Samson's Lovely Mortal

ONE

“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 as she worked him frantically. Up and down she moved, the warm wetness of her mouth lubricating him.

With her hand, she cupped his balls and squeezed them in perfect rhythm with her sucking. She was talented, no doubt. He buried his hands in her hair and moved his hips back and forth, trying to increase the friction.

“Harder.” His request was met with enthusiasm, her slurping sounds filling the dimly lit room.

He 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, she would probably swallow too. Something he particularly appreciated. But despite feeling her tantalizing tongue run up and down his cock, despite the hard sucking motion, no erection was forthcoming. Her patience was wasted on him. Nothing moved.

Her head bobbed back and forth, her long brown hair brushing against his naked skin, catching in his pubic hair, but his body wasn’t in it, almost as if she was sucking off somebody else, not him.

Samson finally pushed her away, humiliated and frustrated. 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.

In lightning speed, he shoved his useless male equipment back into his pants and zipped up. Even faster, he fled her company. His only hope was that she would never know who he was. Good thing he was in a strange city and not back in San Francisco where he was as well-known as a pink horse.

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 about this.”

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

“He’s helped me a lot 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. Was it desperation?

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

The place was a 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 large 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,” her high-pitched voice invited him.

Once he’d made his way into 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 lying down on a chaise lounge.

The guy had to be a lunatic. No self-respecting modern vamp would want 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 stretched out his hand to greet him.

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

“I see we have our work cut out for us.” The doctor seemed unfazed by the rude remark. He pointed at the comfortable looking armchair. Reluctantly, Samson sat down.

Dr. Drake let himself fall in the chair opposite. As the doctor studied him for the first few minutes, Samson shifted nervously, hands clamped over the armrests of the chair.

“Can we get started? I believe I’m paying you by the hour.” Offensive was better than defensive, he’d learned early in life.

“We started the minute you came in here, but then I’m sure you knew that.” Dr. Drake’s smile was noncommittal, his voice even.

Samson narrowed his eyes, trying to block out the implied reprimand. “Indeed.”

“How long have you experienced these anger issues?”

The words were not what he’d expected. Maybe a question more along the lines of “So, what brings you here?” but not this direct assault on his already battered psyche. He should have asked Amaury more about the doctor’s methods before agreeing to make an appointment.

“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 spurting from his lips whenever necessary.

“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 was aware that some vampires had additional gifts. He himself had a photographic memory. He knew that others of his kind could see the future or read minds, but he wasn’t sure how widespread those talents were.

He needed to know whether he was at a disadvantage with this man. He didn’t want to work with somebody who could read him like a book when he didn’t want to be read. “Do you read minds?”

Drake shook his head. “No. But your problem is not 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 you—”

“Of course not,” Samson interrupted. The quack would charge him what he thought Samson was willing to pay. It wouldn’t be a first. He was used to people trying to inflate their prices because they knew he could afford it. But they usually tried only once. Nobody cheated him and got away with it.

“And at the same time, you haven’t been seen in society for quite awhile, when you should be out there, courting beautiful women. I suppose your breakup with Ilona Hampstead had something to do with this.”

“I’m not here to talk about her.” Samson let out a quick breath. He refused to even say her name. She had no part in his life, not anymore, and the mere mention of her name made his fangs itch for a vicious bite. He cracked his knuckles, and wondered if that was the same sound he’d hear if her neck snapped. It would be music to his ears.

“Maybe not about her, but maybe about what she did. There can only be one reason for this. And we both know what it is. So, the question is now, are you going to trust me to help you?”

Drake’s blue eyes punctuated his point.

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

“Get over the anger.” The doctor was as insistent as Samson was stubborn.

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

A knowing smile curved the doctor’s lips. “Oh, I believe it is. Whatever she did, it angered you so much that it’s putting a block on your sexual drive, as if you didn’t want to make yourself vulnerable again.”

“I’m not vulnerable. I never was. Not since I’ve been a vampire.” The last thing Samson wanted to feel was being vulnerable. To him it was synonymous to being weak. If the doctor wasn’t careful with his accusations, he’d soon find himself at the receiving end of Samson’s displeasure. Maybe a physical fight would relieve his frustrations.

“Not in the physical sense of the word. We are 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.”

The shrink looked at him. No, he couldn’t allow Drake to get this close. Emotions were a dangerous thing. They could destroy a man. Samson hauled himself out of the chair.

“I don’t think this is going to work.” The tightness in his chest bore witness to the effect Drake’s words had on him, even though he was not ready to admit it. Not even to himself.

The doctor stood. “Ever since we’ve started mainstreaming,” Drake continued, undeterred, “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. He had to get through this on his own. “Send me your bill. Good bye, Doc.”

He stormed out, knowing the doctor had hit a nerve.

Well, sex was overrated anyway. At least it was what he was trying to convince himself of. There were nights when he believed his own lies, but it never lasted long. The truth was, he liked having sex—lots of it—but none of the sexy vampire women did it for him anymore. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get an erection.

