“Fuck no. What kind of guy do you take me for?”
Relief rushed through me.
“It’s in my sock drawer.”
“Now about the—what?”
He shrugged. “And it’s not the entire thing. Just a femur and a few rib bones from my last were kill.” His mouth crooked into a grin. “I broke the standing were record with that one. Talk about a tough little sucker. I chased him a full two weeks before I managed to pump a couple of silver bullets into him. Dropped just like that. He was too big to fit into the trunk of the car—we’re talking were-bear—so I chopped him up and—”
“As fascinating as this is,” I cut in, eager to ignore the preview of Pooh Meets Jason that played in my head, “I’d really like to get back to the, um”—I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat (we’re talking sweet, cuddly Winnie)—“questions.”
“All right, but just so you know, I’m not used to being asked shit like that.”
“I totally understand. Not all of the questions on this profile pertain to everyone. When you get to something that’s too far out, feel free to write non-applicable. I’ll just jot that down right here and we can move on—”
“I wouldn’t be too hasty.”
“Excuse me?”
“A pink rhinestone thong with glitter appliqué,” he blurted. He must have noticed my surprise, because he added, “If I want this to work, I gotta be honest, right? Besides, it isn’t something I do every day. Only on Fridays. That’s the official SOB wear-what-you-want day. Monday through Thursday, it’s regulation boxers. White. Loose. While I stuff ’em in once a week, the boys are big and rowdy. They like to run free most days.”
“I’ll, um, make a note of that.” I scribbled a few quick words in the margin (no, one of them wasn’t freak, but I was sorely tempted) before handing back the clipboard. “Just be as honest as you can.”
He grunted and shifted his attention back to the profile while I turned to busy myself with the stack of mail Evie had left on the corner of my desk.
At least the goal was to look busy and unassuming while Vinnie finished filling out his information. The last thing I needed was for him to change his mind and decide to off me right now.
I rifled through the stack and separated everything into two piles—urgent and not-so-urgent.
Electricity bill due in two weeks—not so urgent.
Office space rent due in three weeks—not so urgent.
Visa bill due in three days—not so urgent. (Hey, a lot could happen in three days. Brad Pitt could dump Angelina, walk into my office, demand my primo hook-up package, and offer to pay me a rush charge and a big fat tip. My parents could waltz in and tell me that I don’t have to settle down with a born male vamp and squeeze out several dozen grandchildren in order to get my trust fund. I could even win the lottery.)
The fall catalog from Banana Republic—urgent.
Register to win a year’s supply of MAC bronzers—way urgent.
I tackled the registration card first, then flipped through the catalog. The bills I stashed in my top desk drawer with yesterday’s not-so-urgents—telephone, Internet, water. My night had already gotten off to a bad start. I wasn’t going to make myself even more miserable by paying my bills.
Not that I couldn’t, of course. While I wasn’t anywhere close to eHarmony fame, I was holding my own. It’s just that every time I started to write out a check for something like, say, the light bill, I started to think about all the other things I could buy with my money—like, say, this totally cute Banana Republic hobo satchel with matching cellphone case—if the Founding Fathers had been the least bit intuitive and gone with “life, liberty, electricity, and the pursuit of happiness” instead.
Get over it, already.
I gave the satchel another once-over, folded the corner (in case I had an extra five hundred bucks laying around after I paid this month’s utilities), and turned to my computer.
I’d just logged on to my database to work on a few existing clients when Vinnie slapped the clipboard down on my desk and declared, “Done. Now what?”
“Well.” I reached for the clipboard. “Now you leave to do whatever snipers do on a Thursday night. I’ll input your data and run a search for possible matches. Once I have those, I set you up on a few dates and we see what happens.” I smiled. “The whole process takes about two to four weeks.”
“You’ve got seventy-two hours.”
My smile died. “That’s really fast.”
“I’m in a hurry.” He pushed to his feet. “My mama’s birthday is next Tuesday. I figure if you find me a date in a couple of days, that gives me time to take her out a few times and get to know her before I bring her home on Tuesday. We can announce our engagement at Mama’s party. I’ve already got it all planned. My Aunt Cecille is making the pasta. We’re going to have lots of balloons and presents. And my Uncle Morty is going to play the guitar. I ordered a cake from Giovanni’s. Italian Crème. Mama’s favorite. She’s going to be the happiest woman in Jersey.”
Okay, while I know Vinnie’s a killer and everything, there was just something really sweet (if you overlooked the whole creepy Oedipus factor) about a guy going to so much trouble to give his mom a great birthday.
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do more than that,” he said. “Find me a woman”—the Ray-Bans zeroed in on me and I found myself staring at my own stark complexion—“or I’ll turn you into a popsicle.” The sweet quickly faded into the demented as he snatched up my letter opener and tossed it at the wall behind me.
The blade sailed past my head, nailed the Sheetrock, and I flinched.
“Seventy-two hours.” He bit out the words, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door.
“I-I’m on it,” I called after him once I managed to find my voice. “Really. It’s no problem. No problem at all.”
