Scents by Jocelyn Michel

No one knew my vampire secrets. By day I ruled a billion-dollar fragrance industry, and by night I ruled the streets. This particular Friday, I’d pulled up my luxurious red hair and wore a camel couture business suit with boring brown pumps. Nonetheless, I got a lot of lustful stares from good-looking men I didn’t know as I walked into my building, probably because of my height and lush curves. Naturally I enjoyed the attention. The vamp in me loved imagining I could really let loose, sucking and fucking each one of them dry before they knew what bit them.

I rode up to my top-floor suite on my private elevator and strode down the hall, eyeing with pleasure the original artwork on the walls and the Persian rug under my feet, both of which screamed success. Heidi, my pretty young secretary, greeted me with a prompt, “Good morning, Ms St. Clair,” and handed me a cup of steaming Red, a synthetic blood drink that wasn’t as good as the real thing but did the trick. Taking it, I wordlessly stepped into my tasteful office and shut the door behind me. I’d say more to her later when we discussed my schedule for the next eight hours. First, I had to check in with my sister assassins.

Sitting at my enormous mahogany desk, I pushed a button. A panel to my left slid open to reveal a hidden compartment. Another button raised a ruby-red laptop into my workspace. The mechanism made a grinding noise both times. I made a mental note to tell Heidi.

It took a couple of minutes for the laptop to boot up, so I drank the fake blood and scanned the headlines of the city newspaper waiting for me on the desk. I saw the usual stuff: murders, muggings, political snafus. Delving deeper, I read the latest Hollywood gossip, my guilty pleasure. Star-struck me drooled over photos of my favorite hotties traversing the red carpet. Oh, how I’d have loved a taste — as in literally — of Alexander Skarsgård. He was so my kind of guy, even if he wasn’t a real vampire.

With a sigh of longing I returned to my computer, one of several I owned, but the only one dedicated to all things assassin. I logged in and read last night’s additions to a list of dead dogs dating back to the beginning of the current vamp-werewolf skirmish, the latest activity in a centuries-old war. I skipped my entry, of course, which left one, two… seven more. We’d only offed eight werewolf assassins total? Bummer. Our kills kept dropping in number, and no one knew why.

The Assassins in Lace, as we called ourselves, consisted of nine deadly women, all vampires. There used to be ten in our particular group, but one of our sisters-in-arms, Karma, had recently gone missing. I regretted that we’d sent her after Slayer, a notorious werewolf assassin who’d killed dozens of our kind. I strongly suspected he’d nailed her for good, not an easy feat. And we’d been so sure she’d get her wolf, as usual.

I read the names of the deceased, frowning when I realized that Tripp Stefano, a.k.a. Stalker, was still not on it. Triniti, the only one of us who knew what he looked like, had sworn she’d get him, but the man was as slippery as a snake in addition to being one of the most dangerous murderers on the planet. In fact, his kills matched those of Slayer, who’d once snuffed three of us in one night. I simply couldn’t understand how they did it. No creature on earth had the strength, smarts, or skills of a vamp. Add to that our allure, and each of us became a murder machine capable of doing some serious werewolf damage.

Just as I moved my cursor to the box that would shut everything down, the screen went blank. I messed with the keys to no avail. Great. Just great. Then I couldn’t lower it into the desk to hide it from the world. With a sigh, I closed the thing so the screen wouldn’t be visible if it lit up again. I reached for the intercom. “Heidi? I need you.”

Heidi Lawrence, assistant by day and assassin-in-training by night, hustled into my office seconds later. I mentally approved of her pale blue shirt and navy skirt, both of which complemented her sky-blue eyes and flaxen hair. “Something’s wrong with this,” I told her, pointing.

“I’ll have maintenance check it.”

“Only the sliding panel. No one touches the laptop. Ever.”

“I remember.”

“How’s my schedule today?”

“You have a meeting with the head of research in thirty minutes. He has a new male scent for you to try.”

“Excellent. And after that?”

“Lunch with the head of the art department.”

Damn. Vampire Tim Spaulding had been trying to screw me since I hired him. He practically panted when we got together, a real turnoff. I so preferred to stalk my prey. That being said, I loved his work, which had put St. Clair Fragrances on the fragrance map.

“A two o’clock with the head of the marketing department.”

Samson Kinney, another dud. Fantastic at what he did, but really just a vamp with fangs he couldn’t control, begging for sexual crumbs I had no intention of dropping.

“A three o’clock with your sister.”

Who probably needed another loan. Solange ran through my money the way I ran through the drink that gave me the control I needed to make it through a day packed with tasty humans. I never slip up, so werewolves, who are our sworn enemies, had no clue how lethal I could be. Neither did the general public.

“And dinner at eight with Mick O’Laughton.”

