I have several new releases and the latest is For The Bite Of It. It’s the first book I’ve co-authored with a good friend and writer Vina Grey. We were in Tucson for a writer’s retreat and we found (to the downfall of our waistline) a wonderful cupcake bakery. One day as we were munching down Red Velvet cupcakes we joked how campy it would be if a vampire ran a cupcake bakery – and came up with the name of the bakery – For The Bite Of It. Well after that, we just had to write the story!
Here’s a burb and excerpt:
About the book
Vincent Esposito is an exiled vampire running a cupcake bakery in Arizona. When a car with a dead driver crashes through the wall of his shop, it also brings All-American, closeted cop, John Reeder into his life. Smitten the instant he sees John, Vincent must battle his attraction to the sexy detective. Bound to silence by the Vampire Council, he can never reveal his true self to John.
John Reeder cannot control his attraction to the sexy Italian baker. But as addictive as the sex is, can John overcome his fear of rejection for being gay and open his heart to a man with so many secrets?
An excerpt from the book
Chapter One
The front half of a silver sedan decorated his bakery, its nose nudging the counter, glass shards peppering the floor like confetti.
Except Vincent Esposito wasn’t celebrating.
As he stepped around the vehicle, glass crunched under his clogs despite his walking-on-hot-coals strut. The car had nose-dived into his store about an hour ago. His landlord, Mr. Sala, sat slumped between his seat and air bag, dead. The situation had all the makings of a B-grade movie you watched at three in the morning to cure insomnia.
“Sir, you can’t come into the crime scene,” stated a tech in blue overalls.
The entire bakery was a crime scene now? That was fine for them but he wasn’t leaving his shop.
He pressed his thumbs to his eyes. All these humans made him nervous as a caged bird with a cat tapping on the bars. A sure sign that he should have fed by now. It had been a long three weeks without blood.
“Sir, you need to step back.” Another uniformed policeman held out his hand to stop Vince. The place was crawling with them.
“Mr. Esposito?”
Vince took a deep, calming breath and turned to the male cop who appeared to be in charge, the one with the gravelly deep voice and sleek dark pants that molded an ass begging to be stroked.
This is what came of abstinence. Lusting after just anyone.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Vince glanced at the detective’s female partner. Too bad. He would have liked to have been interrogated by two men.
“Sure. Er…where do you want me?”
I could you take you anywhere. Anytime.
Ouch, there he went again, thinking flippant remarks, his trademark when dealing with stress. It had been way too long since an attractive man entered his life.
This All-American cop was unexpected, enticing. He brought back memories of the thrill of the chase, that enticing two-step when attraction first hit.
“Let’s go outside. It’s a mess in here.” The man with the begging-to-be-held ass narrowed his eyes. “Unless you want to come back to the station.”
He was not leaving his shop in this mess. “Outside is fine.” Who knew when he’d been forced to own a cupcake bakery he would become so proprietary? Sometimes you couldn’t predict life’s twists and turns.
He followed them out to the square patch of cement with its cast-iron café seating. Thank God, it was still shaded from the near-scorching Arizona sun because sweat already trickled down Vince’s back. It added to that scratchy feeling all over his body that usually came with the abstinence from blood. His experiment of trying rare meat and avoiding sinking his fangs into a person wasn’t going all that well.
“I’m Detective Reeder, this is Detective Norman.” The cop indicated his partner with a flip of his hand.
Vince sat on a hard metal chair.
J. Reeder, read the detective’s badge. What did the J stand for? Something all-American to go with the guy’s clean-cut looks—Jake, John, Joe?
“I would offer you coffee and a cupcake, but…” Vince shrugged.
Detective Norman grinned at him. “Glad you can’t…diet, you see.”
Ah, the eternal quest for the perfect body. Not that she had much body fat, more stocky and muscular than flabby. Both detectives were in decent shape and didn’t look like they spent time at the local donut shop.
Especially Detective J. Reeder.
Why hadn’t they sent a portly policeman with a beer-gut and bad hair? This cop had started to give Vince a serious itch in his nether regions.
“Tell us your account of what happened this morning.” Detective Reeder was all brisk business, his notebook at the ready.
Vince almost expected him to lick his pencil nib. “I was in the kitchen when I heard the crash. I ran into the front of the bakery and saw that.” He jerked his thumb toward the shattered plate glass window.
“Then what did you do?”
“Do? Like any bloody civic-minded citizen, I went to help Mr. Sala. But he didn’t respond. I then called 911.”
“So you know the driver?”
“Dio, yes. He’s my landlord.”