He’d never heard of such a thing happening to any vampire. Sexual virility was part and parcel of being a vamp in the first place. Being impotent was a foreign concept in the vampire world. Only humans became impotent. If the news became widespread he would lose all respect from his peers. It was unacceptable.

So eventually he’d conceded, and a month later he’d made another appointment in the hope there was something the quack could do for him.

Samson blinked and wiped away the memories of the last nine months. Tonight was his birthday. He would try to have some fun.

As he strode from his wingback armchair to the wet bar at the opposite end of his elegant sitting room; his movements were fluid, his body tall and muscular, yet slender.

Samson poured himself a glass of his favorite blood type and 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.

Only his thirst for blood had been stilled, the rest of his body’s needs, while temporarily subdued, would go unmet. Sometimes he wished he could get drunk and forget about everything, but unfortunately, being a vampire meant he couldn’t get drunk like humans did. Alcohol had no effect on his body. What he’d give for a little numbness right now.

He had expressly told his pals not to get him any presents or throw him a party. Of course he knew it was futile and only a matter of time until they would be at his door. Like pilfering barbarians, they would invade his home, raid his secret stash of quality drinks—consisting mostly of high-priced O-Neg—and waste his waking hours with old stories he’d heard a hundred times.

They’d given him a surprise birthday party when he’d reached the two-hundred mark, and it would be no different today, on his two hundred and thirty-seventh, with pretty much the same cast of characters.

In anticipation of the inevitable invasion of his privacy, he had dressed in dapper black pants and a dark gray turtleneck. Except for his signet ring, he wore no jewelry.

The clangor of the phone tore through the quiet of his home. He looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was shortly before nine o’clock. Just as he’d thought, the boys were on their way.

“Yes?”

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

Not a good choice of words, definitely not.

“What is it, Ricky?” Despite Ricky’s Irish heritage, he had adopted many California expressions and now sounded more like a beach-boy-surfer-dude than the Irish lad he was deep down.

“I just want to wish you a great 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 his surprise birthday party was already out of the bag?

Samson cut to the chase. “When’s everybody coming?”

“What do you mean?”

“What time are you guys going to surprise me with a birthday party?”

“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.”

Not again. He should have known. He bit back his anger.

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

Never have been, never will be.

Ricky laughed. “Yes, yes, but this one is special. She’s not just a stripper. She does extras.”

Would he be up for extras? Very unlikely.

“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 go on like this. Holly said—”

Samson cut him off. So much for having some fun tonight. “You told Holly? Are you fucking nuts? She’s the biggest gossip of the underworld! I told you in confidence. How could you?” His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. With his fangs suddenly protruding from his mouth, he could have scared a champion wrestler from here till Tuesday. But Ricky wasn’t a wrestler, and he wasn’t scared easily. Not even till Monday.

“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.”

Perfect! A friend of Holly’s. Sure, this was guaranteed to work!

Samson still fumed, but recognized it was too late to call the whole thing off. “Fine.”

He slammed the phone down, not giving Ricky a chance to elaborate any further. 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 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? 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!

Delilah Sheridan’s eyes hurt, but she continued scanning the rows of transactions for anything that looked out of place. Rubbing her stiff neck with her fingers, she longed for a massage, or at least a fifteen-minute soak in a hot tub, neither of which would happen tonight.

“Coffee?” John’s voice came from behind her.

She pushed a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear. “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.” Her gaze remained fixed on her computer screen.

The night before, she’d barely slept despite the comfortable mattress. And the few hours she had been able to sleep, she’d been tormented by dreams which didn’t make a lick of sense.

The large, spacious office was practically deserted. The only people left were the two of them. John Reardon was the chief accountant for the San Francisco branch of the nationwide private company Delilah had come to audit.

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

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

True, she was staying in a comfortable condo which belonged to the company, but what did it matter when she couldn’t sleep anyway? Before her trip to San Francisco she’d never had any problems with insomnia. On the contrary, she was known for being able to sleep wherever and whenever she put her head on a pillow. It didn’t even have to be a pillow.

Delilah rubbed her eyes then looked at her watch. It was past nine o’clock. She felt almost guilty having stayed so late. John had insisted being there as long as she was. He didn’t want to leave her alone at the offices. She guessed he didn’t trust auditors not to snoop around. He got that right. Not that she’d call it snooping since she had all the authorization she needed. In fact, she had very specific instructions.

She wasn’t just here to audit the branch office of the company, but to investigate some irregularities. Delilah was sure John had no idea about this. He’d been told that it was merely one of the usual audits Headquarters performed regularly.

“Sorry, John. I’m sure you’re ready to go home.”

She turned to him. Leaning against the edge of one of the desks, he lifted his coffee cup to his lips. His gray suit seemed ill-fitting, and the collar of his shirt looked frayed. He was quite tall and decent looking for an accountant. Boring, bland, but not ugly.

He probably didn’t appreciate having to stay at the office this late. Well, she was beat anyway, so maybe she should call it a day, even though she knew she would probably toss and turn all night no matter what.

“Ready?”

A flicker of relief appeared in John’s eyes when she nodded. It took him all of two seconds to slip into his jacket and grab his briefcase. He sure was in a hurry to get out of there. She couldn’t blame him. He had a family waiting for him. And what did she have to go home to? It wasn’t even home.

