SAMSON’S LOVELY MORTAL

Book Description

About the Author

SAMSON’S LOVELY MORTAL

(Scanguards Vampires — Book 1)

TINA FOLSOM

Book Description

Vampire bachelor Samson can’t get it up anymore. Not even his shrink can help him. That changes when the lovely mortal auditor Delilah tumbles into his arms after a seemingly random attack. Suddenly there’s nothing wrong with his hydraulics—that is, as long as Delilah is the woman in his arms.

His scruples about taking Delilah to bed vanish when his shrink suggests it’s the only way to cure his problem. Thinking all he needs is one night with her, Samson indulges in a night of pleasure and passion.

However, another attack on Delilah and a dead body later, and Samson has his hands full: not only with trying to hide the fact he’s a vampire, but also with finding out what secrets Delilah harbors for somebody to want her harmed.

ALSO BY TINA

Scanguards Vampires

Stealth Guardians

Out of Olympus

Venice Vampyr

Eternal Bachelors Club

Phoenix Code Series with Lara Adrian

Samson’s Lovely Mortal

Fully revised and re-edited 2nd Edition January 2017

Scanguards is a registered trademark.

1

“Let me suck your cock.”

The vamp female tugged at Samson’s pants. She freed his flaccid shaft from the confinement of his jeans and sucked it into her gorgeous mouth. He watched her red lips close tightly around him, working him frantically. Up and down, deep and hard, warm and wet.

She cupped his balls, squeezed them in perfect rhythm, her talent evident. He buried his hands in her hair and thrust his hips back and forth, urging her to increase the friction.

“Harder.”

His request was met eagerly, her slurping sounds bouncing off the walls of the dimly lit room.

Samson let his gaze sweep over her scantily clad body: hot curves, great ass, even a pretty face—everything he could wish for in a sexual partner. Eager to give head, and she would undoubtedly swallow too. Something he particularly appreciated. But despite her tantalizing tongue running up and down his cock, despite the hard sucking motion, despite her enthusiasm, no erection was forthcoming. Her patience was wasted on him. Nothing stirred.

Her head bobbed back and forth, her long brown hair brushed against his naked skin, catching in his pubic hair, yet his body didn’t react, as if she were blowing somebody else, and he was merely watching tired old porn.

Samson finally pushed her away, humiliated, frustrated, unsatisfied. If vampires could blush from embarrassment, his face would have been as red as the vamp’s painted lips. Luckily, blushing was reserved for humans.

Hastily, he shoved his useless male equipment back into his pants. Even quicker, he zipped up. In vampire speed, he fled her company.

A week after the embarrassing incident, his friend Amaury made a suggestion.

“Just give it a shot, Samson,” he insisted. “The guy is completely trustworthy. He won’t breathe a syllable to anybody.”

His old friend couldn’t possibly be serious. “A shrink? You want me to go see a shrink?”

“He’s helped me before. What have you got to lose?”

His dignity. His pride.

“I guess if you vouch for him, I can give it a try.”

And just like that, he’d caved.

“And don’t judge him from the outside.”

The shrink’s place was the bad punch line of an even worse joke.

When Samson first entered the dark basement where the psychiatrist practiced, he wanted to run right back out. But the receptionist had already spotted him. With a saccharin-sweet smile and straightened back, she put her enormous chest on display.

Great, a shrink operating from a dungeon and a Barbie doll as the gatekeeper!

“Mr. Woodford, please come in. Dr. Drake is expecting you,” she said, eyelashes fluttering, head tilting a fraction to draw his gaze to her neck, hinting at the fact that she would welcome his bite. A bite she would grant him during sex. A bite he’d have to deny her, not because she was a vampire, but because she wasn’t his type. Yeah, so not his type.

Once he was inside Drake’s office, he knew it was a mistake. Instead of a couch there was a coffin. One of the wooden side panels had been removed so a live person could lie down in it comfortably, as if reclining on a chaise longue.

The guy had to be a lunatic. No self-respecting modern vamp wanted to be caught dead in a coffin! Vampires in San Francisco were mainstreaming, adapting to the human lifestyle. Coffins were out. Tempur-Pedic mattresses were in.

The lanky man rounded his desk and offered his hand in greeting.

“If you think I’m going to lie down in the coffin, think again,” Samson barked.

“I see we have our work cut out for us.” Unfazed by the rude remark, the doctor pointed to the comfortable-looking armchair.

Reluctantly, Samson sat down.

Dr. Drake let himself fall in the chair opposite. He wasn’t saying a word. No muscle twitched in his face. No limb moved. He wasn’t doing anything—anything other than staring. Uncomfortable under the shrink’s scrutiny, Samson clamped his hands over the armrests of the chair. His shoulders stiffened, his throat tightened, blood pumped feverishly through his veins, making them swell like an overinflated helium balloon about to explode.

“Can we get started? I believe I’m paying you by the hour.” Better grab the vamp by the fangs.

