rage, and her fangs brushed her lower lip. He wished he didn’t find that so erotic.

Ross’ reply was cut short by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

“You having some trouble, lady?” A man in a police constable’s uniform strolled up to the car, regarding Claire with cynical suspicion. “Had a few sips from the hip flask, did you, ma’am?”

Ross started to growl in anger, but Claire turned an instant, heart-melting smile on the constable. “Oh, I am zo zorry, officer,” she said, her voice deep and liquid. “I thought I zaw a cat in the road, and I didn’t want to hit ze poor zing, did I? I had no idea ze car, it could stop zo fast.”

Ross rolled his eyes in the darkness. The accent, the manner – all ridiculous, but the policeman stared at her with his mouth open. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you Claire Armand?”

Claire tossed her hair. “I am she, yez.”

“Hey, no kidding?” The policeman broke into a wide, delighted grin. “I just took my girlfriend to Daughter of the Regiment. You were brilliant. My girlfriend, though, she, um, thought you deserved it when you got shot.”

Ross’ protective anger rose like an enraged lion, but Claire put a slender hand on his arm. “Your lady is right, officer. Ze countess, she should die. She could not reform herself, no. She was too set on self-destruction. So she decides not to dodge ze bullet when it comes for her.”

“That’s exactly what I told her, Miss Armand.” The policeman tugged a pen and paper out of his pocket. “Can I have your autograph? It would make my girlfriend so happy.”

“She will cover you with kisses, no?” Claire tittered as the young man blushed. “Ah, I see zat zis is so. Certainly, I will write ze autograph. Zo long as it is not on a ticket?” She gave a throaty laugh.

“No, ma’am. I know now that you were trying not to hit a cat. Not your fault, and no one got hurt.”

Claire wrote her name with a flourish and handed the pen and paper back to him. The policeman tucked the autograph into his pocket then guided Claire as she backed the car out of the ditch. The policeman waved goodbye, and Claire drove them away.

Ross finally unclenched his hands. “Good God, Claire, what was that all about?”

“I didn’t want a ticket. And the nice constable can thrill his girlfriend with tales of meeting a famous movie star. I wager she really will cover him in kisses.”

“I meant th’ accent, and the rubbish about ‘ze countess’ not dodging ‘ze bullet’.’”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun. The movies only have pictures, so how does he know what I sound like in real life?”

“I see I arrived just in time. We’ll go back together tomorrow.”

Claire’s good humour evaporated. “Hardly. I have another picture starting tomorrow, and I’m scheduled to do two more after that. I am getting so much work. My movies sell many tickets.”

Ross gazed at the lights of Los Angeles spreading out from the bottom of the hill. Claire drove well, her hands resting lightly on the wheel. The weather was balmy here, the moon bright over the hills. He found it intriguing, this strange world of warmth, with mansions tucked into hills above farms and orange groves.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked her.

“To my house.”

“I’m staying at a hotel.”

“My house is more comfortable.”

“We’re not married yet,” Ross said sternly.

“Pooh. No one here cares about such things. Besides, I don’t play innocent heroines, I play femmes fatales, so no one expects my reputation to be spotless.”

Ross scowled. “You mean it isn’t?”

“Don’t be such a stick. The men here don’t interest me in the slightest, if you are worried. They are either vain creatures who want me to admire them ad nauseam, or they smarm up to me to get parts in pictures. Boring.”

“What about that disgusting bastard pawing at you in The Pharaoh’s Tomb? I saw that one.”

Claire smiled in delight. “Oh, Ross, you went to a cinema? How very modern of you.”

“A mate dragged me there. I looked up from my newspaper and there was my lass, larger than life, on the screen in front of me. In a skintight sheath with that cretin’s hands all over her. I knew it was only a play, but the man was enjoying his part a little too much.”

Claire burst out laughing. The car swerved back and forth on the empty street as she laughed. “Oh, Ross. Oh, my love. How priceless.”

“Watch where you’re going. You’ll have us in the ditch again.”

Claire straightened the car but didn’t slacken her speed. “You’ll be happy to know that the cretin in question has no interest in women. He’s Jonathon O’Dell, and he has a boyfriend.”