Detective Reeder scratched furiously in his notebook at the mention of his landlord. Fascinated Vince eyed the numerous yellow sticky notes and the pages in imminent danger of falling out. “Was he coming here to meet you?”
He forced his gaze back to Reeder’s face. “Not that I was aware of, although he stopped in occasionally for a cup of coffee.”
“Could he have been meeting someone else here? Was the store open?” Detective Norman queried.
Vince shook his head. “Too early. I was the only one in the shop.”
J. Reeder looked up from his notebook and stabbed him with a piercing blue gaze. “Are you usually here this early?
Why did they have to be blue? Vince had a weakness for baby-blues in a man’s face. If he believed his friend Angelo, a sexual distraction was exactly what he needed at the moment. A good fuck.
Whoa…when had he gone from nice eyes to fucking?
Vince cleared his throat and his mind of dirty thoughts. “Yes, this is what I do. Every day.”
He gave them a brief version of his morning routine. Open the kitchen at four in the morning, bake cupcakes till about eight, then start on the special orders which were picked up after twelve. The bakery was closed to walk-in business at two but customers could collect their cupcakes until four. Then prep for the next day. In between those tasks, he tried not to think about needing blood, his home and family or all that he had lost in the last year.
Santo dio, was that his life he was talking about? As boring as watching dough rise. Well, he did fantasize about finding a mate. A man who could take him, baggage and all.
“So this morning was no different?” J. Reeder’s record seemed to be on stuck.
He ran an interested gaze over the cop. He was not his usual type—too clean-cut, too…athletic. So why did his balls tighten, his hands itch to reach out? Something about the man’s wide-set eyes with its direct gaze, guileless almost, and his full lower lip, had parts of Vincent dancing to attention. And his shoulders bordered a half-mile stretch of prime male chest between them.
Vince commanded himself to focus. Did he or did he not want these humans out of his shop? Besides, nothing about the cop said he would welcome another man’s attention.
“This morning was no different,” Vince agreed. Then prompted by the little devil on his shoulder activating his sex drive, he asked. “What’s your name, by the way? Your first name?”
The detective stiffened, his body pressing back into the black rail of the café chair. His instinctive withdrawal may not be apparent to the casual onlooker, but to a gay man, the message came across loud and clear. Back off, I’m straight and people like you make me want to vomit.
Cazzo, he could certainly pick them.
Reeder’s brows shot up his forehead. “That’s Detective Reeder to you.”
“Okay, Detective Reeder.” Vince drawled out his title and caught the flash of irritation in those eyes, quick as a bee-sting. “It’s like I told you. I didn’t see the crash happen. Just the aftermath.”
Thank goodness there had been no blood or it would have been difficult to call the police. Because he hadn’t fed in weeks, a pool of blood would have been like waving raw meat at a tiger.
“Some aftermath,” Detective Norman remarked. “By the way, you can call me Free.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners in that I’m-amused-but-won’t-laugh.
“Interesting name. What’s it short for?”
“Oh no, we’re not going there. May I call you Vincent?”
“Vince, Vincent. Either is fine. ” He smiled at her, and her answering grin gave her rather ordinary face a gamine charm.
However, it did nothing for him sexually. He was simply being himself. His siblings said flirting was hard-wired into his DNA.
J. Reeder scowled. “Okay, Mr. Esposito. Let’s get back to this morning.”
Cazzo. He tugged his attention back to the cop with the one-track mind. Fine. He just had to convince them he had nothing to do with the accident. The sooner Mr. Detective took his sexy ass back to his station the better for Vince.
“Did you hear anything?” Reeder demanded, irritation giving his tone a sharp edge.
Was he serious?
“Of course I heard something. A car going through a window isn’t exactly silent.”
Free let out a small sound that turned into a cough.
Detective Reeder’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I meant before the crash.”
“Ah, I see. Squealing of brakes perhaps? No, the morning was unremarkably quiet.” But then again he did have his head stuck in the oven as he took out a tray of cupcakes. In fact, he hadn’t even sensed anything. Faint as his powers were these days, he should have still felt a premonition. He’d have to talk to Angelo about that. Damn the rules under which he was forced to live. Exile was all well and good but did they have to take away most of his powers, leaving him a shell of himself?
The detective flexed his shoulders back and his pecs moved under the grey polo shirt in a way that made Vince want to test their firmness. He curled his hands into his pink, icing-spattered apron and realized he hadn’t removed it. What a great picture he must present.
“Look here, Esposito—”
“Call me Vince.” He may as well enjoy baiting Reeder if he couldn’t get rid of him. Or fuck him.
