Dressed to Slay [Secure eReader]
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eBook by Harper Allen
eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller/Mainstream
eBook Description: Megan's preparing to walk down the aisle with her triplet sisters as her bridesmaids when their long-lost grandfather Darkheart interrupts with staggering news: they are heirs of an ancient vampire-slaying legacy. One of them is a natural-born slayer. One is a healer. One will become a vampire. And they're all in imminent danger from the vamp who murdered their mother. With a fiancÚ out for blood, a bodyguard as wild as he is wolf and a dreamy detective on her trail, Megan is unnerved and deeply conflicted. If the prophecy is true, she may be her sisters' deadliest enemy. But if it's not, who will save them all from a world turned vamp?
eBook Publisher: Harlequin/Silhouette Bombshell
Fictionwise Release Date: October 2006
36 Reader Ratings:
"My point is, these days girls are supposed to get a wild and crazy send-off the night before their wedding, like guys do." With a drama-queen toss of her curls as she entered the house, my sister Natashya flounced through the foyer into the living room and plopped herself onto a sofa. "Yet here we are, home before midnight like a bunch of nuns or something, while Dean's stag is probably just getting to the smoking cigars and watching X-rated DVDs stage. If I were you, I'd be totally pissed, Megan."
My other sister Katherine didn't pause in the entrance hall, either. "The brat's right for once, sweetie. As bachelorette parties go, yours blew big-time," she drawled over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving me to punch in the Crosse mansion's security code. I don't know if it's because I'm technically the eldest of the three of us, beating Kat in the getting-born race by ten minutes and Tash by half an hour, but that task always falls to me.
"Somehow I don't think breaking out the Monte Cristos and popping Dick Does Dallas into the DVD player is Mandy Broyhill's idea of appropriate entertainment." I turned from the security keypad and shrugged at Tash. "Or Lance and Todd's idea of entertainment, to be honest. It's more likely that they took my darling hubby-to-be to a strip club."
"They wouldn't. The only one around is the Hot Box, that sleazy dive on the outskirts of town, and Toddie knows I'd kill him if he ever set foot in there," Tash said dismissively. She frowned. "Besides, there's been some weird stories going 'round about that place lately. I know a girl who says after a couple of her brother's friends went there they ended up calling in sick to work the next few days and the next thing you know, they quit their jobs and just dropped out of sight. I wouldn't be surprised if the police raid that dump and find some major drug-dealing going on. But my point is that even if you don't care if your last night as a free woman is a blast or not, I do. When it's my turn in a couple of months, I want those totally babalicious cowboy dancers who entertained at Brittany's stagette party."
"The ones who stripped down to their six-guns?" Silver-blond hair swinging like satin around perfectly tanned shoulders, Kat returned from the kitchen carrying a pitcher full of something frosty-looking in her right hand, with stemmed glasses wedged adroitly between the fingers of her left. She set the glasses and pitcher on the spindly Sheraton table in front of Tash. "Appletinis, anyone?"
She didn't wait for a reply, but started pouring. I sank onto the sofa beside Tash and eased off my shoes with a sigh of relief. My middle sister, as languidly elegant as her nickname, can power-shop all day in a pair of Manolo stilettos and dance till dawn in strappy Jimmy Choos, while Tash's idea of casual footwear is a pair of Chanel heels, but I occasionally feel the need to reconnect with my baby toes.
"Right, and when you tucked a bill into their holsters, they said, 'Much obliged, little lady.' What I don't want is a dreary little get-together at Mandy Broyhill's without a square inch of naked male flesh in sight," Tash insisted. She was indulging in one of her favorite irritating habits—running the silver cross she wore back and forth along its delicate chain. It was irritating because it always made me want to do the same to the identical one around my neck and I couldn't, because then she'd know she'd irritated me. "Anyhow, I'll bet tonight had something to do with Grammie being voted president of the Maplesburg Reading Club instead of Mandy's mother. I mean, Mandy's the social leader of our set, so she couldn't very well not throw a party for you, Meg, but maybe she accidentally-on-purpose forgot to arrange any entertainment, as a kind of payback for her mom."
My irritation turned to annoyance. Dottie Crosse had indulged us, petted us and spoiled us rotten from babyhood after her only child, our father, died. And when three eligible bachelors had popped the question in the same week to her three granddaughters, she hadn't batted an eyelash at the prospect of arranging June, July and August weddings, so I certainly wasn't going to let Tash take out her sulks on Grammie when she and Popsie arrived home tomorrow. He'd insisted on a weekend in New York after she'd exhausted herself planning my big day. I opened my mouth to say so but Kat beat me to it.
"Mandy didn't arrange for half-naked cowboys to show up at the bachelorette because she had her eye on Dean before he started dating Megan, and being the social leader of our set, she's also a prime bitch. But if you think tonight was dreary, just wait until your party, sweetie. According to the grapevine, most of your so-called bosom buddies don't intend to show up to give you a send-off—and don't even dream of trying to blame Grammie for that, because it won't have anything to do with her." She drained her glass. "Remember Bev Simmons? The mousy little brunette your darling Toddie was about to propose to before you decided you wanted to be a cosmetic surgeon's wife?"
I glanced at Kat. Was it my imagination, or was her drawl just a tad slurred? "Kat's right. You stole a boyfriend and most of our friends are on Bev's side. You better hope that being Mrs. Doctor Whitmore, wife of a rising young liposuctionist, is enough to buy you a committee seat on the Maplesburg Hospital charity drive next spring, because right now, little Tashie isn't exactly the most popular girl in town."
"Not get on the charity committee next spring? But that would be social suicide." Tash looked appalled and then annoyed. "You're kidding, right?"
Copyright © 2006 by Sandra Hill.