Ross blinked. “A boyfriend?”

“Yes. A very nice young man who came with Jon to the studio every day. They’ve set up house together in Santa Monica. It’s sweet.”

“Bloody hell.”

What kind of a place was this? Women wore next to nothing, men lived with men . . .

Look at Claire. The last time Ross had seen her, she’d been attired in a tight bodice and a long black skirt that enticed him by swaying when she walked. She’d looked shyly through her lashes when he’d taken her hand and declared he was honoured to have been chosen for her.

One year in America, and Claire was in minute dresses, driving cars like a wild woman, laughing up at the sky. Her hair flowed over the seat in a silky wave – at least she hadn’t chopped it off like so many women did nowadays. Ross could get lost in her beauty.

But she was his, didn’t she understand that? Promised to him since his birth. They would marry on All Hallows’ Eve, and in their wedding bed she’d make him vampire. Then he’d protect her for ever.

Not every man in the vast Maclaren clan married and protected a vampire bride. Every hundred years or so, certain male Maclarens were chosen by mystics to marry a vampire woman of the Armand family. Ross had hated that he’d been chosen, had fought against it all his life – until he’d met Claire. Then he’d realized why men of his clan had agreed to sacrifice themselves for their vampire brides.

Claire was not only beautiful of face, she had a lush, curved body and a grace that made him want to watch her every move. Her smile was sweet, but she’d had a gleam in her eye that sent his fantasies dancing. He’d wanted to know her, talk to her, kiss her, hold her in the night. Was it the magic that made him feel this way? Or Claire herself?

Ross had been willing to find out. But now it seemed that Claire was not.

Claire pulled the big car up a hill, through a gate, and along a circular drive. She stopped in front of a Georgian house that looked a couple of hundred years old, but of course it couldn’t be.

“This is your house?” Ross asked.

Claire threw him an exasperated look as she got out of the car. “Of course it is. I bought it after I finished The Curse of the Mummy.”

“Did ye now?”

“I did, now.”

Claire unlocked the front door and ushered him into a vast hall. A staircase curved upward to the left, and Ross glimpsed a comfortable modern bathroom through a door to his right. The décor was pale yellow with black accents, no gaudy marble or pseudo Egyptian gilt like at the hotel where Ross was staying. Claire at least had some taste.

She dropped her keys on the hall table and skimmed up the stairs. Ross admitted he liked the silvery dress, which cupped her bottom and let him watch her lovely thighs in motion.

He pulled off the rest of the Arab robes as he climbed after her and left them on the banister. Beneath he wore a suit coat and Maclaren plaid kilt. Americans on the trains had slanted puzzled looks at him all the way across the country, but since he’d arrived in Los Angeles, no one had batted an eye. They probably thought he was in a movie – The Scotsman’s Bonny Lassie or some such nonsense.

His own bonny lassie flipped on the electric lights in a living room at the top of the stairs. Filled bookcases lined one wall, tall windows lined the opposite. Claire paused on her way to a drinks cabinet to turn on a phonograph and drop its needle onto a record.

“Cocktail?” she asked, taking up a silver shaker as the scratchy music began. “I’ve learned to make the most screaming drink called a Gin Fizz. They have Prohibition here, so it’s terribly illegal, but the police never bother me.”

Of course they didn’t. Money and fame made the law look the other way in many countries. “I’d prefer malt whisky if ye have it.”

“Good heavens, Ross, it won’t hurt you to try something new. Expand your horizons.”

“I did. I went to the pictures. Ye see where it led me?”

Claire opened bottles and poured things into the shaker. She put the top on and shook the container in time with the music, which made her jiggle agreeably. She poured the drinks into wide-mouthed glasses, twisting her wrist with a flourish.

Ross took the glass she handed him. “Where’s th’ cock’s tail?”

“Silly. That’s what drinks are called. Mixed drinks, anyway. Chin-chin.” She clinked her glass to his and took a large gulp.

Ross let a swig roll past his lips, then he coughed. “That’s bloody awful.”