Dr. Drake’s smile was noncommittal, his demeanor unwavering, when he said evenly, “We started the minute you entered, but then, I’m sure you knew that.”

The implied reprimand stung. “Indeed.”

“How long have you experienced these anger issues?”

He hadn’t expected the question. It was like a punch coming from an innocent old lady—unexpected, unprovoked, and out of place. A direct assault on his already battered psyche.

“Anger issues? I don’t have anger issues. I’m here for… The issue is… Uh, my problem has to do with…” God, since when could he not say the word sex without being flustered? He’d never had any problems expressing himself when it came to sex. His vocabulary included many choice four-letter words he generally had no problem employing when the situation demanded it.

“Uh huh.” The doctor nodded as if he knew something Samson didn’t. “You think it’s a sexual problem. Interesting.”

Was the man a mind reader? Samson knew that some vampires had gifts. A photographic memory like his own, sensing emotions or memories like some of his friends. But were those talents widespread or just outliers?

“You read minds?”

Drake shook his head. “No. But your problem isn’t uncommon. It’s pretty easy to figure out. You exhibit signs of extreme anger and frustration.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward in emphasis. “Mr. Woodford, I’m well aware of who you are. You run one of the most successful companies in the vampire world, if not the most successful. You are rich beyond belief—and trust me, this will not influence how much I’ll charge—”

“Of course not,” Samson interrupted. The quack would charge him however much he thought he could milk him for.

“Yet at the same time, you haven’t been seen in society for quite a while, when you should be out there, courting beautiful women. I suppose your breakup with Miss Hampstead—”

“I’m not here to talk about her,” Samson snapped.

Under no circumstances would he utter her name. She had no part in his life, not anymore, and the mere mention of her made his fangs itch for a vicious bite. He cracked his knuckles and wondered if it would sound like this if her neck snapped.

“No, you didn’t come to talk about her. Yet it’s all about her, isn’t it? There can only be one cause for all this. We both know what it is. So, the question is: are you going to trust me to help you?”

Samson decided to stick with denial. It had worked so far. “Help me with what?”

“Getting over the anger.”

“I told you, it’s not an anger issue.”

“Oh, I believe it is. Whatever she did, whatever she said, it angered you so much that it’s putting a block on your sexual drive. As if you wanted to avoid one thing.”

“Which is?”

“To allow yourself to be vulnerable.”

“I’m not vulnerable. Never was. Not since I became a vampire.” Being vulnerable meant being weak.

“Not in the physical sense of the word. We’re all aware of your strength and your power. But I’m talking about your emotions. We all have them. We all struggle with them. Some more than others. Believe me, my calendar is booked solid with our fellow vampires who need help dealing with their emotions.”

Again, the shrink gave him a practiced stare.

No, he couldn’t allow Drake to get this close. Emotions were dangerous. They could destroy a man, strip him bare, expose him.

Samson hauled himself out of the chair. “This won’t work.”

“Ever since we’ve started mainstreaming,” Drake continued, undeterred, and rose from his chair, “my practice has quadrupled. Adapting to the way humans live their lives has taken a toll on many of us. We now have to deal with emotional issues we kept buried for centuries. Literally. You’re not alone. I can help you.”

Samson shook his head. Nobody could help him. “Send me your bill. Goodbye.”

He stormed out.

Well, sex was overrated anyway. He just had to convince himself of it. Some nights he believed his own lies, but only some nights. The truth was, he liked having sex, sweaty and passionate and wild sex. But none of the vampire women could get him excited anymore. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a hard-on.

He’d never heard of such a thing happening to a vampire. Sexual virility was as much part of being a vampire as the thirst for blood or the fear of the sun. Only humans became impotent. If the news got out, he would lose all respect from his peers. And thus lose his power, his influence, his clout.

And that prospect scared him more than anything, so much so that he’d conceded and gone back to the dungeon, the shrink, and his Barbie doll receptionist.

Samson blinked away the memories of the past nine months.

He strode to the wet bar at the opposite end of his elegant sitting room and poured himself a glass of his favorite blood type. He downed it like a human would a shot of tequila—minus the salt and lime. The thick liquid coated his throat and eased the thirst, dulling his hunger for other pleasures in the process. Good; no other pleasures would be satisfied tonight.

Same as the last two hundred and seventy-six nights.

Not that he was counting.

Unmet need made him wish he could get drunk to forget his troubles, but alcohol had no effect on a vampire’s body. What he’d give for a little numbness right now. But he was as sharp as always—despite the fact that he was turning two hundred and thirty-seven tonight. And as long as he wasn’t staked to death, he would remain exactly as he was now: young, healthy… impotent.

The clangor of the phone tore through the quiet of his home. Samson looked at the clock on the wall. Shortly before nine o’clock. For a brief moment he contemplated not answering, but habit made him reach for the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hey, birthday boy. How is it hanging?”

Bad choice of words.

