“Leash your hormones for a minute,” Cordelia said. “And tell me what you think she wants with Angel.”
“Ha! Isn’t he the one, having beautiful women stroll in off the street with propositions and such.”
“Somebody talking about me?” Angel said, having entered the room so quietly neither one of them had heard a sound. Vampires could definitely do stealthy.
“Any luck?” Doyle asked.
Angel nodded. “I found out where the bugs go when you turn on the lights. Very big bugs. Sakorbuk demons, actually.”
“I’m sure that’s fascinating—and probably disgusting,” Cordelia said. “But time out. Chelsea Monroe is here. She wants to talk to you.”
The name wasn’t registering on his face. “She had an appointment?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes at the hopelessness of it all. “Of course not. She’s Chelsea Monroe!” Then she noticed his disheveled appearance. He had his coat draped over his arm, along with his spring-loaded stake contraptions. His gray pullover and black pants were torn and soiled with bits of garbage, some sort of white goo, and a clotting green fluid. And his hands were a foul mess of blood and goo as well.
“Look at you,” Cordelia said. “You’re a mess! A filthy, disgusting, and might I add, pungent mess.”
Angel ignored her. “What should I know about this Chelsea person?”
Doyle jumped in. “That she’s a remarkably beautiful woman with a proposition for you.”
“A business proposition,” Cordelia amended.
Doyle looked at her from under raised eyebrows. “And our boss here wouldn’t be the first one to mix a little pleasure with his business.”
“She’s on TV, Angel! She wants to put us—you—on TV.”
“True or not, I’d better get cleaned up before I talk to her.” Angel dropped his stake gizmos on an empty chair and tossed the raincoat over them. Never know who might walk into the office. Then he pulled off his gray shirt, revealing his broad, though vampy-pale chest. “And I should probably burn this. Dry cleaners never seem to have much luck with beetle-demon brains.”
He held the shirt out to Cordelia, who raised her hands in a clear “no way” gesture. She pushed a wastebasket out with her foot, refusing to get any closer to demon brain matter than was strictly necessary. Angel dropped the shirt into the wastebasket.
“Am I interrupting a business meeting?” Chelsea asked, leaning casually against the doorframe of Angel’s office, one hand on her hip. “If so, I must congratulate myself on my impeccable timing.” She strolled across the room, giving Angel a quick but thorough appraisal from head to toe and back up again. “I take it you’re Angel?”
He nodded, looking a little like a deer in the headlights, if Cordelia was any judge.
Chelsea offered her expertly manicured hand. “Chelsea Monroe, L.A. After Dark.”
As he was about to grasp her hand, Angel remembered its current condition, thought better of it, and retracted it. “Better wash up first.”
“When something’s worth waiting for,” Chelsea said, “I’m a very patient woman.”
Doyle leaned toward Cordelia and said, sotto voce, “Is this the part where she offers to scrub his back?”
Just as casually, Cordelia whispered, “Second date.”
“Could you two keep Ms. Monroe entertained while—”
“Please, call me Chelsea,” she interrupted. “Ms. Monroe is so formal, especially when one of us is half undressed.”
“Right,” Angel said. And cleared his throat. “Give me a few minutes. Cordelia, could you . . . ?”
“Oh, right, complete mind block,” Cordelia said to Chelsea. “I totally forgot about your coffee.”
After he’d gone downstairs to his private rooms, Chelsea commented. “Great physique. A little sun wouldn’t hurt, though.”
Loud enough so that only Cordelia caught it, Doyle muttered, “I seriously doubt that.”
Five minutes later, Angel stepped into his office wearing a fresh burgundy shirt over black pants. His right hand was wrapped in white gauze, although he expected the pincer cuts to be completely healed by morning. As he settled into the chair behind his desk, he noticed Chelsea Monroe grinning at him, index finger poised against her lower lip. “What?” Angel asked, wondering if he’d missed a spot of green goo or Sakorbuk brains in his haste to clean up.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, to put him at ease. “It’s just that . . . you’re nothing at all like what I pictured.”
“Were you expecting a halo and a tiny set of wings?”
She laughed. “No, it’s just that, this part of town, these . . . suroundings. I envisioned a sleazy, cynical, world-weary misanthrope in a rumpled raincoat. Maybe an ex-cop with a beer gut and a bad comb-over, chomping on a cigar, racing form tucked in his pocket, maybe late forties, early fifties.”
First, you need to add about two hundred years, Angel thought. “Sorry I don’t fit the stereotype.” No gun and not even an official private detective license, not that an unofficial license would accomplish much. “Guess this means I don’t get the part.”
“No need to apologize. On the contrary, I’m delighted.” She smiled warmly. “Oh, you’d be in real trouble if I were casting the role of private detective. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why, exactly, are you here?” Angel leaned back, head against intertwined fingers, relaxed.
“You’re direct. I like that.”
“Saves time.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” she said, then took a sip of coffee while maintaining eye contact with him over the rim of her cup.
Angel had the impression they were talking about two entirely different things. Maybe we are. “How’s the coffee?”
“It’s . . .” She chuckled and shook her head. “Let’s just say the coffee is exactly how I imagined it.”