Claire looked at her glass. “It is rather. I prefer champagne myself. But cocktails are the rage.”

Ross set his drink on a table and took the glass from her hand. “Never mind what’s th’ rage.” He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’ve not seen ye in almost a year, and I came a long way to find ye.”

“Ross . . .”

“Don’t argue with me, Claire. Just dance with me. Can ye do that?”

She ran her hands along his shoulders, her scent filling him. “I suppose.”

“Good.” The tune was rapid, but Ross knew how to dance, and he pulled her into the moves before she could protest any more.

Not fair. Ross looked at her with eyes the colour of the malt whisky he liked, pressed warm hands to her back, and Claire wanted to do anything he commanded.

His eyes now held fatigue from his long journey, his dark brown hair rumpled, his face hard and dusted with unshaved whiskers. She compared him to the carefully dressed, self-conscious male film stars, and decided she preferred Ross with his unruly hair and worn kilt.

The dance brought them close, her thin dress letting her feel the firmness of his tall, honed body. He glided with her around the room, skilfully avoiding the furniture, his gaze locked on hers.

“Come back with me, Claire,” Ross said, voice soft.

Claire couldn’t help but lace her arms around his neck. “You expect me to give this all up?”

“We were chosen to be together.”

His words stirred heat deep down inside her, but she kept her tone light. “That was a line in The Curse of the Mummy. I, the evil countess, was to lure the hero to his doom so the mummy could kidnap the heroine. Mitchell, who played the mummy, had a devil of a time walking in that costume. He’d trip on the bandages and say the filthiest words I’ve ever heard.”

Ross put his fingers on her mouth. “Hush now. Ye can tell me all about the debauchery later.”

Claire wanted to keep babbling. “But there’s a funny story about Mitch in his costume at a speakeasy . . .”

“Sh.” Ross lifted his fingers from her lips and bent to her, his nearness blotting out all other thought, sight, feeling.

In the background, muted trumpets played a bouncing rhythm. Ross’ warm lips covered hers, his hands moving in her hair. He smelled like the night wind and warm wool and soap. This was why Claire had fled England, travelling at night, hiding during the day. Pursuing her acting career had only been an excuse. She was in danger of losing herself to this man, this beautiful man who wanted to possess her.

“Ross,” she whispered.

He licked the curve of her lip. “Tonight. Let us do it tonight and seal the bargain.”

Fear wove through Claire’s longing. She touched his neck, feeling the pulse pounding under her fingertips. The heat of his blood swamped her with need. The vampire in her wanted him – yes, now, hungry. She nuzzled his throat, licking the path of his artery.

“Yes, Claire. Do it.”

Claire’s teeth elongated before she could stop them, and she scratched his skin with one fang. Mmm, salty, warm, good. She licked away the crimson drop that welled from the cut.

Longing exploded inside her. Her need for him arose white hot. She wanted to rub herself against his body, feel his hardness between her legs, suckle his lips until they were raw. She wanted him in her bed, inside her, moaning as he came. She wanted her fangs in his neck, to taste his blood in her mouth as he drove into her.

“I want it, too,” Ross whispered.

Claire gasped and pushed him away with all her strength. She folded her arms around her stomach, holding herself tight, tight, willing her fangs to recede.

Her incredible need for him wouldn’t fade. The kiss had ripped something open inside her, something that terrified her.

“Go away.”

“No.” Ross smiled. Damn, but his smile could melt her like ice cream on a Los Angeles sidewalk. “You’re mine, Claire. We are for each other. I’m not leaving this city without you.”

“Well, you can’t sleep with me.” Claire’s voice cracked as he came for her. What had happened to her liquid vowels, the languid confidence with which she’d outsmarted the constable this evening? “I’m starting another picture tomorrow and have an early call. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Liar.” Ross touched her face, his fingertips flaring her shrieking need. She was going to die if he didn’t stop touching her.

Ross stepped back, and then she almost cried. Her body was flame hot, and the absence of his touch was like being doused with ice-water.

“But all right,” he was saying. “I know ye don’t need sleep, and you’re as beautiful as you ever were, but I’ll leave ye be. For now. Do you have guest rooms in this enormous mansion?”

