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  The Small Print

  Barbara Elsborg

  I’m in trouble.

  Matty suddenly finds herself back in her childhood home, naked and alone, with no clue how she came to be there. When her greedy uncle sells Milford Hall from under her, Matty hides in the attic.

  The woman is trouble.

  Vampire historian Turner has long had his eye on Milford Hall, and there is no price he won’t pay to own it. He doesn’t expect to find an aggravating female living in his attic, insisting she has a right to be there. The small print in the contract backs her up, but Turner is determined to maintain his privacy. Doesn’t matter that she’s the hottest thing he’s seen for years—in order to protect her from his mistakes, Matty has to go.

  I eat trouble for dinner.

  After a self-imposed twenty-year absence from Turner, were-vampire Catch arrives to put the past right and save his former lover from circling enemies. But one kiss from Matty, and Catch has more than Turner to worry about. Neither boy wants to share their new toy.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  The Small Print

  ISBN 9781419929915

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  The Small Print Copyright © 2010 Barbara Elsborg

  Edited by Mary Moran

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication October 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The Small Print

  Barbara Elsborg

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Google: Google Inc Corporation Delaware

  Honda Superhawk: Honda Giken Kogyo Kabushiki Kaisha TA Honda Motor Co., Ltd.

  Ikea: Inter IKEA Systems B.V.

  Lexus: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha TA Toyota Motor Corporation

  Star Trek: Paramount Pictures Corporation Delaware

  Stetson: John B. Stetson Company Corporation Delaware

  The Financial Times: The Financial Times Limited Corporation United Kingdom

  Prologue

  Dava jumped to her feet when the hatch overhead swung open. A ladder descended and she wanted to squeal with joy. Except, what if they changed their minds and kept her imprisoned?

  She’d squeal later.

  “Rise,” said a voice, and Dava climbed out of hell to teeter on the edge of heaven.

  Say the right thing. Say the right thing.

  “Warden Trease.” Dava inclined her head to acknowledge the one in charge and glanced at the other three in the room, cementing their faces in her memory.

  Trease cleared his throat. “Dava Arno, you have served the sentence imposed upon you by the Vampire High Court and been cared for according to our statutes…”

  Blah, blah, blah. She tuned out, her mind on new clothes, high heels, night air and warm blood.

  “Are you seeking to engage in illegal or immoral activities?” the warden asked.

  Dava blinked, blurted, “No,” and pressed her lips together in case she laughed.

  “Are you planning to associate with Gabriel Junger?”

  “No.” She was planning to fuck his socks off.

  “Do you fully understand the conditions of your release?” Trease asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here.”

  Dava scribbled her signature at the bottom of the document.

  * * * * *

  Gabriel pasted humility on his face as he stood before the warden and the three representatives of the Council. He kept his head bowed while inside his chest a seed of fury burned as bright and fierce as phosphorous. Confined for twenty years in little more than a hole in the ground, most would have lost their mind. Gabriel wasn’t most. He’d had years to plan his future while he waited for this day of freedom.

  “Gabriel Junger, you have served the sentence imposed upon you by the Vampire High Court and been cared for according to our statutes and creed. You have been found sane and are hereby released from custody. Consider carefully the consequences of the path you now follow. Lead a law-abiding life and you will be accepted back into our society. Choose otherwise and there will be no second chance.”

  Fed only enough to keep him alive, forbidden the company of others, denied knowledge—that was being cared for? Did these pathetic excuses for authority really believe they could tell him what to do? Control him? He’d have his revenge, but he’d tread carefully. Gabriel had no wish to return to this hellhole.

  “Are you seeking to engage in illegal or immoral activities?” the warden asked.

  Fuck yes. “No.”

  “Do you fully understand the conditions of your release?”

  Who gives a shit? “Yes.”

  “Sign here.”

  Gabriel didn’t bother reading. He added his signature at the base.

  Chapter One

  “I feel terrible leaving you like this.”

  Turner lowered his freshly ironed newspaper and looked at his valet. George stood by the door with a large black bag in one hand, passport clutched in the other.

  “Really? I shouldn’t mistake that look on your face for delight then?” Turner’s gaze dropped back to the article he was reading about risk measures satisfying properties of monotonicity, homogeneity and translational variance.

  “I ought to be there to help you settle in, unpack your books and equipment and ensure everything runs smoothly,” George said.

  Yes, you bloody well ought.

  “How will you cope with reading an un-ironed newspaper?”George asked.

  Turner’s head shot up. Was that sarcasm? George’s expression might show nothing more than polite concern, but it didn’t fool Turner.