Angel quirked a smile. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the natural order of things too much.”
“Right,” she said. “Terrible coffee can be comforting that way. But you obviously want to know why I’m here.”
“As much as I’m enjoying your company,” Angel said. “Yes.”
“Here goes. L.A. After Dark is doing a special report for sweeps,” Chelsea explained. “Sweeps are certain times during the year when ratings are very—”
“I’m familiar with the concept,” Angel assured her.
“Right,” she said. “Good. Well, needless to say, it’s an important time for television shows. So this special is going to be called Your Cheating Heart, like the Hank Williams song.” Angel nodded, he was following her so far. “We’re looking for some provocative footage of spouses cheating on each other. Not exactly hidden cameras in hotel rooms. Nothing pornographic, just . . .”
“Provocative,” Angel supplied.
“Exactly,” she said. “Basically ‘caught in the act’ stuff without actually showing anyone engaged in the act, if you get my meaning.”
Angel leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk, hands curled together. “I understand,” he replied. “I just don’t see where I fit into this special report.”
“We’re hoping you and some of the other investigators we plan to contact can provide us with leads. Our crew will tag along on your surveillance.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She leaned forward, physically reducing the distance between them. “We are prepared to compensate you handsomely for your services and—”
“Compensation isn’t the problem.”
“We will also have your clients sign releases,” she added quickly. “Or their faces will be digitized out on camera. Names will be protected. Rest assured, we’re not interested in ruining lives over this.”
“Points for you,” Angel said dryly. He stood up. In his mind, the meeting was over.
As he walked around the desk, she rose and approached him. “Tell me what your concerns are,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.
“Just another stereotype shattered
,” he said, glancing down at her hand. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through the cloth of his long-sleeved shirt. In her high heels, she was only an inch or two shorter than he was. Several inches taller than Buffy. And why did I just make that comparison? “I don’t take on the type of cases you’re interested in.”
“If I sounded judgmental, I apologize. Everyone has to make a living.”
“No apology necessary,” Angel told her. “I’m just stating fact. Angel Investigations is not about catching cheating spouses in the act.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She looked into his eyes for a moment, as if expecting to see evidence of a lie there. “You know what? I believe you.”
“No reason you shouldn’t,” Angel said. “It’s the truth.”
“Okay,” Chelsea replied. “Then I thank you for your time.” Angel reached for the door. As he turned the knob, Chelsea reached out abruptly and held the door shut. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Why don’t we have better coffee?”
She smiled and shook her head. “That is a good question, but not the one I had in mind. I was just wondering what Angel Investigations is about.”
“We help the helpless,” Angel replied.
“As simple as that?”
“It’s never simple, but it’s what we try to do. It’s the reason we’re here.”
“Tell me, is it true what Cordelia said?”
Angel smiled. “That all depends on what Cordelia said.”
“Right,” Chelsea said, reading between the lines. “She said that you take on a lot of cases without getting paid.”
“We help the helpless. We don’t run credit checks on them.”
“You see, that answers the other question.”
“What other question?”
“Why the coffee is so horrible,” she replied, releasing the door.
“Electricity or good coffee,” Angel said. “Not a tough decision.”
As they stepped into the reception area, she offered her hand, which he took. “Well, it has been a pleasure, Angel. Do you have a last name?”
“Just Angel,” he said. “That seems to be enough.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Again he had the feeling they were talking about two different things. “Good luck with your special report.”
“Thank you,” Chelsea said and walked to the door. Before stepping out, she turned back, her expression thoughtful. Then she flashed a dazzling smile. “Don’t be surprised if you haven’t seen the last of me.”
Before Angel could reply, she slipped out the door and was gone.
“That was interesting,” Angel said, more to himself than to Doyle and Cordelia, who were both looking at him expectantly.
Cordelia said, “You know, I never really considered a job as an entertainment news reporter. But it could be glamorous. Don’t you think?”
“Oh, she’s a glamorous one, all right,” Doyle said.
“Spill, Angel,” Cordelia said. “When should we expect the camera crew in here? We’ll have to work around—”
“There won’t be any camera crew.”
“What?” Cordelia’s jaw was threatening to become unhinged. “Are you telling me you turned away Chelsea Monroe? You turned down L.A. After Dark? Angel, you can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
“For once I have to agree with Cordelia,” Doyle said. “Would have been nice to get some traffic through that door. Other than the bill collectors, naturally.”
“She’s doing a story,” Angel said, staring at the door even though Chelsea was long gone. He turned to Doyle and Cordelia, both standing near her desk. “It’s not our kind of story.”
“Guess you’re right,” Doyle said. “Can’t very well shine television spotlights on the kind of cockroaches we have to deal with.”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia said. “The way she was looking at you, Angel, she might have a completely different type of undercover story in mind.”
Angel frowned. What difference does it make what Chelsea wants? Angel thought. I know what I can’t afford.
Being a vampire cursed with a soul also meant he was cursed with the memories of what he had been and done before his soul was restored, and what he had become again after experiencing a moment of true happiness with Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer. Though he was guilty of more crimes than a human being could atone for in a lifetime, he was not human. He was a vampire, and a vampire could live forever. He wondered again if that would be long enough to make amends.