“Next floor up,” she said faintly. “Any of those rooms. They’re all made up.”

“Expecting company, are you?” Ross’ whisky-coloured eyes flashed with anger.

“No, but my housekeeper likes to be prepared. Party guests might be too tight to drive home.”

“All right then.” Ross came to her again. Claire flinched, fearing what his touch would unleash, but he gripped her shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Sleep well, my love.”

He strode out of the room. Claire gazed after him, admiring how his Maclaren plaid moved across his firm backside. She grabbed her discarded cocktail glass and gulped down the contents, grimacing at the bitter taste, but the odd mixture cut through her bloodlust.

Claire wiped her mouth and moved to a window to look out at the moonlit night. How would she survive tonight, knowing he was one floor above her, sleeping, his bed warm and filled with his scent? She gripped the stem of her cocktail glass until it broke, tearing her skin and letting her thick, almost purple, vampire blood seep out.

She leaned her forehead on the windowpane to cool it, while behind her, the spirited song wailed to an end.

Has anybody seen my gaaaaaaal?

Claire’s driver picked her up while it was still dark and had her and Ross to the studio before dawn. Claire had found acting to be the perfect profession for a vampire. Unlike vampires in fiction, she didn’t sleep like the dead during the day, although too much exposure to the sun could kill her. But a job that had her at make-up calls at four in the morning and kept her inside the studio until long after dark, suited her well.

“What do ye do when they want to film outside?” Ross asked her as they walked into the enormous, echoing building. Cameras zoomed past them on tracks, and actors, extras, costume ladies, make-up girls, set-builders and gaffers milled everywhere.

“Easy. When we do location shots I stay bundled up and under the tent shelter they fix for us. All the ladies do. They’d ruin their pristine complexions if they didn’t. Plus the make-up keeps the sun from burning me. I can stay outside for a little while before I start to hurt. Then I feign fatigue, and they rush me back indoors.”

Ross gave her a frown. “Too risky.”

“We don’t go out often. Most of the work happens right here in the studio, unless they need a grand outdoor scene. If they do distance shots they can use anybody dressed in the right clothes and not have to pay them as much as the actors. The only outdoor scene I’ve done is when Mitchell the mummy chased me across the desert until I died of thirst. We did most of those shots at night anyway.”

Ross didn’t look impressed. He’d insisted on coming with her today, but Claire decided it would give her the opportunity to show him exactly what she did and why she wanted to stay in Los Angeles.

Female heads turned as Claire led Ross through the throng towards the partitioned off dressing area. Claire was pleased that others envied her having such a handsome beau, but not pleased at all when a petite extra smiled and did a little undulation of her shoulders for him. The girl was lucky Claire didn’t have to feed often. She could make do with a sip here and a sip there, always erasing her victim’s memory before she let them go. They’d wake up happy, thinking they’d dreamed about being intimate with Claire Armand. With this woman eyeing her man, though, Claire might not be so nice.

Ross didn’t seem to notice the attention. He focused on Claire and Claire alone, which made her feel both nervous and protected.

“Claire.” Lauren smiled tiredly when they reached the dressing rooms. “How do you do it? You look fresh as a daisy, and I didn’t dance half as much last night as you did.”

“Clean living, darling. Did Gavin propose?”

Lauren’s face fell. “He danced with me, then someone told him he had a telephone call, and he had to leave. I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“Oh dear. I’m becoming disappointed in Gavin.”

Lauren gazed shyly at Ross. Ross wore his kilt, and he was watching the cranes and pulleys and other paraphernalia move about the studio floor.

“Who is he?” Lauren hissed.

“Ross Maclaren. My . . .”

“Fiancé,” Ross said. He turned and bowed over Lauren’s hand with old-fashioned gallantry.

“Oh.” Lauren blushed and glanced at Claire. “Was he the sheik from last night?”

“Aye. That I was.”

“He wanted to surprise me,” Claire said, her voice weak.

Lauren actually laughed. “Well, you look surprised, honey.” She led Claire through the curtains to the dressing room, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You gotta tell me everything.”