“Yes, Ricky?”

“I just want to wish you a happy birthday and see what you’re doing tonight.”

Why Ricky had to keep up the pretense, Samson really didn’t know. Wasn’t he aware that he was about as talented at pulling off a deception as a nun was at doing a lap dance?

“When’s everybody coming?” Samson asked, not in the mood for games.

“What do you mean?” An innocent tone wasn’t Ricky’s strong suit either.

“What time are you guys going to surprise me with a birthday party?” After all, they’d done exactly the same the previous year.

“How did you know? Never mind. The guys wanted me to make sure you were there. So don’t leave the house. And if our other surprise arrives before us, keep her there.”

Her? Well, wasn’t that just perfect?

“When will you guys ever learn that I’m not into strippers?”

Never have been, never will be.

Ricky laughed. “Never mind that. This one’s special. She’s not just a stripper. She does extras.”

The last word made Samson’s eyebrows rise, but not his cock.

“I think she’ll do something for you—you know what I mean. She’s good, so give her a chance, will you? It’s for your own good. You can’t continue like this. Holly said—”

“Holly? You fucking told Holly? Are you nuts? She’s the biggest gossip of the underworld! I told you in confidence. How could you?”

Samson felt his fangs descend, an automatic reaction he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to stop. Any human seeing the sharp tips of his canines protrude from his mouth would run for his life. But Ricky wasn’t human, nor was he easily scared.

“Careful how you talk about my girlfriend, Samson. She’s not a gossip. And besides, she suggested that stripper. She’s a friend of Holly’s.”

Well, in that case! Perfect! A friend of Holly’s. Sure, this was guaranteed to work! Why hadn’t his friends thought of this earlier?

“Call her off!”

“Sorry, too late. See ya.”

Before Samson could unleash the acid words sitting on his lips, Ricky had already disconnected the call.

The receiver in his hand, Samson felt helpless, powerless, pathetic.

Great! Now that Holly knew about his little problem, soon the entire underworld of San Francisco would know. He’d be the laughing stock of every party, the butt of every vampire joke.

How long would it take her to spread the news—a day, an hour, five minutes? How long until the snickering behind his back started? How long until everybody and their pet bat knew?

Why not take out a one-page ad in the SF Vampire Chronicle himself to save her the trouble?

Samson Woodford, debonair bachelor vampire, can’t get it up!

2

The air conditioning blasted down on her, keeping her awake. But though Delilah’s eyes hurt, she continued to peruse the rows of transactions for any irregularities.

“Coffee?”

John Reardon’s voice prompted her to look over her shoulder. They were alone in the spacious open-plan office. John was leaning against the edge of one of the desks, and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. He was tall and decent looking for an accountant. Boring, bland, but not ugly.

“No, thanks; I want to be able to sleep tonight. I’ve had insomnia the last few nights. I’m probably still on New York time.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s not sleeping in your own bed, that’s what does it, right?”

“At least they put me up in a corporate apartment rather than in a hotel. I don’t get disturbed by the housekeeping staff.”

True, she was staying in a comfortable condo, which belonged to the company she’d come to audit, but she’d had a hard time sleeping ever since she’d arrived a few days ago.

Delilah rubbed her eyes then looked at her watch. It was past nine o’clock. “Sorry, John. I’m sure you’re ready to go home.”

“How about yourself? Ready to pack it in for the day?”

When she nodded, a flicker of relief animated John’s eyes. It took him all of two seconds to slip into his jacket and grab his briefcase. She couldn’t blame him. He had a family waiting for him.

She switched off the computer, rose, and snatched her jacket off the back of her chair.

“I need to eat something. Can you point me toward Chinatown? I easily get turned around in the dark.”

“Sure thing,” John said.

Outside, Delilah followed his directions and ducked into the first Chinese restaurant she encountered. The place was virtually empty. The woman at the entrance attempted to show her to a table, but Delilah waved her off.

“Just takeout, please.”

The hostess handed her a menu. Delilah scanned it quickly, trying not to let her fingers linger too long on the sticky plastic cover.

“I’ll have the Mongolian beef with brown rice, please.”

“Brown rice takes ten minutes.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

Delilah sank onto one of the red plastic chairs near the door. This business trip was her first to San Francisco. She’d been lucky that her reputation as a first-rate forensic accountant had helped her land this juicy assignment, when most of the time she worked only on the East Coast.

Tired, she yawned. She needed a full night’s sleep, yet dreaded going to bed. Her old nightmares had come back upon her arrival in San Francisco.

They were always the same. The old French farmhouse they’d lived in over twenty years ago, when her father had taken a two-year overseas assignment as a visiting professor. The lavender fields surrounding the property. The crib. The silence. And then the faces of her parents. The tears streaming down her mother’s face.

But this time, the dreams had morphed into other, more incomprehensible ones.