At last. I’d been verbally sparring with the president of Class Act for the past six months, trying to place our designer scents in his exclusive clothing stores. Success finally loomed on the horizon, and that made me very, very happy.

After Heidi went back to her desk, I attempted to power up the sleek black laptop I used for my day-to-day business. It stayed on my desk at all times. I wanted to check my spreadsheets again so I’d have the details of all my scents memorized for that evening’s meeting. But the laptop wouldn’t respond. Frowning, I followed the cord down the hole in the desk, under the middle drawer and across the room. I found it still plugged in.

Hm. On my hands and knees, I reached up to turn on the lamp belonging to the other cord plugged into that outlet. It didn’t work, either. With a huff of impatience, I got up and called Heidi on the intercom. “Add checking an electrical outlet to the list of maintenance to-dos, will you?”

“Yes, Ms St. Clair.”

Smoothing my straight skirt, I sat again and scooted the black laptop to one side, squaring it neatly with the corner of the desk. I so loved everything in its proper place, which made the hang-up with the red computer very annoying. To distract myself from that minutia, I decided I’d read through the list of calls I’d received in response to my ad about the third floor vacancy. I owned the building and devoted most of the floors to St. Clair Fragrances, though I rented out five to other firms.

Unfortunately, that quickly bored me, so I picked up the remote to open the doors of my entertainment center. Though I pressed the usual button, nothing happened. Fuming, I changed the batteries and tried again. Nothing. I practically stomped my way over to it and yanked open the doors. Since I still held the remote, I turned on the plasma TV and got all the way back to my desk before I realized it hadn’t come on. “Heidi! Add the entertainment center and the TV to that stupid list.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At a loss, I walked to the vertical blinds covering the windows and flipped the open switch so I could check out the traffic situation far below and catch some rays. Contrary to popular belief, vampires did not melt in the sun and even enjoyed it… if they could get their curtains open, which I apparently could not. These just sat there. I couldn’t even maneuver them manually. What the hell? Were all my gizmos in revolt?

“Heidi!”

* * *

My first meeting went well. Rob Grant’s new male scent, which he wore as a test, made me cream my thong, our ultimate goal and the reason men were our biggest customers. They adored our male fragrance line. What husband-slash-boyfriend-slash-lover didn’t want a horny partner? I’d have jumped Rob’s bones then and there if he hadn’t been happily married with six kids. Instead, I raised the man’s salary, just as I’d done when he created Beguiled, a perfume that masked vamp scent and gave all us assassins a critical edge. I believed hard work and inspiration deserved to be rewarded.

As for the art meeting, well, one word described that fiasco: wet. Not only did Tim drool in his “Essence of Fruit Bat” soup, I was pretty sure he’d come in his boxers at some point. And I hadn’t even batted an eyelash at him. But for all that, he’d put forth some great packaging ideas, all of which I okayed.

One by one, I made it through the rest of the day’s appointments, enthusiasm embracing Samson’s new marketing campaign, and less enthusiastically loaning little sis another grand to blow. What could I say? Solange knew how to get to me, and so invariably brought flowers in a shade of scarlet, my favorite color. Naturally, I fell for it.

Though I waited with remarkable patience for maintenance to show up, by five p.m. I still had two dead laptops sitting on my desk that wouldn’t work in any outlet. Heidi told me that, according to the scheduler, the whole building had issues. And even though I considered myself the most important person in it, I didn’t want to piss off those who leased from me, all of whom paid their exorbitant rent on time.

Heidi went home at five, as usual, which left me three hours to kill before dinner. I planned to stay there until then, at some point changing into something more appropriate taken from the closet that covered one whole side of my office. I would then drive to the restaurant — the city’s finest, of course — and lay on the charm. With luck, by the time the meal ended I’d have a new outlet for St. Clair Fragrances. And, with a little more luck, I might even go home with Mick, a human even a vamp could consider yummy. I’d been working such long hours thanks to the night prowls. I definitely deserved a celebratory fuck or two.

Around six, Triniti called. I asked her first thing why she hadn’t killed Tripp Stefano last night.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mega.” As usual, she’d shortened my assassin nickname, Omega.

“Huh?” That didn’t sound like the Triniti I knew and admired.

“You heard me. That jerkwad walked right into my trap and then walked right out of it, but not before he left me cuffed to my bed, face down with a big purple dildo stuffed up my ass. My cleaning lady found me. I’ve never been so humiliated.”

“And why were you two anywhere near a bed?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hm. “So he could’ve killed you, but didn’t?”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Fine, then. Don’t.” I changed the subject. “I have a dinner meeting with Mick O’Laughton in a couple of hours. You know we’ve been trying to hash out terms for a partnership for ages. I’m planning on closing the deal and sucking his dick.” Triniti hooted with laughter. “What’s so funny?” I felt like the butt of a bad joke.