Ross became interested in the filming in spite of himself. There seemed to be much chaos, but everyone knew exactly where to go and what to do. Claire emerged from the dressing rooms after about an hour, covered in yellowish paint, her lips a startling red. But even covered in greeny-yellow, she looked beautiful to him.

They filmed in a curtained-off portion of the studio. Behind those curtains was another stage in which another movie was being shot. Ross couldn’t understand how anyone concentrated in the resulting cacophony, but film people seemed to be amazingly single-minded.

Ross did not know the title of the movie yet, but it was similar to the one he’d seen in Scotland. The scene they shot first involved Claire as the dark-haired villainess luring the heroine – small, blonde Lauren – into her lair. From what Ross gathered about the film, Claire played a rich femme fatale from Hungary who seduced men, took their money, and discarded them like soiled hankies.

She was to bring Lauren to her lavish New York townhouse, drug her, and ruin her reputation by arranging for Lauren to be caught on a bed with the villain. The hero, played by Gavin Sanders, would in theory be disgusted and marry Claire instead, giving Claire access to his riches. Or so Claire declared, rubbing her slender hands while her eyes smouldered.

Action! Claire, smiling evilly, succeeded in getting childlike Lauren to drink the drug-laced cocktail. When Lauren began to feel the effects, she begged Claire for mercy. Her words wouldn’t be heard on the film, but her mouth would move in the dialogue.

“Please, please,” Lauren said in a monotone as she sank stiffly to her knees and jerked one hand towards Claire. “Do not let me suffer a fate worse than death.”

The director sighed heavily. “Cut!”

Claire relaxed. She smiled at Ross, then turned so a make-up lady could retouch her lipstick.

The director was shouting. “Miss Cole, she is about to destroy your chance of happiness with the man you love! For ever. You look like you’re explaining that you don’t want the chicken soup for lunch.”

Lauren’s eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t know how else to do it.”

“Like this, darling.” Claire touched the heel of her hand to her forehead and managed to look both terrified and miserable. “Please. Let me go. I beg of you, do not destroy me.”

Lauren applauded, and the director said, “Yes. Exactly like that. Can you do that for me, Miss Cole? Thank you. May we press on?”

The scene continued. Ross sat back in the chair Claire had made someone get for him, and watched her performance. Most of the actors were jerky and unconvincing, including the villain whose oily smile set Ross’ teeth on edge. But Claire had natural talent. She delivered her lines in a clear voice, her face telling the entire story. People in the studio stopped to watch her, enraptured, and applauded when she finished.

“She’s amazing,” the director, a thin man with pasty white skin, said to Ross. “A few more pictures, and she’ll be a star.”

“A star?”

“A top-billed actress. Box-office magic. She’ll be so popular she’ll wade through crowds of fans wherever she goes. She’ll be able to ask for whatever picture she wants and command top money.”

In other words, Claire would have wealth, respect, independence. Everything she wanted.

Where did Ross fit in to this new life of hers? He was still the man chosen as her protector, to keep his vulnerable vampire bride safe forever. The mystics said the signs had named him – Ross Maclaren – although Ross was beginning to suspect the whole vulnerability idea was bunk. The Armand vampires sequestered their females, claimed they could never survive in the world without a protector. That was the way things had been done for a thousand years.

But what about now? Claire was right, the world had changed. In this new age of motorcars and mansions, of film studios and cocktails, where actresses made fortunes like men, why would Claire need Ross? He loved her, but would that be enough?

Above him, a light burned out in a flare of sparks. Ross briefly wondered if it were symbolic of his relationship with Claire. Then the sparks slid down the wire and lit a pile of papers on the floor.

“Cut!” the director roared. “Someone come and put out this fire.”

Ross saw Claire instinctively recoil. She was vampire; the tiniest flame could destroy her.

Ross rose as someone ran over with a bucket of sand. The papers burned merrily, and a tongue of flame ran up a table leg and caught the costumes heaped on top. Lauren gasped, and Claire moved swiftly to the other side of the set.