  “Perhaps you’ll have more luck persuading our next delivery person not to take such delight in cramming the newspaper through the letterbox,” Turner said.

  “If your Christmas tip to the last one had been money instead of an instruction manual on how to avoid creasing your Financial Times, maybe he wouldn’t have seen it as a personal challenge to inflict the maximum possible damage with every delivery,” George retorted. “You know, I’m not sure you’re fit to be left on your own.”

  “I can manage without you for two weeks. Your taxi’s waiting. Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll survive.” Oh God, he hoped he did.

  “Don’t forget to take the blue bag from the kitchen.”

  Turner sighed. “As if I could.”

  “You’ve got Simon’s number on speed dial in case you need help?”

  “Yes.”
He’d call Simon, George’s idiot brother, over his dead body. Ha.

  “You did read the contract carefully before you signed it?”

  Turner looked up again. Where did that come from? “Yes. Signed it in blood. Apparently the devil wants my firstborn. He’ll be waiting a long time.”

  “Very funny. You do know—”

  “You’ll miss your plane.”

  When Turner heard the door slam and the taxi pull away, he put down his paper. It irked him that George didn’t think he could cope. Turner might not have moved house in a long time, but really—what was there to worry about? Compared to the reason for the relocation, the actual move held no concerns. All his and George’s possessions had been boxed up yesterday, carefully he hoped, labeled for the rooms they were meant for, packed into a removal van, and by now—Turner glanced at his watch—they should be inside their new abode.

  Better that George didn’t know the truth behind Turner’s insistence he take a vacation, otherwise he’d have not left the country. It had been beyond difficult convincing George to leave, considering how much Turner relied on him. Turner knew how suspicious it looked, and he worried George had ignored his request and asked his bulldozer of a brother to come play bodyguard. Turner could handle the situation on his own—should any situation arise. He wasn’t worried or frightened, just practical and prudent. He’d done the best he could to muddy his tracks, though Turner doubted it had worked and thus hoped it hadn’t been necessary.

  The only thing left to do was collect the key from the estate agent. Turner picked up George’s note from the table.

  Call to arrange key pickup before you set off.

  Piece of cake. Turner took his phone from his pocket and froze. George had forgotten to tell him the number. The idiot.

  Turner cringed. No, George had written it down and told him to put it into his phone and Turner had…lost the piece of paper. He tapped the edge of his mobile on the table. The name of the estate agent was… Shit. He’d forgotten. He let the phone drop.

  George had dealt with everything from the moment Turner had expressed an interest in moving, no doubt excited at the prospect of having something better to occupy his time than ironing newspapers. Turner had told George what he wanted and where he wanted it, and his valet-cum-personal assistant had searched for suitable properties, gone to view them and taken photographs. Turner had asked for a few of each house, but George had snapped thousands of the damn things and from so many angles that by the time Turner had gone through them, George at his shoulder, congratulating himself on his skill, one place pretty much blurred into another. It served him right for giving George that digital camera for Christmas.

  Yet in the huge body of photographs, one place stood out. Not a surprise since Turner had been aware long before he sent George looking that Milford Hall was the place he intended to buy. To Turner’s acute amusement, it was the place George preferred too. He’d never heard George so vociferous in praise of anything. So while Turner allowed his assistant to neatly steer him toward Milford Hall, just to be awkward Turner professed a strong interest in somewhere else entirely.

  Though even as Turner played his games he wondered what the hell he was doing. Moving now made it look as though he were running scared. But he had no choice. Once the hall had come onto the market, he had to buy it. At any cost. Provided his reason for making the purchase remained secret, Turner thought he should be safe enough.

  According to George, Milford Hall was stunning, wonderful, fabulous and required no major work to enable Turner to live there, just a small amount of modification. Turner trusted George, who had impeccable taste. He wouldn’t be working for Turner otherwise. So Turner had outbid two other interested parties and signed on the dotted line. Not in blood, though the damn place had still cost him a fortune.

  Turner’s hand strayed in the direction of his mobile and he yanked his fingers back. He could last longer than five minutes before he called for help. How hard could this be? All he had to do was look up the names of the estate agents around Milford. He’d recognize the right one when he saw it. Turner reached for his laptop.

  Ten minutes tapping keys and the damn thing still told him he wasn’t connected to the internet. Turner was well aware he was probably missing something obvious but frustration got the better of him.

  He called George. “Sorry to—”

  “Tool bar. Top right. Make sure there’s no tick in the work offline box.”

  “How—?”

  “Hartley and Stonehouse,” George said.

  Turner glared at his phone. “I haven’t even asked you anything.”

  “Didn’t you want the name of the estate agent?”

