But then his wandering hand cupped her backside. A red mist descended over her vision and the buzz in her ears became turbocharged. She knocked his hand away. ‘Touch me again, Frankie, and you’re a dead man.’
Frankenstein, though, was not listening, because his offending hand landed back on her bum.
Okay, that did it.Her fingers balled into a fist, and she socked him square in his green jaw.
‘Ouch!’ she bit out, pain ricocheting through her knuckles as he staggered backwards, knocking her tray of drinks up and drenching her.
Heat charged into her cheeks as the previously oblivious guests nearby turned to stare. Swearing furiously and looking a lot more sober, Frankenstein staggered back towards her, testing his jaw.
‘I’m gonna sue you to within an inch of your life. I think you’ve cracked one of my implants.’
She lifted her fists in front of her. ‘Touch me again and I’ll do more than crack an implant.’
But as Frankenstein approached, and she went to swing at him, something hard banded around her waist and yanked her back against a solid wall of muscle.
‘Chill out, Pixie girl,’ a gruff voice whispered in her ear. ‘Believe me, he’s not worth it.’
She sucked in a breath to protest, shivers streaking down her spine at the feel of the forearm pressed intimately against her literally heaving bosoms. But then the same voice growled at Frankenstein. ‘Get out, Brad, and don’t come back.’
‘But she punched me!’ Frankenstein whined.
‘You want me to punch you, too?’ the voice asked, the calm conversational tone belying the steel beneath—which sent another irritating shiver through Ellie’s overwrought body.
Frankenstein held up his hands. ‘No, man, I’m good.’
‘Before you go, you can apologise to the lady,’ the voice added, his warm arm flexing against her midriff. She found herself holding onto him, her legs turning into wet noodles as the adrenaline rush of the fight drained.
A sea of ghoulish, witchy, devilish faces surrounded them—some giggling, some taking photos with their phones and all of them openly enjoying the spectacle.
Frankie’s disgruntled gaze dropped to her face. ‘Sorry.’ He ground out the word, before pushing through the throng of party guests to disappear.
‘Show’s over, folks,’ Mr Forearm announced, which did nothing to dispel the crowd. But then his forearm released its hold on her. As soon as her legs took her weight, they buckled.
‘Hey?’ Warm palms landed on her waist, preventing her from falling over as he turned her towards him.
She had to look way up to see his face.
Her head swam, the underside of her breasts burning where he’d touched them, as she took in the fierce features, the jet-black hair combed back to reveal a widow’s peak, the white silk shirt, severe black cloak, and the blood dripping from one of the fangs peeking out from impossibly sensual lips.
I’ve just been saved by a six-foot four-inch vampire.
‘Dracula?’ she murmured.
‘At your service,’ he said, the sensual lips quirking. The fangs sparkled, and she imagined them sinking into her neck and sucking the last of the blood out of her head.
‘Can you stand on your own?’ he asked, the concern in his voice belied somewhat by the heat lighting the gold shards in his hazelnut eyes.
No.‘Yes,’ she said. But then she shivered.
His searing gaze dipped to the bodice of her costume. ‘You’re soaking wet.’
‘That’d be F-Frankenstein’s fault,’ she stammered.
His lips curved in a loaded smile that sent the jumping beans in her stomach into overdrive. What was with that?
This situation was catastrophic. Not giddily exciting. People were still staring. She looked an absolute fright—and felt worse. She was probably going to get sued by Frankenstein, and, as she spotted Carly hurtling towards them at speed, about to be unemployed. Would she even get paid for the six hours’ work she’d already done?
Even so the warm spot in her stomach swelled as she had to lean into the vampire count’s steady hold.