“Damnation.” The director grabbed at the costumes, cursing when he burned himself. The assistant dumped the bucket of sand on the papers, but the table continued to burn. The curtains between the stages caught. The director cursed again and tried to pull them down, but his jacket caught fire, and he flung it off him, eyes wide with fear.

“Everyone needs to get out,” Ross said in a loud voice. He took up the megaphone the director had dropped and spoke into it. “Take the hand of the person next to you and walk out with them. Don’t run. Let everyone leave while we get the fire contained. You too, Claire.”

Lauren clutched Claire in terror. “Gavin! He’s still in the dressing rooms!”

“I’ll get him.” Ross’ heart hammered as the flames came too near Claire. “Go!”

Claire seized Lauren by the hand and started out with her. Just before they reached the double doors that had been rolled open to let everyone out, Claire stopped and looked back. She saw Ross reach the dressing area and, as he ducked inside, the curtains all around him went up in flames.

“Ross!” she shrieked.

The fire caught the beams that ran up to the roof, engulfing the back half of the building. Fire swirled in front of Claire, and the dressing area was lost to sight.

Claire shoved Lauren towards bright daylight. “Go.”

“No, Claire, come with me.”

The sunlight would be just as deadly for Claire as the fire. Claire’s make-up would protect her somewhat, but it was a bright, cloudless Los Angeles day, with the sun directly overhead. Unless she got to shade quickly, she’d fry.

And while she tried to find shelter, Ross might die. He was mortal, and the smoke could debilitate him quickly. If she was fast, she could run in and carry both him and Gavin out. She had supernatural strength; they didn’t.

Lauren cried out in despair as Claire dashed back into the studio. Fire was everywhere now, and smoke lay thick. She saw Ross’ bulk as he tore the burning curtains from the dressing room partitions. Gavin was slumped over one of the tables beyond, half dressed and unconscious. Ross grabbed Gavin under the armpits and started to drag him off the chair. Then a burning beam fell across both men.

Claire swallowed a scream as she sprinted towards them. She felt her vampire body burning, felt the beautiful hair she was so proud of shrivel and crackle away.

She lifted the beam with her unnatural strength and threw it aside. Ross was still conscious. He looked up at Claire in horror, but when he opened his mouth to shout at her, he coughed on the smoke.

Claire flung Gavin over her shoulder and reached for Ross. He hauled himself to his feet, put his arm around her, and ran through the studio with her. A sound like a thousand nails raining on wood came from overhead, and then the roof collapsed.

With the last of her strength, Claire tossed Gavin to the pavement outside, wet now from fire hoses. Ross turned to her, and she pushed him, hard. He stumbled out into the sunshine and the pouring water and looked back just as the building collapsed onto Claire’s burning body.

Tears rained down Ross’ face as he drove through the streets of Los Angeles, heading for Claire’s house. Claire was still alive, wrapped in blankets in the seat behind him, her little moans of pain breaking his heart. Her skin was black, her hair gone, and she could not speak or open her eyes.

What an idiot he’d been to think her invulnerable. Ross was supposed to be her protector, and he hadn’t protected her. She’d risked her life to rescue him, and all he had to show for the adventure was a burn on his arm he barely felt.

Ross had defied the firemen streaming onto the scene and pushed aside the fallen beams to drag Claire out. He’d wrapped her body in blankets and run with her to the first car he saw, a roadster with a tiny canvas top raised against the sun. He didn’t know whose car this was, but no one stopped him driving it off the lot as the studio burned under the bright California sky.

A hospital would be useless for Claire. Ross drove like a madman, dodging traffic, finally squealing the car up her long, curved drive. He lifted her from the back seat and rushed into the house and up the stairs with her, ignoring the startled questions of the Mexican housekeeper.

Ross slammed the door of Claire’s bedroom closed then put her down on the bed and stripped away the blankets. Her dress and stockings had burned to tatters, and she lay bare on top of the bedcovers. Her lips moved, and a strangled sound came from her throat.

“Don’t talk. I’ve got you home.” Ross shed his clothes and lay down with her on the bed, carefully sliding his body next to hers. “There’s only one thing to do, love.”

