Casa Dracula 3 - The Bride Of Casa Dracula Read Online Free PDF Page A

artist who could imagine the essential truths in my life story. Will you do that for me?”
    I felt like a teenager who’d been given the keys to a Ferrari and told not to worry about the speed limit. “Absolutely.”

three
    i’ve got a beef (or don’t have a cow)

    W hile I waited for Don Pedro’s lecture to begin, I wandered around the California Native Plants area. Something moved at the periphery of my vision, and for a moment I thought it was an animal. But I turned and saw a man bending over to tie his shoe by a huge gray-leaved shrub.
    He straightened up, smiled at me, and said, “Morning.”
    “Morning,” I said, admiring the tall man. He wore an olive shirt, jeans, and work boots. He had striking coloring, blue eyes, hair almost as dark as my own, pulled back in a ponytail, and olive skin. The word “hunky” came to mind. I wasn’t prone to seafaring fancies, but I wanted to dress him up in pirate clothes and talk dirty pirate talk with him, full of “yar’s,” “ahoy’s,” and “Avast, here be my booty,” and such. “Nice flannel bush.”
    “Fremontia californica,” he said. “Or Fremontodendron.”
    “Is there a squabble about the name? Because Fremontodendron is too long for such a humble bush.”
    “I agree. But botanists love an argument.”
    “You must be a botanist, then.”
    “A plant biologist, but a horticulturalist, too.” He had a nice grin. He had a lot of nice things. He made me rethink the whole concept of nice. “I’m Joseph Alfred.”
    I didn’t know if this was his first name, or his first and last name. “Milagro,” I answered. “I’m here for Pedro Nascimento’s lecture.”
    “Are you into his ‘spiritual’ stuff?” he said with a smirk.
    “I thought I might learn more about medicinal uses of native plants. Have you heard his shape-shifting stories?”
    “Lots of idiots claim to shape-shift, sweetpea.”
    “Am I sensing some cynicism in you?”
    “If I want crap, I’ll buy a load of chicken manure.”
    “So why are you hanging out here if you’re not interested in absorbing Pedro’s wisdom?”
    “I was supposed to meet someone, one of Nascimento’s followers, but I guess she stood me up.”
    “She must be out of her mind,” I said, flipping back my hair before I remembered that I shouldn’t flirt with every miscellaneous fabulous guy that wandered my way.
    “You have no idea.”
    We chatted about horticulture, and then he told me he was just visiting the City, too, and was in a “transition stage” with his career. I told him about my garden at the ranch and said that I’d looked into buying the empty nursery near the ranch.
    “It’s just the right size to have a variety of stock, and not too much to manage. It’s a great opportunity, but I don’t want to handle the actual business side of a business.”
    Before I knew it, I was late for the lecture. “I better get to the lecture.” I reached out to shake hands with him.
    His cornflower blue eyes lingered on mine, and he kept hold of my hand. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, drawing out the word “pleasure,” letting me know that he was ready for more.
    In my previous, single life, I would have given him some subtle signal that I thought he was a fabulous specimen of male pulchritude, such as rubbing up against him.
    “Bye,” I said, a little disappointed that I’d probably never see him again.
    By the time I slipped into the lecture hall, it was packed with hundreds of people. The vast majority of them were wearing colorful “ethnic” clothing without being “ethnic” themselves. They showed an unfortunate fondness for clumsy brown sandals.
    Don Pedro yammered ebulliently about his terrestrial adventures with indigenous peoples. Each of these visits could be summarized thus: the Tribes immediately recognized that he possessed extraordinary spiritual depth; they held ceremonies that named him a chief; the most delectable maidens offered themselves to him; everyone