The Victorian house looked sinister in the heavy rain. Light came from one of the windows; other than that, it was dark. She ran faster and faster. Toward the house, toward safety. She didn’t dare look behind her. He was still there, still following her. Hands clamped over her shoulder. Then suddenly fists pounded against a heavy wooden door. Hers? Something gave way. She stumbled forward and fell. Into warmth, softness, safety. Home.

“Mongolian beef, brown rice.” The woman’s voice sliced through the recollection of her dream.

Delilah paid her tab and took the food. She stopped dead at the door.

Damn!

It had started raining—not exactly cats and dogs, more like kittens and puppies. She had left her umbrella in the apartment. Just like her trench coat. She had no choice but to brave it. She couldn’t be far from the apartment.

Staying close to the buildings, Delilah started running along the steep sidewalk then made a turn into the next street, and another one a block farther. She looked around, but the rain was getting stronger—kittens were quickly turning into cats, and puppies into dogs. She couldn’t recognize anything. Had she taken a wrong turn?

Her clothes were already soaked. Where the hell was she?

She turned another corner and found herself on a small side street. It didn’t look familiar at all, but that wasn’t her biggest problem; neither was the relentless rain.

The problem was the guy coming toward her.

Even though she couldn’t make him out well, she would bet her retirement fund that he wasn’t there to lend her an umbrella.

His imposing frame was silhouetted against the hazy light of a street lamp behind him. He moved toward her, and all of a sudden a faint beam coming from a window illuminated one side of his face. His look chilled her more than the cold rain. A scar puckered his skin. It didn’t inspire confidence.

Delilah spun around to where she’d come from. Before she was able to take two steps, a hand clamped over her shoulder, jerking her back. The sudden jolt sent her heartbeat into the stratosphere. She slipped on the wet sidewalk, her legs folding like a poker player with a bad hand. She fought for balance and dropped her food in an attempt to brace her fall.

The guy’s hand dug deeper into her shoulder. She screamed, tried to shake him off, but slipped and crashed onto the sidewalk instead. She yanked her head around, saw him bending toward her. For the first time she could see his entire face clearly, clear enough to make an identification if she ever got the chance. He was Caucasian and in his forties. Violence, and the intention to unleash it on her, turned his face into an ugly mask.

Delilah couldn’t allow him to drag her into some dark hole. Number one in survival training was never to let the attacker move the victim to a secondary location. She had to fight him off here, where she had a chance of getting the attention of a passerby.

Yeah, fat chance!

In this rain, the streets were deserted.

He hauled her up, seizing her by the collar of her jacket now, having released the painful grip on her shoulder. Quickly, with her back to him, she tucked her arms inward and slipped out of the jacket, leaving him holding on to it. Now she had a fighting chance.

He was startled, and she used the couple of seconds’ head start wisely. A sprinter in college, she might make it, even though the slippery ground didn’t help—neither did her high heels.

Vanity would kill her one of these days.

She raced into the next street. He was close behind her. And fast, faster than she’d expected him to be. Her breath quickened. Her lungs demanded more oxygen.

Scouting the area ahead of her, she made a split-second decision and sprinted into the street to her right. A desperate glance over her shoulder confirmed that the thug was still chasing her.

Scanning the street, she spotted several Victorian residences on the other side. All of them were dark, except for one. It seemed oddly familiar. Light shone through the windows in the front room.

This was her chance, maybe even her only one.

She barreled toward the old Victorian, charged up the few steps, and hammered at the door.

“Help! Help me!”

Frantically, she looked behind her while her fists continued pounding into the door. Her pursuer was less than half a block away and closing in. If he reached her, he would unleash his fury on her, and there was nowhere else to run.

3

The banging at the door didn’t stop, no matter how long Samson tried to ignore it. Maybe yelling at his friends would get the message across that he wanted to be left alone.

“I told you to call it off!” He yanked the door open.

A small figure with dripping wet hair and soaked clothes tumbled into his arms.

“Help me, please!” The female voice had an urgency to it that demanded action.

Instinctively, he pulled her in and slammed the door shut.

“Thank you.” The mumble was laced with genuine relief.

The woman lifted her head and looked up at him. Big green eyes, long, thick lashes, luscious red lips. Her white blouse was pasted to her body, and she could have won any wet T-shirt contest hands down. Not that he’d ever witnessed one. Clearly he’d missed out. Her black lace bra featured her breasts prominently: 34C, if he had to guess.

It wasn’t much of a stretch to figure out who she was: the stripper!

And the stripper had arrived in character like a professional actor appearing on stage: voilà, the damsel in distress. It was different from the usual policewoman or nurse, but still, it wouldn’t work.

The last time his friends had surprised him with a stripper, Officer Nasty had tried a strip search on him, leaving him entirely unaffected. Not even the tease of a little bondage had gotten his cock to wake from its deathlike sleep. What made Ricky think this damsel in distress could do any better?

She looked pretty enough, sexy yet innocent. Perhaps he could play along for a few minutes, see if anything moved. Without getting his hopes up, of course.