Claire groaned again, trying to protest.

“No, sweetheart. It’s the only way.” Ross took the silver knife he’d kept in his sporran for this purpose, drew a breath, and made a shallow slice across his throat.

Bright pain quickly changed to numbness. Blood dropped to Claire’s white coverlet and rained onto her burned body.

Claire moved. She wanted it, and yet he sensed her hold back. She could save herself, but even now, she was trying not to hurt Ross.

He loved her so much.

“Drink me,” Ross whispered. He guided her mouth to the wound, his hand firm on the back of her neck.

Claire hesitated one more moment. Then her fangs elongated, and he felt the sharp pain of them on his throat. He fell back to the bed, holding her. Her bite grew stronger, then she gave in to her ravenous hunger and fed.

Claire’s strength returned, swallow by swallow. Ross’ blood was hot, heady like wine, thick and sweet. She filled her mouth with it then let it run down her throat, the sensation erotic.

She felt her skin grow smooth and whole. The remains of her burned hair fell away, and warm, new hair took its place. Her bite became stronger, more certain.

She felt Ross’ heartbeat beneath hers. It slowed with each breath, fainter, fainter, dying away into a flutter.

Ross.

Claire’s senses returned with a snap. She yanked her fangs from Ross’ neck and sat up. Ross lay naked beneath her, his skin wan, his eyes closed. He still held her, his hands solid on her back.

“Ross!”

His whisky-coloured eyes opened to slits. “There, ye see? Ye do need me.” His breath rattled in his chest, and then he went still.

“No.” Claire gathered him against her, rocking him. “You aren’t supposed to die. You’re supposed to live so I can love you.”

This wasn’t how the turning worked. It should be mutual, a sharing of blood, Ross turning while he was still alive. He wasn’t supposed to give up his life for her.

Claire snatched up the blade he’d dropped, dimly noting that it was the ritual silver blade for their wedding night. Ignoring the sear of the silver, she nicked her own neck. She caught the stream of blood on her fingers and dipped them inside Ross’ mouth.

“Drink,” she begged. “Ross, please.”

Nothing happened. Claire smeared more blood on her fingers and again wiped them inside Ross’ lips. She was healed now, his blood hot within her, making her stronger than she ever had been.

“Please.” Her tears trickled to his skin to mix with her blood. “Stay with me, Ross. I love you.”

Ross’ eyelids fluttered. Claire bit her lip, not daring to hope. Then Ross closed his lips around her fingers and suckled, hard.

“Yes, love, that’s it. Drink.”

Ross raised his head, hunger in his gaze. Claire guided him to her neck and cried out when his teeth sank into her. He drank her as she’d drunk him, needy, ravening. She felt his body flush with strength, felt his arousal swell between his legs.

Claire’s own need flooded her, mixing with relief and love. She slid her thighs open and guided him into her. Then for the first time in her life, she felt a man inside her.

Ross jerked his head up. A different hunger flared in his eyes, and he thrust. Claire felt pain, instant and hot, then it fled. A pleasure she’d never known before took its place. She loved it. Ross pressed her down into the mattress and rode her, harder, faster.

Abruptly Ross stopped, his eyes clearing as though he were awakening. He stared down at Claire in shock.

“You’re all right,” he whispered. Then tears poured from his eyes and he kissed her lips, her face, her throat. “Thank God, you’re all right.”

Claire wrapped her arms around him. “You saved my life. My lover, my protector. Mine.”

Ross stroked her hair, still inside her. He filled her and stretched her and felt so damn good.

“Am I . . . vampire?”

“Yes.” Claire bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t the proper time. But I had to save you.”

His gaze softened. He could be so tender, could Ross Maclaren. “’Tis no matter, love. We’ll marry, as the signs said we would.”

“Yes.” Happiness tingled inside her. “That’s perfect.”

“That is, if you’ll still have me.”

Ross looked worried. Worried? How could he worry that she ever wanted to live without him? “I’ll have you, Ross. I love you, my mad Scotsman. I never want to lose you again.”