Silently, Angel took the stairs down to his living quarters.
Cordelia looked innocently at Doyle. “What? What did I say?”
CHAPTER THREE
Jenna Kershaw, an attractive young woman with sandy hair, wore her blue silk blouse open to the third button, revealing a hint of cleavage and the merest suggestion of a lacy black bra, along with a knee-length pleated skirt. She sat comfortably on the white sofa, legs tucked back and crossed at the ankle.
In front of the sofa stood a large glass-topped coffee table, a serpentine twist of chrome piping its only support. Atop the table was an oversize volume promising incredible views of the world’s greatest suspension bridges. Jenna figured if you’d seen one suspension bridge you’d seen them all.
Hanging near the living room window was a pair of anemic ferns, victims of improper direct or indirect lighting. Certainly she would never have claimed to have a green thumb.
Against the far wall stood a massive entertainment center with at least a dozen stereo components, including a VCR and a DVD player. A massive television set dominated the unit, its screen so large the life-sized people on it appeared to be one interdimensional portal away from invading West Hollywood. In the near corner, beyond the sofa, stood a small desk supporting a fashionable blueberry-colored computer.
Greg appeared, carrying two wineglasses and a bottle of white wine. “Your libation of choice.”
“So I see.”
He sat down on the sofa beside her and handed her a glass before setting the bottle down on the table. As he leaned back, he sighed easily, elbow resting on the low back of the sofa. Sporting a full head of wavy brown hair, he had pale green eyes, a long nose, and a meticulously trimmed mustache. He wore a gold chain under a green three-button pullover, khaki Dockers, and brown Rockports. Mr. Casual, she thought. Easy enough to believe he’d been in three beer commercials. Far easier to believe he was a valet at the Blue Fountain in Beverly Hills.
“I can’t get over it,” Greg said. “I watch the Today show every morning, and I swear, you’re the spitting image of Katie Couric. But you probably get that all the time.”
She took a sip of her wine. “Not as often as you’d think.” Indicating the suspension bridge book, she asked, “You actually read about bridges?”
“No. I just look at the pictures,” he replied. “Actually, I’m between books right now. So tell me, what do you think of the entertainment center?” Without waiting for her to comment, he added, “Wait till I dim the lights and slide in a DVD. You’ll swear we’re in a theater.”
She placed her glass carefully on the table, put a cool finger on his jaw and turned his head back toward her. “Greg, we’re not in a theater.”
“No, but it’s the next best thing.”
“Think for a minute, Greg,” she said, curling her lips in a provocative smile. “What would be the best thing?”
Greg chuckled. “You’re not talking about the movies anymore, are you?”
“Clever boy,” she said.
He set his wineglass on the table beside hers. But instead of reaching out for her, as she was expecting, he twisted around and flipped open the padded arm of the sofa. From a hidden compartment, he fished out at least six infrared remote control units. “Marvels of the modern home,” he said, using one remote to turn off the TV set, another to turn on the stereo receiver, equalizer, and CD player, and a third to dim the lights. A slow and romantic jazz instrumen
tal began to play, and the placement and separation of the surround speakers made it seem as if they were on stage in the middle of an invisible combo. “I’m still looking for that killer universal remote.”
Jenna slipped her hand inside the collar of his shirt, ran her fingers along the gold chain until she found the flat scorpion medallion hanging there. It had tiny diamond eyes and a ruby chip for a stinger. She inched closer to get a better look. Her knee pressed against his thigh.
“Like it?” he asked, a little short of breath.
“Mm-hmm.” She looked up into his eyes. “Greg, what are you thinking right now?”
By way of reply, he leaned in close to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “That, obviously.”
“That was nice,” she said, closing her eyes, waiting for him to kiss her again, knowing he would.
His left hand touched her knee, slid under the edge of her skirt as he leaned in again and kissed her deeply this time, sliding his right hand down to her waist. She opened her mouth for him, reaching up to place her hands around his neck, thumbs stroking his collarbone to find just the right angle.
Greg moaned softly as her tongue found its way into his mouth, pushing his own tongue back. Then his eyes opened wide in disbelief, and he started to gag. Before he could pull away, her fingernails dug painfully into his neck, chest, and back, holding him firmly in place. Her fingers became something else, something sharp, flexible, and long as they burrowed into his flesh. By then he could barely breathe. Her tongue and finger-tentacles were suctioning out everything the convulsing Mr. Casual had to offer.
His muscle mass shriveled, his lungs withered away, and his eyes pulled back into his skull even as his ligaments snapped and his skeleton collapsed into fine powder. And through it all, the frantic rush of sound as his life force was sucked from its mortal shell into a new receptacle.
In less than a minute it was over. Jenna’s bloody tongue retracted, as did her slime-covered finger-tentacles. They whipped about as they shortened, speckling the white walls of the apartment with droplets of blood and bits of viscera. She stood, once again looking remarkably human and just as Greg had desired her. It was less physically demanding for her to simply retain the last human form.
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