Not that home would have been any more welcoming than the corporate apartment. Nobody was waiting for her. No man, not many friends—not even a cat or a dog. After this assignment was over and she was back in New York, she’d go out more and date. That was the plan. It was an excellent plan, one she’d made during every one of her out-of-town assignments and then promptly dismissed when she’d returned home. This time she meant it, though. Really.

But for now, all she wanted was to get some takeout and go to sleep. John was kind enough to direct her toward Chinatown where she could pick up some food on her way back to the apartment. Even though she’d been to Chinatown before, her sense of direction was much less developed than her head for numbers. During the day she normally managed, but in the dark she turned into a lost cause when it came to finding her way.

It had started drizzling, and she didn’t want to hang around too long. She 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. The menu presented too many choices. How many different ways could you cook beef? Beef with bamboo shoots, beef with mushrooms, spicy beef. Enough already. She would play it safe.

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

“Brown rice takes ten minutes.” The Chinese woman was as friendly as a viper and just as pretty. If she thought Delilah would change her mind to white rice with her look, she was out of luck.

“That’s ok. I’ll wait.”

Delilah sank onto one of the red plastic chairs near the door. This business trip was her first to San Francisco. As an independent contractor, she normally performed special audits up and down the East Coast and rarely travelled further afield.

When the head office’s regular statistical checks had revealed that certain ratios in the San Francisco branch were off, they’d decided to use somebody who hadn’t had any prior contact with the West Coast staff and hired an outsider. It was smart. Auditors could become too cozy with the staff they were auditing. A regular change of auditors was generally a good idea.

If anybody could find out where the problem was buried, it was Delilah. Her specialty was forensic accounting. It wasn’t quite as exciting as police work, but it was probably the most exciting field in the accounting world, if there was such a thing. An oxymoron to some, but not to her. And besides, she was making a very decent living as an independent consultant.

This investigation should not present itself with too many difficulties. Certain ratios between assets and depreciation were off the charts and suggested that either somebody was completely incompetent or was trying to cheat the company. How, she didn’t know yet, but she would find out soon.

Delilah was tired and knew she needed a good night’s sleep, but she also dreaded going to bed. Some of her old nightmares had come back again and mixed with new ones. She hadn’t had any in a few months, but upon her arrival in San Francisco a few days ago, her bad dreams had started to reappear.

They were normally 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 on her mother’s face. The pain.

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

The Victorian house looked foreboding 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, to safety. She didn’t dare look behind her. He was still there, still following her. Hands clamped over her shoulder. Then suddenly her fists pounded into a heavy wooden door. Something gave way. She stumbled forward and fell. Into warmth, softness, safety. Home.

“Mongolian beef, brown rice.” The woman’s voice pierced 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 in earnest. She had left her umbrella in the apartment, thinking she wouldn’t need it today. Instead of opting for her trench coat, she’d only put on a light jacket. Well, that turned out to be a bad choice.

Everybody had told her how unpredictable San Francisco weather could be, and now she would find out for herself. The weather report had indicated no rain until the weekend. Could she sue the weatherman? Probably not.

She had no choice but to brave it. Delilah knew she wasn’t far from the apartment, only about three blocks. Staying close to the buildings, she started running along the sidewalk then made a turn into the next street, and another one a block further. The apartment couldn’t be far now. She looked around, but in the heavy rain she couldn’t recognize anything. Was it another block more?

Her clothes were already soaked, and she would have to jump into the shower to get warm again. 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 dim light of a streetlamp behind him. The chill of his look seeped into her body as a faint glimmer of light coming from a window appeared on the left side of his face. The scar puckering his skin didn’t inspire confidence.

Delilah turned back to where she came from. Before she was able to take two steps, a hand clamped over her shoulder, jerking her back. The sudden jolt made her lose her balance. She slipped on the wet sidewalk, her legs buckling beneath her. Her food dropped onto the ground as she tried to fight for balance and brace her fall.

The guy’s hand on her shoulder gripped harder as she screamed and tried to shake him off, crashing onto the sidewalk in the process. He bent down to pull her up. She yanked her head around. For the first time she could see his face clearly, clear enough to make an identification if need be. He was Caucasian and in his forties. Violence, and the intention to unleash it on her, was clearly written on his face.

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.

Fat chance!

With this rain, nobody would be outside. Not even a dog.

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

He was startled, and she had a couple of seconds’ head start. She’d been a sprinter in college, and it came in handy, even though the slippery ground didn’t help—neither did the high heels of her shoes. Vanity would kill her one of these days.

With long strides she ran into the next street, her lean but strong legs pushing off the ground with a vehemence that was startling for her small body. He was close behind her. And faster. She had to run for all she was worth. Her breath quickened as 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 brute 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 with light shining through the windows in the front room. This was her chance, probably her only one. Not slowing down for even a second, she crossed the narrow street, ran up the few steps of the old Victorian 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, his face angry. If he reached her, he’d unleash his anger on her, and there was nowhere else to run.