“What happened?”

She smelled like summer rain and something else, but he couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Some guy attacked me.” She stopped to catch her breath. “I have to call the police.”

She shivered and sounded believable. The woman had obviously taken some acting classes.

Nice touch.

“Well, why don’t we get you into the warmth first and get rid of your wet clothes?”

That was surely the script she had in mind. What better reason to take off her clothes than because they were wet?

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Just a phone call, please. I can get changed at home, thank you.”

Ah, so she wanted to play coy. Coy worked for him.

He motioned her into the sitting room, where a low fire crackled in the fireplace. She placed herself right in front of it and stretched her hands out toward the warmth. Her wet clothes clung to her body, emphasizing her tantalizing curves. Perfect proportions. Not too skinny, just enough flesh for him to have something to dig into.

“You must be cold in those wet clothes,” he whispered behind her.

Her shoulders lifted, tension evident. Had she not felt him approach? Was there something wrong with her senses? He cupped her shoulders with his hands, and she shrieked and spun around. He recognized the glare in her eyes as a mixture of anger and fear. She hadn’t taken just a few acting classes at a community college—judging by her performance, she’d graduated from a professional drama program.

“I have to go.”

Now it was getting interesting. She was playing hard to get.

Ricky was right: she was good. Maybe she could stir something up for him, just maybe. Samson enjoyed a good hunt as much as the next vampire. And he hadn’t hunted in a while. Every woman had practically been handed to him on a platter, and as enticing as many of them had been, none had stirred him.

“Not so fast. I think you’re forgetting why you’re here. Let’s see what you’ve got to offer.”

The damsel threw him another scared look and made for the door. Samson was faster, and cut her escape route off. He was enjoying himself now. In fact, he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. Whatever Ricky was paying her, she was worth every dollar.

The woman breathed heavily, still pretending to be scared. It was exactly how he liked his prey: panicked, petrified, panting. He pulled her closer.

“No, let me go!” she pleaded.

“You don’t want to go.”

He inhaled her smell. Yes, summer rain, but something else too, something different. Was this little vampire vixen using some exotic perfume? It smelled delicious and tempting. A faint smell of lavender filled his nostrils.

With terrified eyes, she looked up at him and continued struggling under his hold.

“I’m sure Ricky paid you enough, and if not, I’m going to tip you generously.” Money was no object. If she could do something for him, he’d be more than generous.

“Paid me?” Her voice was a high shriek, her panic underscored by the widening of her eyes. Beautiful eyes, their green shimmering in hundreds of different facets, from green moss to turquoise water.

Had the cad not paid her yet? Well, he could take care of that later, but right now he wanted something else. A little taste of those luscious lips and that rebellious tongue.

She’d awakened his interest.

Samson lowered his head and pressed his lips onto hers. She tried wiggling out of his embrace, but her attempt was weak at best. Vampire females were as strong as their male counterparts, but the specimen in his arms had obviously decided not to use her strength against him.

Her lips were soft, deliciously soft. Samson slid his hand behind her neck to keep her in place while he used his tongue to tempt her mouth open. He wanted to taste her, feel that tongue of hers, but she kept her lips firmly pressed together, seemingly unwilling to surrender too soon.

The more she struggled, trying to wrestle free of him, the more he was aware of her body rubbing against his, and the more he wanted her. He continued his passionate assault on her lips, sweeping over them with his moist tongue. He pressed her harder against him, running his other hand down her back to squeeze her cute little ass. Instead of her wet clothes, he only felt the heat buried underneath. Heat that could scorch even him, a vampire who’d had it all before.

Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and her rapid heartbeat reverberated through his body. He enjoyed her unusual softness. And then he noticed something else. He felt himself react to her. Blood suddenly pumped into his groin and surged to his cock. His pants tightened uncomfortably. But he wasn’t going to complain.

When he felt his hardening cock press against her stomach, he released a moan of pleasure. She surely had to notice it too. He hadn’t felt an erection in so long, and the realization that his old body still worked was a birthday present he hadn’t expected. With his hand on her ass, he held her to him and ground his cock against her more urgently, letting her know that she’d achieved the impossible.

He would reward her plenty.

Why hadn’t his shrink thought of this?

All he needed was a woman who pretended not to want him, and his hunting instincts would kick in. It was pure and simple reverse psychology. He’d have to fire Drake. In all those months the quack hadn’t come up with anything helpful.

Suddenly her lips parted, and Samson didn’t hesitate and slipped his tongue in greedily.

Oh God, yes!

Her mouth, her taste—heavenly. His tongue swept in deeply, mating with hers. His body tensed as he explored her delicious mouth and played with her tongue, teasing her to give him more. He went deeper. Oh God, she was delicious.

With his hand on her neck, he stroked her eagerly while he couldn’t stop caressing her round ass, pressing her harder against him. His cock was rock hard and ready to burst.