The door slammed and I contemplated using the letter opener on myself and beating Vinnie to the punch. For about an eighth of a second. I’d been around too long to give up that easily. Besides, if I did kick the bucket, I was doing it in something besides an outfit from last season (I hadn’t had a chance to make it to the cleaners yet and I so didn’t do laundry). No, I was going out in style. Chanel. Dolce & Gabbana. At the very least a pair of studded Rock & Republic jeans.
I snatched the opener out of the wall and shoved it into the nearest drawer. Then I spent the next five minutes doing some deep breathing exercises I’d seen on Dr. Phil.
Crazy, right? I’m a born vampire. Which meant the breathing wasn’t going to do anything but waste precious time I didn’t have. At the same time, it did help the cobwebs to clear.
Work. That was the only thing that was going to get me out of this mess. That, and maybe a valium. But since I didn’t have any drugs on hand, I put my fingers on the keyboard and started to type in Vinnie’s information.
After a few minutes, my anxiety slipped away. I mean, really. He was just a guy, and I’d hooked up dozens of them since opening my door six months ago.
In fact, I preferred male clients because they were, for the most part, easier to please than women. Sure, they had their ideals, which they shared in great detail in the Ideal Woman section. But when it came down to the Absolute Must-Haves, the only real requirement was usually a vagina. The rest was negotiable.
My gaze zeroed in on Vinnie’s Absolute section, which overflowed the allotted line and continued on the back.
Blond hair.
Blue eyes.
I flipped the paper over and kept going.
Great ass.
Big tits.
Small waist.
Nice teeth.
No bunions.
No hammertoes.
Vagina (what’d I tell ya?).
Never misses confession.
I was so dead.
The realization hit me as I reread the list. Then I did what any born vamp on the verge of total annihilation would do (at least any born vamp with a zest f
or life and an addiction to pink)—I panicked.
A full-fledged I-can-feel-the-stake-sliding-between-my-rib-cage panic. Which was the only explanation for what happened next.
The phone rang and I snatched it up without checking the caller ID.
Three
“Dead End Dating,” I said as I picked up the receiver. “If you’ve got the money—that includes check, Visa or MasterCard—we’ve got the time.” I know. It reeked as far as catchy jingles went, but I’d just been threatened by a bona fide vampire killer. Gimme a break. “Lil Marchette,” I added. “How can I help you?”
“You can call me back once in a while.” Jacqueline Marchette’s familiar voice carried over the line. “I’ve left six messages. But then that’s how it goes. You shed blood, sweat, and tears to give afterlife to three beautiful, healthy children, and how do they repay you? They ignore your phone calls when you’re this close to picking up a gun and ending it all.”
“You don’t own a gun, Ma.”
“Maybe not, but your father bought a paintball Uzi to use on Viola.”
Viola was an ultrastylish werewolf who lived next door to my parents. She was president of the Connecticut chapter of the Naked and Unashamed Nudist Sisterhood (a group of female werewolves that met weekly at her Fairfield estate) and a Democrat. And the recently court-ordered owner of the controversial patch of azalea bushes that sat on the property line between the two estates.
My father was still pissed over the ruling. That, and the fact that his prized chain saw (which he’d used to chop down said azaleas time and time again) had mysteriously fallen into Viola’s possession (it’s a long story).
“The thing looks real,” my mother went on, “and it causes the most painful-looking bruises.”
“Don’t tell me he really shot her?”
“Actually, he shot himself in the foot when he was trying to load the blasted thing. He’s lucky there were only five balls in the barrel, otherwise he might have put out an eye and bled all over my Berber rug.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s a vampire, dear. Of course he’s okay. In fact, he’s already healed. He’s cocked and loaded as we speak, and skulking around the backyard. Viola’s having one of her get-togethers tonight and he’s got this absurd notion that he’s going to cause a diversion by peppering her yard statues with paint. While she and her guests are on the back patio examining the damage, he’ll sneak onto her property and steal back that bloody chain saw. Or at least that’s the plan at the moment.”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“That’s what I told him, but he says since it’s his in the first place, he’s not breaking the law if he takes it back.”
“What if he can’t find it?”
“He moves on to Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Hiring someone named Fast Hands Freddie to do it for him. The man specializes in organized-crime hits, but he’s good with burglaries, as well. Your father found him in the phone book under Hands-on Business Consultants, and all of this is beside the point. I deserve, at the very least, a phone call, don’t you think?” She went silent for a long moment and I shifted in my seat.
In addition to the standard superpowers, all born vamps possess a special power unique to each of them. My oldest brother Max could summon a thunderstorm. My middle brother Rob could redirect the wind. My youngest brother Jack could command a burst of fire. I could sniff out a sale within a five-mile radius. My mother? She could heap on the guilt with nothing more than a moment of calculated silence.
My panic quickly fled, swamped by a wave of self-loathing.
“Geez, Ma. I’ve been with a client since I walked in the door and I haven’t even had time to check my messages—”
“Not you. Your brother.”
“Max? But he always calls you.” Max was the hot and hunky kiss-ass.
“Your other brother.”