“I need your cooperation or I’m taking you to the station. Got that?”
What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Suddenly, Vince wanted them all gone. He wanted a long, cold shower to wash away his attraction to Detective Clean-Cut Reeder. Maybe some soap and a firm hand would alleviate some of the pressure. He wondered if the detective had a firm grip.
Cazzo.
*
John Reeder’s cop-instinct had kicked in from the moment he had laid eyes on the baker. His last name—was it Spanish or Italian? And why the hell was Vincent Esposito devouring him with those silver-blue eyes?
John hitched his shoulders and looked down at his notebook, giving him time to gather his wits. Latin men and their on-fire looks always made his cock twitch.
And what kind of guy owned a cupcake shop? One of those affected fags. The accent coloring the baker’s speech had to be bogus. And what about that pink cupcake embroidered on his apron. Pink!
He clenched his chewed-up pencil, dragging the nib across the page. Okay, maybe this Vincent wasn’t a pansy, not with his build—tall and sleek and dangerous as a cat on the prowl—but he was too damn graceful. And too damn smooth. Not exactly effeminate but he didn’t hide his homosexuality either.
John looked up in time to catch Esposito-call-me-Vincent still gazing at him. He resisted the urge to squirm and check his fly. His eyes flicked back to the wreckage. He caught sight of the medical examiner gesturing him over to the crumpled sedan. He quickly stood, taking advantage of the reprieve offered by the doctor.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Free waved him away and directed a smile at Vincent. She had taken a liking to the baker. Fine by him, she could play the good cop to his bad.
As soon as he’d stepped inside the shop, the sweet mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked cupcakes wormed its way between the odors of oil, rubber and scraped metal. John’s stomach now rumbled and he scoured at the sinful chocolate ones. He turned away from the temptation displayed inside the glass case and headed for the M.E.
The bald headed Seth Stiller with dark circles ringing his eyes grimaced at John. He wiped his rubber-sheathed hands on his jumpsuit. “I had hoped this was an accident.”
Hell! Had hoped?
“So what’s the skinny, Stiller?”
“Still supposition but I’d put my money on him dying before the car hit the building.”
“Heart attack?”
Stiller ducked behind the open driver’s side door. Someone had cut away the airbag, and a fine white residue coated the seat and the dead man. His head slumped to one side, his hands on his lap.
“Looks like it but I’m not certain. Look at the cyanosis around his lips, and his fingers.” He pointed to a bluish tinge around the dead man’s mouth. “Besides, look at his head, his hands. People tend to lean forward in a crash. Hands grip the steering wheel as if they can use pressure to stop the car. This guy is slumped back, as if he’d let the steering wheel go before he crashed.” He lifted the dead man’s hand and let it drop. It flopped back to his lap. “I need to do an autopsy but consider yourself warned.”
“Thanks man.”
“Oh yeah, we found a piece of a donut on the floor and a cup of coffee, spilled all over the passenger seat.”
“Check it out.”
“Of course, it’s already bagged.”
“All right,” John eyed Stiller’s raccoon eyes. “Get some shut-eye. You need it.”
“I’ve been up all night.” Stiller tugged at his collar. “Tell people to stop dying. Tell the mayor to hire another M.E. Then I’ll get some goddamn sleep.”
John shook his head. Budget cuts. It was all over the news. Did the mayor honestly think cutting back in the police department was a reasonable solution?
Once back outside, his steps slowed as he neared the baker who was deep in conversation with Free. From his angle, Vincent’s aristocratic profile was shadowed by stubble on light chocolate skin, wavy nutty brown hair tucked behind his ears. Long legs stretched to one side to avoid bumping Free.
Sprawled out and relaxed, it was not the posture of a liar.
Vincent gestured, one hand fluidly arcing through the air. Men who moved as if they were born to dance intrigued him. It was their inner grace, and this one had it in spades as well as a silver spoon stuck up his ass. It showed in his arrogance and confident posture.
His heart did a funny jig as he neared Vincent. He pressed his hand to his chest as he slowed his steps.
Something didn’t fit—a man that moved like a dancer and spoke like a PBS announcer baking cupcakes for a living? Call it cop-instinct or whatever, but he had learned early in his career not to ignore it. He didn’t like the guy. And he didn’t like his body’s reaction. Jesus, his semi-hard cock made him out to be a liar. The man was slick as a Ferrari and he’d bet his last cent that Esposito used his looks to his advantage.
John sat with a rigid back and flipped open his book. “Tell me, Vincent, what is your relationship to Mr. Sala?”
“I told you. He’s my landlord.”