There was no way she’d leave his house before he’d thoroughly fucked her. He wanted to bury himself in her for as long as he could, and find the pleasure that had eluded him in the last nine months.

Samson swallowed more of her taste, gulped down more of her scent, and all of a sudden all his senses kicked in.

Shit, what the hell was he doing?

Shit!

Shit! He wasn’t kissing a vampire.

She was human!

His friends were killing him. They’d gotten him a human stripper! They should have warned him! He would hurt her if he wasn’t careful. Or expose himself inadvertently. Idiots!

A sharp, stabbing pain suddenly radiated through his foot. Samson instantly let go of the stripper and winced. With all her force, she’d driven her high heel into his Italian designer shoe.

What the fuck?

What had gotten into her?

There was no reason for her sudden outburst. He wasn’t doing anything she hadn’t been hired for. Ricky had clearly said she did extras. And the kiss constituted an extra. Nothing more, nothing less.

Samson stared at her in disbelief. She glared back at him. And as if that wasn’t enough, she slapped him right across the cheek.

Bam!

Stifled laughter behind him made him spin around.

There they were: all his friends, watching him get hit by a woman. This would go down in the history books. The night Samson got slapped by a human female.

What else was planned for his utter humiliation?

“What the hell are you doing, Samson?” Ricky yelled.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m having fun with the stripper you got me for my birthday.” What was Ricky’s problem? After all, this was his idiotic idea.

“Stripper?” the woman yelled. “I’m not a stripper!”

Ricky shook his head, and the guys behind him couldn’t suppress their stupid grins, like they were a bunch of college kids and not full-grown vampires.

“Are you blind, man? This is the stripper.” Ricky tilted his head to the woman in the short nurse’s uniform and garter belt who stood among his friends.

Samson’s eyes ping-ponged between the nurse and the damsel in distress, then finally settled on Ricky.

“That”—Ricky pointed at the furious woman next to Samson—“is a seriously pissed-off lady. I’d say you owe her a huge apology. I’d start groveling right about now.”

Good advice.

“Happy birthday,” Amaury, his oldest friend, said. If he was trying to defuse the situation, he’d have to work harder at it.

“And congratulations,” Thomas added, grinning, but he wasn’t congratulating Samson on his birthday. His eyes were fixed on Samson’s crotch. Nothing could escape Thomas’s keen eyes, ever, especially when it came to a male body.

Samson understood immediately, but it didn’t make the situation any more comfortable. Eventually he’d have to face the woman he’d kissed so passionately, and it wasn’t something he was keen on right now. Especially not with the raging hard-on bulging under his slacks. A hard-on that did not want to go down, not as long as he had her taste on his tongue.

She brushed past him to get out of the room. But he couldn’t let her leave. He owed her more than an apology. She had healed what his shrink hadn’t been able to fix even after many months of weekly sessions. He had to do something, anything.

“Miss.”

She continued walking as if she hadn’t heard him. The guys parted to let her pass.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought you were the… I’m sorry. You must think I’m a savage. Please, miss, let me offer you some dry clothes, something to warm you up. I’ll have my chauffeur drive you home.”

She stopped, hesitating.

“Please.”

He didn’t care that his friends were watching him beg. He would deal with them later. Strangely, all he now wanted was for her not to be mad at him. He didn’t understand why he even cared. After all, she was only a human.

4

Delilah slanted the stranger who’d kissed her a cautious look.

Getting out of her wet clothes sounded tempting, as did the thought of somebody driving her home. After all, the thug could still be lurking somewhere, and then she wouldn’t be any better off than before.

But was she any safer here?

After all, the stranger whose house she’d entered to find help had practically attacked her. With a kiss. A kiss so hungry and hot and passionate and irresistible that she’d been unable to resist kissing him back.

What did that make her?

She’d never reacted like that with anybody. No man had ever gotten her this turned on.

Still, that didn’t make it right.

But were there mitigating circumstances? Would he have done the same, had he not mistaken her for a stripper?

Delilah glanced at the real stripper’s nurse’s uniform, then back at her own clothes. Her white blouse was completely soaked through, making it transparent, and her latest barely there Victoria’s Secret acquisition shone through. She secretly cursed her love for black underwear. No wonder he’d believed her to be a stripper, particularly since he’d expected one.

“Dry clothes, you said?” The words were out before she could stop them.

The beginning of a soft smile twisted the corners of her host’s mouth upward. “I can get you a sweater and warmups. You can dry off in the bathroom.” He looked almost innocent now. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He hurried up the stairs, strong legs taking two steps at a time, his tight backside shifting under the fabric. All muscle, no fat.

“I’m Ricky,” one of his friends suddenly said. “Sorry, I guess it was all my fault. I told Samson to expect a stripper. He’s normally a real gentleman. Please don’t hold this, uh, occurrence against him.”

He was tall and good looking, with a boyish face of freckles and a full head of red hair.

“Absolutely,” the man next to him chimed in. “I’m Amaury.”