  “I was just calling to tell you to be careful in the sun. You know how it burns.”

  George had the temerity to laugh. “Take this contact number down.”

  Turner scrambled for a pen and scribbled on the top of the newspaper.

  “That’s the number of the young lady who has the keys,” George said. “Her name’s Matty Hobsbawn. You’ll like her.”

  “Thanks.”

  He’d like her? He wondered why George had come to that conclusion. The name was off-putting enough. Turner imagined some frog-like woman, rounder than she was tall with flabby cheeks, bulbous eyes, poisonous skin and a tongue that… Turner shuddered. Too much late-night TV. He called the number.

  “Hi. I’m not here. Well, I might be here but I’m not with my phone, so please leave a message after I say now. No, not that now. This now. Wait for it, wait for it—now.” A laugh followed.

  Turner rolled his eyes and spoke in a clear, loud voice. “I’ll collect the keys for Milford Hall at six thirty this evening.”

  He switched off his phone. He didn’t like dealing with idiots. Especially idiot females.

  * * * * *

  Turner stared at the scrap of paper taped to the door of the closed estate agent’s office and struggled to decipher the appalling writing.

  “I’m across the road in The Rising Sun.”

  He presumed the message was for him. Turner might be two hours late, but she could have waited in her office. He turned to stare at a pub festooned with twinkling fairy lights and shuddered. Illuminated Christmas angels flashed in every window, blue icicles hung along the line of the roof and an inflated Santa straddled the chimney. Turner sighed. The beginning of November. Two months of ho-ho-hoing to look forward to. Wonderful.

  Turner strode over the road, pushed open the door and reeled. Bright lights, people shouting and the smell—beer, greasy food, unwashed bodies—oh God, he wanted to slam the door shut again. Instead he straightened his spine and walked in. It belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea how he was supposed to recognize Miss Frogspawn.

  “You’ll like her,” George had said.

  A woman with long, mud-colored hair stood by the bar. She wore plastic knee-high boots and a tight dress that emphasized a generous backside. Not her. A skeletal girl brushed past him, the strong scent of her perfume eddying in her wake like a noxious tide of effluent. Not her. Two women sat by the window, heads together, giggling, tops cut low enough for Turner to see the swell of their pneumatic breasts. Not likely.

  This was why he never went out anymore. It wasn’t that his standards were too high, more that he had standards. He was far better off with his own company, that way he was never disappointed. Turner had given up ideas about sharing his life with anyone twenty years ago. He’d let his guard down and it had been a disaster. He watched a man pull Miss Plastic Boots into his arms and kiss her. As they wrapped their arms around each other, Turner felt a pang of…something—and put it down to disgust. What a way to behave in public. He swept his gaze over the room.

  “Are you looking for me?”

  The voice came from behind him. He turned, expecting a small green frog, and blinked. In front of him stood a tall woman in her late twenties who looked as though she’d grabbed a Van de Graaf generator. Her short white hair stuck out all
over the place, as did the fluff on her white jacket. She wore the tightest black pants Turner had ever seen. He could make out her hip bones and… Don’t stare, idiot. He yanked his gaze back up only to stall again. Her smile was so wide, her whole face lit up. Her eyes were large and dark and—

  “I’m Matty. You must be Turner.”

  “How did you know?” Turner asked.

  “George described you.”

  They’re on first-name terms? “He did? What did he say?”

  “Tall, dark and handsome with a ferocious scowl.”

  Turner glared.

  “Wow, guess he was right.” She laughed.

  He didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted, and settled for the latter, deepening his glare.

  “I’m happy to meet you anyway,” she said.

  Matty held out her hand, and the moment he touched her, Turner’s world tipped on its axis and started to spin the other way. Everything he’d kept locked up for years burst out of confinement and roared back to life. His long-compliant, usually docile cock filled with blood and began to investigate ways out of his boxers like a revitalized explorer with a new map. Turner was forced to launch into a coughing fit to stifle his whimper. He was tempted to lift his other hand to flatten his hair in case she’d electrocuted him.

  He only came to his senses when he realized she was staring wide-eyed at their joined hands with a little grin on her face. He wrenched his fingers away and she flinched then jumped to one side as a man came past carrying two pints of beer. A moment later she jumped the other way to avoid a collision with Miss Plastic Boots. So she did have something in common with frogs.

  “Good journey?” she asked, rubbing her hand.

  “Fine, thank you,” Turner said.

  “Then why are you so late? I’ve been waiting two hours. You could have called.”

  Turner wanted to leave his old place tidy and had tossed the newspaper with her number in a dustbin, not remembering until he was lost that he hadn’t copied it into his phone.