Ross’ smile turned wicked. “I love you, my bonny sweet vampire.” He sobered. “Oh, God, Claire, when I thought ye were dead, when I thought ye’d never smile at me again . . .”

Tears filled her eyes, but she wiped them away impatiently. “No, no sorrow. You saved me, protected me, like I’ve always dreamed you would.” She touched his face, loving him. “And anyway you’re making love to me right now and I don’t want you to stop. I never want you to stop.”

“That can be arranged,” Ross growled.

He pressed her down into the covers again until they were both shouting and laughing with the incredible joy of it.

“Look,” Lauren said excitedly the next afternoon in Claire’s favourite restaurant. “Can you believe it?” She waved a hand under Claire’s nose, a large solitaire diamond sparkling on her third finger.

“Darling, that’s wonderful.” Claire hugged her. At a table across the room, Gavin waved, a little embarrassed.

Ross and Claire had gone to the studio an hour before in Claire’s chauffeur-driven closed car to find that the entire building they’d filmed in, and the one next to it, had burned to ruins. The picture would go on though, the producer told her. They were moving onto another lot. A film there was scheduled to end the next day, and they’d resume production the day after that.

So the actors found themselves with an unexpected day off. Ross took Claire to the nearest jeweller’s and bought her a fancy ring to seal their engagement.

Lauren now slid into the chair next to Claire’s. “I held Gavin’s hand until he came to after the fire. He smiled at me, and then he proposed. I’m sorry Claire, but I, um, kind of told him that I rescued him.”

Claire clapped her hands. “Brilliant! You’ll make an accomplished actress yet.”

Ross grinned and raised his glass of whisky. “To Gavin and Lauren. May ye bear many bairns.”

Lauren’s dimples showed. “My real name’s Myrtle, actually. Myrtle Bloomfield. But Mr Goldberg thought it wouldn’t look good on a marquee.”

“Gavin and Myrtle, then,” Ross said generously.

Claire slid her own beringed hand along the table. “And Ross and Claire.”

Lauren gasped. She seized Claire’s fingers and studied the diamond with the intensity of an expert jeweller. “Oh, my, how gorgeous.”

“Which means I won’t be making any more films,” Claire said. She felt a pang of regret. She truly loved everything about the movies – the cameras, the lights, the acting, even the early cast calls.

Ross closed his warm hand over hers. “Of course you will, lass. You’ll be making plenty more. As many as you like.”

“But I thought I was supposed to go to Scotland with you,” Claire said in surprise. “What about your draughty castle?”

Ross shrugged, broad shoulders rippling. “I like it here. This movie-making looks interesting. I have one or two ideas that mebbe I can write into films.”

Claire laughed excitedly. “I knew the bug would bite you. I just knew it.”

“What bug?”

“Never mind. Let’s go pitch your ideas to Mr Goldberg.”

Lauren stood up as Gavin joined them. The four exchanged mutual congratulations, then Ross took Claire’s hand and led her out of the restaurant. They dived quickly through the patch of sunshine into the back of Claire’s car, which her chauffeur had pulled to the door.

“Did you really mean that, Ross?” Claire asked as she snuggled down against her new protector’s shoulder. “You want to stay in Los Angeles with me? And I can keep making movies?”

“I wouldn’t take that from ye, Claire. You love it so much.”

“I can’t do it for ever, you know. We won’t age, and people will get suspicious. I can retire from acting and produce what you write. And your Scottish castle will make a lovely summer home.”

“I’m home wherever you are, love,” Ross said in a dark voice.

Claire shivered in delight. “I think it’s screaming that you want to do movies too. You and I will be the cat’s pyjamas for a while and then twenty-three skidoo.”

Ross frowned. “What the devil does that mean?”

“You know, scram.”

Ross growled and pulled her close. “What am I going t’ do with you, lass?”

“I have one or two ideas. Then we’ll go out tonight and celebrate. Champagne, jazz music and the charleston.”

“Or we’ll stay inside and celebrate.” Ross leaned down and kissed her, lips bruising, possessive, then he grazed her neck with his teeth.

“Yes,” she whispered, heat gathering inside her. “That sounds just fine, too.”