Amore? Like Italian for “love”?

What an odd name for a man. He stretched out his hand. She hesitated, but shook it nevertheless. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Please forgive him.”

He was a large, burly kind of guy with dark hair reaching to his shoulders. Not a hippie, though. He seemed well groomed, and his long hair suggested he wasn’t of this era. Rather he looked like he belonged in a historical novel, riding a horse to save his favorite lady. His blue eyes were piercing, his smile disarming as it spread from his lips to light up his entire face.

Each of the man’s friends tried to make excuses for him. A man who had decent friends like that couldn’t be all bad. Of course, Charles Manson probably had friends too at some point, and it didn’t make him a good guy. Same went for Jack the Ripper. The Zodiac Killer came to mind.

“He’s really a great guy,” another one said. “Thomas. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Now that was formal.

His warm smile was in complete contrast to his attire: Thomas was dressed entirely in leather, his motorcycle helmet clenched under one arm.

A fourth guy was in the back. He seemed a little shy, and nodded at her wordlessly. He was dressed in the same biker outfit as Thomas.

“That’s Milo,” Thomas said, and put his arm possessively around his shoulders.

“Nice to meet you all. I’m Delilah.”

She shifted from one foot onto the other, feeling self-conscious about the fact that the men could see her bra.

“Delilah? As in Samson and Delilah?” Ricky asked with a smirk.

The guys chuckled. She caught Amaury jabbing Ricky in the ribs, apparently trying to shut him up.

“Yes, my name’s Delilah.”

What had one of the guys called her rescuer after she’d slapped him? Had she caught the name correctly? Could his name really be Samson?

“That’s a nice name.” Amaury’s compliment sounded as if he wanted to fill the uncomfortable silence with something, anything.

“Samson, there you are,” Thomas suddenly said, looking toward the stairs.

Delilah lifted her gaze and saw Samson walking down the steps. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

She shouldn’t be gawking, but she couldn’t stop herself even if her life depended on it.

He was tall, well over six feet, and made a very impressive figure in his black pants and figure-hugging gray turtleneck sweater. His hips were slender, his shoulders wide, and he looked like he was no stranger to a gym. His dark hair was longer than was the fashion; it gave him timeless beauty. His hazel eyes demanded her full attention.

He glided down the stairs as if he owned the world, exuding a sense of confidence. With every step, she felt drawn to him even more, as if the closer he came, the less able she was to throw off the lines he was tossing out to reel her in. Yet he wasn’t saying a single word.

Samson. The name suited him. This deadly sexy man had kissed her? What had she been thinking, pushing him away? Was she losing her mind? There was no other explanation for it now.

Just remembering those strong thighs pressed against her made her body temperature spike. A few more seconds and she’d have a fever that was going to require medical attention. Or his attention. Preferably his attention, since a doctor couldn’t help her with what she had: a severe attack of lust.

Samson stopped right in front of her, his gaze meeting hers.

Delilah suddenly realized that she had been staring at him the entire time he’d made his way down the stairs. She was sure he had watched her examine him. Unable to tear herself away from him, she inhaled his purely masculine scent.

He handed her a stack of clothes, his hand accidentally touching hers for only a moment.

“There is a guest bathroom at the end of the hall. Fresh towels are in the linen closet,” he said, his voice soft and gentle.

“Thank you.” Delilah felt her voice tremble, probably making her sound like a star-struck teenager.

She walked down the hall to find the bathroom. Before she entered it, she looked over her shoulder and found Samson staring at her. Those hazel eyes had followed her.

~ ~ ~

Samson turned back to his friends.

“I don’t know why I keep hanging out with you,” Samson said before snatching his cell phone from the table.

“It’s ’cause you don’t have any other friends.” As so often, Ricky had to state the obvious.

The call was answered instantly.

“Carl, please bring the car ’round in fifteen minutes.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” He disconnected the call and turned back to the gang.

“So, seems like things are looking up,” Thomas remarked pointedly, grinning from ear to ear.

“She’s human!”

And the hottest thing I’ve ever touched.

“We’re not blind. So, since we didn’t send her, who is she?” Ricky asked.

“How the hell should I know? She almost broke my door down, asking for help.”

“I can play that, if that’s what turns you on,” the stripper interrupted.

Samson doubted her claim, and ignored her. “Okay, everybody to the kitchen, and leave me alone with her for a few minutes.”

“With me?” the stripper said.

No chance. Samson frowned. “With the human woman.”

The stripper pursed her lips and pivoted.

He watched her and his friends as they disappeared through the dining room and into the kitchen located at the back of the house. Amaury’s palm had already connected with the stripper’s ass. His friend had yet to meet a woman he didn’t like.

Samson went to the wet bar and poured two glasses of brandy. He had gotten used to the taste of it, and liked the warming feeling it caused in his chest. Apart from that, it would pass through his system without effect. Being able to deal with human drinks was helpful whenever he met with humans in social situations.