“Besides being your landlord?”
One of those sharp dark eyebrows lifted. “If you’re implying anything sexual, I assure you, he’s not my type.”
John propped an ankle on his knee and tapped his pencil on his shoe. “Is there any reason why he would be visiting you at six in the morning?”
“I have no idea. We get…got along. I paid my rent on time and he left me alone.”
John forced back an ‘a-ha’ smile as he noticed the sudden stiffness of Vincent’s posture, and the barrier created as he crossed his arms. The man was lying about something.
“You sell donuts here?”
“This is an upscale bakery not a donut shop.”
“Answer the question, please.”
“No, I don’t sell donuts. Why?”
John ignored the question and took perverse pleasure when the lines around Vincent’s mouth tightened. Good. He would show Vincent who was boss in this investigation. He glanced at his wristwatch and turned to Free. “You want to canvas the shops, see if anyone else was here early.”
“Sure, John.”
Vincent leaned slightly forward, his hand resting on the table. “I told you everything I know, John,” his silver-blue eyes twinkling. “Now if we’ve exhausted all avenues in this discussion, I have to get back to my shop, clean up this mess, and hopefully, sell some cupcakes.”
John leaned back in his chair. Vincent’s gaze lingered too long. All he could focus on were those eerily all-knowing eyes fringed with dark, dark lashes. Then he blinked.
Earth to Reeder. Jesus!
John jumped from his seat, anxious to get the hell away from Vincent Esposito. Pointing his finger at the baker, he ordered, “I’ll have more questions for you so don’t go anywhere.”
John turned away but a hand on his shoulder startled him. He jerked back as he swiveled on his heels, surprised to see Vincent standing next to him. His heart stalled for a second before he could breathe again.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The low timbre of Vincent’s accent coaxed a thrill from John. He stepped back from the invasion of his personal space. “Yeah, what?”
Vincent raised his hands. “Hey, relax. When is your crew leaving? They’re bad for business.”
“You’ll have to be closed for a few days until we get the autopsy report.”
“But why, if it’s an accident?”
“Can’t be helped. It’s an on-going investigation.” He turned to leave but Vincent grabbed his wrist. His skin tingled where the baker’s grasping fingers touched.
John jerked back. “End of discussion, Mr. Esposito.”
He glanced past Vincent’s shoulder, spied Free coming out of a store, and waved her over. Vincent, thank God, took the hint and walked back into the bakery. He breathed easier once the man left his personal space, yet Esposito’s rich cologne lingered.
John glanced at the marquee above the doorway—For the Bite of It. What kind of name was that anyway? Ghoulish. Then again, what did he know about selling cupcakes? Maybe it was some weird play on words or a book title, or something. The gleaming black and chrome shop was located in a typical Arizona strip mall with stucco and tile architecture and a gigantic parking lot. He stepped back and read the other signs lining the building.
Sally’s videos, Myra’s Alterations, Trudi’s Massage…women-owned businesses and one gay man.
Figured.
Free ran her hand over her short, cropped reddish curls. “Got through talking with Sally. She owns—”
“The video store,” He tilted his head toward the sign.
“Yeah, anyway,” She opened her notebook. “According to her, Mr. Sala was a real ass. He was threatening to raise the rents even in this shitty economy. Plus he wouldn’t make repairs that were needed.”
“Still a weak motive for murder.”
Free gnawed her lower lip with her teeth. “When did it escalate to murder?”
“Stiller thinks the guy was dead before he crashed through the window. He’s not ruling out heart attack, but there could be another cause of death.”
Free whistled. “No shit. You know, she told me something interesting about Vincent. She overheard an argument between him and Mr. Sala in the parking lot last week.”
He tensed from excitement. He’d give anything to nail the guy. “What about?”
“She’s not sure but she did make out one word—kill.” Free shook her head. “She suspected it had something to do with the plumbing repairs the landlord refused to make.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Myra from alterations confirmed her story. Not unless they’re all in it together.”
John scratched his chin. “So out of this bunch, who wants Sala dead?”
She scuffed her tasseled loafer along the cement. “You could go back and ask him?”
John raised his brows. “Ask who?”
“Vincent, he seems to like you.” Her smile widened into a loopy grin.
“Yeah, like I care.”
The warm sensation in his chest from hearing those words alarmed him. He’d have to be extra vigilant when dealing with the baker. The man could be their killer.
Never get involved with a suspect, idiot.
Sure, the man was good looking, and probably a wild cat in bed, but he never wavered from rule number one. He never had sex with a man in town.
Published by Liquid Silver Books.
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