“You are. Micky-boy’s gay, luv. He’s got a steady beau.”

“You’re shitting me!”

“Nope, and now I don’t feel so bad about last night. There’s clearly more than one idiot Assassin in Lace.”

“Speak for yourself,” I told her, slamming down the phone. Damn it all to hell. I was still so turned on from the new male scent that I could fuck a bedpost.

Around seven, just as I stepped out of my skirt, I heard my doorknob rattle. “Who’s there?” I called without moving from where I stood.

“Maintenance.”

I’d okayed overtime? “Come back first thing tomorrow.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re booked up.”

Irritated, I draped my skirt over the jacket I’d hung on my valet stand moments earlier. I sauntered to the door, but didn’t open it. “Do you know whose office this is?”

“Says here it belongs to Sasha St. Clair.”

“That’s right. Owner of this building and CEO of St. Clair Fragrances. And, as such, I’m telling you to come back first thing tomorrow. My secretary will be here by eight.”

“No can do.”

Lilith, give me strength. I yanked the knob, speaking before I got the door all the way open. “What is your problem?”

The guy standing there blinked. His gaze landed on my lace-encased tits, dipped to my barely covered snatch, then deliberately took in the five-foot-ten rest of me. “Looks like you’re the one with the problem.”

Shit! Glancing down, I wished I wore more than an unbuttoned man’s shirt. Though not a bit embarrassed by my perfect body and nowhere near shy, I definitely felt foolish and at a disadvantage, two things I abhorred. It didn’t help that the guy’s fly bulged over his cock even as I took a peek at it.

Irked — who did he think he was? — I really zoned in on him, only then noticing his height. Had to be six-five, at least, and perfectly proportioned. When I added his twinkling topaz eyes, blond-streaked brown hair, and whiskery jaw line, my long-silent heart dropped straight into my stomach. A single word popped into my head: uh-oh. Or was that two words? “On second thought, maybe you should finish this tonight.” That blurt left my lips before I could stop it. Silently cursing the new St. Clair scent, I stepped aside and ushered him into the room. “I assume you know what you’re supposed to check.”

The guy looked down at the paper he held. “Yep. Got it all right here.”

“Then get to work.” I turned my back on him and strolled to the closet, deliberately swaying my bare hips. His gaze burned into my backside. My pussy began begging for attention. Could I? Definitely. Should I? Not so much and for several reasons. First, I had to be out of here in a half hour to make it to the restaurant on time. Something told me thirty minutes with this guy would not be enough. Second, I never rubbed shoulders or any other body parts with the masses. Too many complications. Third, he had a list of things to do, and doing the boss was definitely not on it.

With a sigh of disappointment, I turned my attention to the closet. If Mick was really gay, then he’d appreciate a dress with some drama to it. I went for the black side of the clothes rack, pulling first one outfit and then another out of it. Nothing worked for me, so I next focused on the red side. Though my copper curls should’ve clashed with that color, certain shades looked amazing on me and actually brought out my natural highlights. So I picked two possibles and turned to the full-length mirror to hold up each in front of me.

“I like the one on the right.”

“Really?” I actually held it up to me again before I caught myself and glared at him. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“And I am.” He held up a screwdriver to prove it.

I took that moment to appreciate delectable him, neatly dressed in a standard St. Clair shirt, great jeans and, yeah, baby, a leather tool belt. I wished he’d turn so I could check out his ass. Right on cue, he did. Oh how I wanted to reach between those long legs and grab his — Sasha St. Clair, focus!

Flustered, I spun around and tried to figure out what shoes to wear with the dress. I only had three dozen pairs to choose from. After several minutes of indecision, I picked scarlet stripper heels with rows of gladiator straps and diamond encrusted buckles. I smirked a little as I showed them to the maintenance man. He gave me a thumbs-up.

A quick glance at the clock told me I’d better get a move-on, so I shrugged out of my shirt and took the chosen dress off the hanger. I wiggled into the garment, then zipped it as much as I could, which was only halfway up the back. A glance in the mirror revealed that I looked amazing, as always. I gave my voluptuous tits a boost that would deepen my cleavage, then tugged the tight skirt down over my ass. Surreptitiously, I checked to see if my worker bee watched. He didn’t. Pouting, I touched the doorjamb for balance and lifted my right foot to put on the shoe. My tits threatened to fall right out of the half-zipped dress and made it hard to work all the bejeweled buckles.

“I’ll help you with that.”

Since I hadn’t seen him walk over, that unexpected offer made me jump a foot off the floor. My companion chuckled softly as he knelt at my feet and tackled the straps. What a guy, huh?