Vampires mingled freely with their human counterparts, who were oblivious to them being different. Some people were merely considered more eccentric than others. San Francisco was the perfect place for their kind. Practically everybody was a little weird, and nobody really gave a damn.

Samson took a sip from his glass.

Damn, he felt good! His hydraulics were working again—in fact, even better than before. His cock had been as hard as granite when he’d pressed his body against hers and had kissed her. How it had happened, he didn’t know and didn’t care, but he knew he was back.

When he heard a door open, he turned. Delilah stepped out of the bathroom wearing one of his sweatshirts and sweatpants. Both were too large for her, but she’d turned the sleeves over several times to make them fit. Damn, she looked cute. She’d towel-dried her long, dark hair.

“Please, come in. Sit here. Warm yourself.”

She inched forward into the room, her movements hesitant, clearly watching him to determine if it was safe to approach. “Thank you.”

“Brandy?”

He handed her a glass. She reached out and accepted it, then sat on the armchair closest to the fire and took a sip from her glass.

“Apologies; I haven’t introduced myself to you. I’m Samson Woodford.”

She looked up at him, and he realized that he was still standing. He took a seat opposite her.

“Delilah, Delilah Sheridan.”

Delilah? A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. A beautiful human woman.

Off-limits.

Would she be his undoing just as the biblical Delilah had been his namesake’s downfall? Yet another good reason not to touch her again.

“I must apologize. I’ve been rude, and it’s inexcusable.”

Inexcusable, yes, but exciting nevertheless. He wanted to feel it again: the heat, the arousal, her body. Even now, dressed in shapeless clothes several sizes too large for her, she looked more tempting than any female vamp he’d ever set eyes on. Her scent teased his senses, threatening to overpower his good manners once more.

“It was a misunderstanding. Your friends explained.”

Her cheeks looked rosier now, probably from the warmth of the fire and the brandy she was sipping. If he could only lick the droplets of brandy off her lips, maybe his body would be appeased.

“How’s your foot? I’m so sorry.”

“It’ll be fine. Not to worry.”

If you kiss it and make it better.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Goes without saying. Again, I’m truly sorry for having acted like a complete jerk.” Samson ran his hand through his hair.

“Where are your friends?”

Was she afraid of being alone with him? He couldn’t blame her. Being alone with the man who’d attacked her, kissed her passionately, and ground his erection against her could not be a situation inspiring confidence. Could she see that his cock started twitching again, readying itself for her?

Samson shifted in his chair and crossed his legs.

“I’ve sent them to the kitchen to get the party started. I assure you, they will hear you if you feel the need to call for help. There’s not one among them who wouldn’t come running to help a woman in need of protection.”

“Oh.”

Her surprised look gave him pause, as did the deepening blush on her cheeks. Maybe she didn’t feel threatened after all.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your birthday party. I should be going.”

She made a move to get up, but he stopped her. “I’ve called my driver. He’ll be here in a few minutes to take you home.”

“That’s really not necessary. I can take a taxi.”

“Please, allow me. It’s the least I can do after all I’ve put you through.”

She gifted him with a gorgeous smile. “Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”

“Tell me what happened out there.” He tilted his head toward the window, looking out into the darkness.

“Some guy came after me in an alley. I ran and slipped, and he grabbed me. And then I ran, and he followed me. He was so close behind me when you opened the door.”

Samson raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t seen anybody, but then, he’d been focused on the person pounding on his door. “Are you sure he wasn’t just helping you up when you slipped?”

Delilah shook her head. “I’m sure. I saw his face; he wasn’t friendly. He was chasing me.”

Had she overreacted? Maybe the whole incident was completely innocent.

“Can you describe him to me?”

“I only saw him briefly, but he was big, Caucasian, maybe in his early forties. There was a scar on his cheek.”

“Do you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

She nodded confidently. “Definitely.”

A strand of damp hair caught on her cheek, and he had to use all his restraint not to reach forward to brush it out of her face. She wouldn’t appreciate any more physical advances from him, not even the tender touch he craved right now.

Tenderness wasn’t something for which any vampire was known, least of all Samson. Lust, passion—yes, but tenderness?

A sound at the front door made him glance toward the foyer. A moment later, Carl made himself known at the door to the living room.

“Sir, excuse the interruption—the car is ready when you need it.”

Delilah rose quickly, and Samson regretted that he hadn’t told Carl to take his time. He had enjoyed the woman’s company and would have loved to enjoy her for a little bit longer. Enjoy her? What the hell was he thinking? It was better if she left now, before he did something really stupid.

“I’ll get my clothes. I left them in the bathroom.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll have them delivered to you tomorrow after they’ve been washed and pressed.”

Keeping her clothes for a little while longer would allow him to once again inhale her scent.

“But that’s not—”

“—necessary?” He smiled. “Please allow me.”

Table of Contents

SAMSON’S LOVELY MORTAL

Book Description

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