“Rob?” Also hot and hunky, but instead of kissing ass, he simply kept to himself. “He calls every week.” Unless he was too preoccupied with a certain daughter of born-vamp hotelier Victor Lancaster. I’d hooked up Rob with Nina One, the blond half of my best friend duo The Ninas (Nina Two lived in Jersey with her own commitment mate, courtesy of yours truly), and they’d been getting pretty serious over the past few weeks. I smiled at the prospect, but then my mother sighed and the expression died. “Maybe he’s been extra busy at Moe’s. Isn’t it spring inventory?”
“Yes, and I’m not referring to Robert. The other one.”
Meaning my youngest brother Jack. Once-upon-a-time jerk turned semi-decent vamp who’d recently married the woman of his dreams. The human woman. A fact that still didn’t sit well with my mother, who’d done her best to break them up. She’d even gone so far as to hire me to find him a more suitable mate. True love had prevailed (with a little help from moi, of course), and they’d gotten married anyway. My mother had kept her mouth shut during the ceremony (my brother had threatened to break off all contact with her), but she’d yet to accept that her baby boy would willingly betray his heritage and give up his chance to breed baby vamps.
“Jack’s in Rio on his honeymoon,” I pointed out. “He doesn’t get back until next week.”
“So? Is there some unspoken rule that says a man can’t phone his mother while in a foreign country on his honeymoon?”
“Well, yeah, Ma. It’s his honeymoon.”
“Has he called you?”
“I’m his sister. That’s rule number two.”
A moment of silence ticked by. “I hope he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Then why hasn’t he called?”
Duh. “Maybe he’s busy having fun.”
“With that human? What sort of fun could they be having? It’s not like they’re having sex. What’s the point?”
Because they’re two committed souls who want to express their devotion not just emotionally, but physically, as well. I caught the response before it could slip past my lips.
First off, I wasn’t in the habit of contradicting my mother (see her special talent above) and second, she’s my mother.
“He could be partying or sightseeing or biting unsuspecting tourists.”
She brightened at the last prospect. “Do you really think so?”
“Does a vampire suck blood?”
“I suppose you’re right. Jack is a born vampere. It’s not like he can turn his back on his very nature. Not forever. Sooner or later, he’ll grow tired of that human, and then he’ll realize what a wonderful existence he had. He’ll get rid of her and everything will be back to normal.”
“Most definitely.” Not. As much of a player as Jack had been, he truly had changed. I’d seen the love in his eyes when he’d pledged his love to Mandy. He wasn’t morphing back into Jerk Vamp anytime in the next eternity, no matter how much my mother wanted him to.
At least, I hoped not.
“Since we’re on the subject of superior born male vamps—”
“We are? I thought we were talking about Jack.”
“Exactly.”
Oh.
“I happen to know a superior born male vamp who’s very excited about seeing you again.” Just like that, my mother changed the subject and I was back in her crosshairs.
“Listen, Ma, I know I said I would go out with Remy, but we’ve already been out a dozen times. I’m just not attracted to him.”
Remy Tremaine was the chief of the Fairfield Police Department and my mother’s prime son-in-law candidate. He was good-looking, filthy rich (thanks to the private security service he ran in addition to being one of Fairfield’s finest) and he had an astronomical fertility rating. He was also the son of one of my mother’s oldest and dearest friends (they’d grown up together, playing paper dolls, yapping about boys, and terrorizing small villages).
While I liked Remy (we’d also grown up together, minus the dolls and boys and small villages, of course), I didn’t like Remy.
At least, I hadn’t thought so until a few months ago. We’d had a few ka-pow moments (n: used to describe instantaneous, tummy-tingling chemistry) and now I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he wasn’t all that.
At the same time, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that I wanted to find out.
Because you like Ty.
I ignored the voice. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast because I want to invite him to the hunt. You two could leave early and spend some time alone getting to know each other. You could talk about your impressive orgasm quotient and he could talk about his fertility rating.” Excitement infused her voice. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise and tell you the number Estelle mentioned, but let me just say that I think you’ll be more than evenly matched.”
“I already know, Ma. You told me last week. And the week before that. And the week before that.”
“Well, then. It’s all settled. I’ll call Estelle. She and I both are pushing for an April commitment ceremony. We can have it at the Huntress club and—”
“It’s just dinner, Ma, and I haven’t even said yes.”
She ignored the second part. “First dinner, then the next thing you know, you’re giving birth to little Jacqueline Marie du Champagne Genoise Tremaine.”
“I gotta go, Ma.” I slid the phone into the receiver and tried to calm the sudden pounding of my heart.
Not because I didn’t want to squeeze out a baby vamp one day. I did. Hence my recent no dead-end relationship policy. But I so wasn’t naming it after my mother. My own name didn’t even fit on a MasterCard application. No way was I dooming my child to a similar fate.
I’d rather go for something short and sweet and now.
Maybe Shiloh.
Or Violet.
Or Magenta.
The notion calmed me down all of five seconds and even drew a tiny smile.
One that quickly died, however, when I shifted my attention back to Vinnie’s application. I keyed in a few of his must-haves and ran a search of my database.
Zilch.
Which meant I had to go above and beyond my preexisting clients.
Just One Bite Page 2
