The Zillionaire Vampire Cowboy's Secret Werewolf Babies - Chapter 3

Rock’s jaw tightened as did other parts of his anatomy. Damn! Why had he invited Chastity here anyway? She was…distracting.

Chastity rubbed her supple body against Rock’s rock-hard abs and even harder loins. Oh yeah, that was why. Unfortunately, he had other problems to deal with at the moment. Although a nice roll in the hay might make those other problems a little easier to bear. Of course, that roll in the hay would have to be paid for later. He suspected Chastity never did anything for free. “Raincheck,” he panted.

“It’s raining right now,” Chastity purred in his ear.

“Double raincheck,” he groaned. “That means, you know, next time it rains and…sorry.” He ducked through the door to his study, slamming it behind him, then throwing the bolt for good measure. Good thing Chastity wasn’t one of the Children Of the Night. He really didn’t have time to stuff something under the door to keep her from changing into a mist and seeping inside. Actually, he wasn’t entirely sure Chastity couldn’t do that even though she wasn’t one of his people. She seemed to have special powers all her own.

He opened the small refrigerator underneath the bookshelf beside his desk and pulled out a plastic bottle with a bright green nylon cover that extended almost to the opaque top. Twisting off the lid, he inserted an opaque white bendy straw and took a sip.

Tasted like chicken. Sort of. In the neighborhood anyway. Marcel LaTouche, his personal chef, tried to flavor his dinner so that he didn’t have to think about what he was really consuming. Unfortunately, trying not to think about what he was really consuming always made it impossible for him not to think about what he was really consuming. He finished the bottle with a quick gulp and sank onto the couch to let his stomach settle again. Damn stupid blood phobia.

He mopped his face with his bandana, then pushed himself to his feet again, squaring his rock-hard shoulders as he headed for his top-of-the-line computer in the corner. Time to check Babs Braveheart’s will for loopholes.

***

Chastity settled onto the couch, pouting picturesquely. Unfortunately, nobody was around to appreciate the picturesque nature of her expression, so she let it slide into a sneer. Stupid, freakin’ cowboy zillionaire! She’d been here for a week already, and she hadn’t picked up so much as a pair of earrings yet. And she’d been dropping hints like crazy about that ruby bracelet that was supposed to have belonged to Catherine the Great. Whoever she was. History wasn’t Chastity’s strong point. Gemology, on the other hand, was something she could really get into, given the right inspiration.

And what the hell kind of ranch was this Double Fang place anyway? When Rock Fangsworthy had invited her to fly down to his ranch with him, she’d expected something like South Fork. Servants. Jacuzzis. Sundecks. Thousand-thread-count sheets. Champagne in buckets. Maybe a couple of really cool-looking horses in a corral to give it that tang of authenticity, so long as the corral was far away enough away from the house that that tang of authenticity didn’t drift through the windows.

And what had she gotten instead? A freakin’ ranch. One bad-tempered French cook who’d bared his pointy teeth when she’d asked for an egg-white omelet at breakfast. A stock tank out back she could swim in if she didn’t mind sharing it with the cattle (who really didn’t believe in sharing). Sheets that looked like they’d been purchased at Walmart. And outside the main house, fields full of prickly pear cactus and cow flop. Lots and lots of cow flop.

Was this any way for a billionaire to live?

Chastity frowned as much as the Botox allowed. “Billionaire” wasn’t right, but she wasn’t sure exactly what was. Once when she’d purred something about Rock being a billionaire, his rock-hard jaw had become, well, something harder than rock, and his slate-blue eyes had flashed with fury. “I am not a billionaire,” he’d grated.

Chastity had managed a great sucking of her lower lip in counterfeit confusion while doing a few quick mental reviews. She was absolutely certain Rock Fangsworthy was as rich as sin. If she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have bothered shimmying his way in the first place. “You’re not a billionaire?” she crooned. “You mean you’re a millionaire?”

Rock’s eyes had flashed even brighter and his canines had suddenly looked as if they’d sharpened to needle-points. “You do realize that millionaires have less money than billionaires?”

“Oh.” Chastity had sucked on his index finger for a moment, dropping her eyelids to half-mast so that he could have some time to make the mental leap from finger to other parts of his anatomy. “I always get those mixed up.”

“Just remember one thing,” Rock muttered. “Zillionaire is considerably more than billionaire.” His voice had sounded slightly choked as he’d dragged her through the door to his bedroom.

Chastity had checked out zillionaire as soon as she’d managed to get out of Rock’s bedroom the following week, but she hadn’t yet come up with any concrete figures. Still, she was willing to take him at his word. And, of course, take him for all he was worth.

Outside a sudden flash of lightning was followed by a crash of thunder. Chastity pouted again. Terrific weather for cuddling. Maybe she could hammer on Rock’s door and convince him she was afraid of thunderstorms. She chewed on her lip for a moment, trying to work up some tears, but she was too annoyed. Pouting as much as she could manage, she wandered across the pegged pine floor toward the picture window in front, hoping those stupid cows were getting good and wet.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the prickly pear cactus field at the front of the house. Where something was moving. Or rather, someone.

Chastity squinted. Lightning brightened the velvet darkness of the sky again and she saw the figure more clearly. Dressed in black from head to toe. One extended hand holding something long and sharp. White moon face peeping out from the black knit cap. The man was attempting to tiptoe through the cactus. Attempting unsuccessfully, judging from the male voice that suddenly echoed through the front yard.

“Oh mother frickin’ son of a seacook cactus. Dadblame Texas anyway!”

To be continued...Chapter Four

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