I’d been too busy worrying over (a) my fledgling business, (b) a pack of hormonal werewolves and—and this was the biggie—(c) an MIA bounty hunter.
That’s right. MIA. As in nowhere to be found.
One minute Ty had been fighting for his life at the cabin, and the next he’d gotten an urgent phone call. Just like that, he’d hauled himself out of bed and headed back to the city with total disregard for my safety.
Okay, so maybe total was pushing it a little.
The fight for my freedom and my integrity had been fini.
After Remy had shot Ayala, he’d handed her over to the authorities, along with her tape-recorded confession. She’d had an immediate date with the big D (that’s daylight, not Dior) since the cops who’d taken her into custody were a secret organization of very powerful born vamps who dealt with those of our kind who compromised the anonymity and safety of the rest.
Ayala was now history. The SOVPBV (we’re talking covert vampires, not ad execs) had cooked up a story, complete with real evidence, and fed it to the human authorities. My name had been cleared and I’d even managed to snag a new born vamp client. He goes by the name Agent X (I’m so not kidding, and I’ve got his signature on the DED profile to prove it) and he’s mucho hot.
But that was beside the point.
I’d had exactly one message from Ty during the past eight months, and it hadn’t included an apology or a dinner invitation or a heartfelt thank you for the best night of his eternal existence. Rather, he’d asked me to drop by his place and pick up his mail.
I know, right?
I might be slow in paying my bills (my human client list had suffered because of my two weeks of notoriety and I was still trying to grow my rep with everyone else), but I could certainly put two and two together.
Obviously, Ty hadn’t had nearly as good a time in bed as I’d first thought and he just wasn’t that interested.
That, or he’d been abducted by aliens.
Hey, it could happen. While I hadn’t spotted any little green men myself, I’d never seen a pregnant werewolf, either. I now had twenty-eight gathered in Remy’s living room.
Beam me up, Scotty!
A loud crash punctuated the thought, followed by a howl that would have curled my hair if I hadn’t used a straightening iron before leaving my apartment.
“Lil!” Mandy’s voice carried from the other room just before she ducked her head inside the door, a worried expression on her face. “Could you come out here? We’ve got a situation.”
“They don’t like the wings?”
“The furniture. It’s not comfortable enough.” Her gaze collided with mine. “They’re in labor.”
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
Uh-oh.
ALSO BY KIMBERLY RAYE
(published by Ballantine Books)
Dead End Dating
“I need twenty-seven men. Tall, dark, handsome, smart. Preferably human. But with only two weeks until the full moon, I’m willing to negotiate on that last point.”
Viola had long, dark hair, jet black eyes, and lips slicked with Chanel’s Crimson Dream. She was president of the Connecticut chapter of the Naked and Unashamed Nudist Sisterhood, aka the NUNS, aka a group of female werewolves who met weekly at her Fairfield estate.
“So can you help me?”
“That depends,” I heard myself say.
“On what?”
“On what you’re going to do with twenty-seven men. I’m a matchmaker, not a personal chef.”
Viola smiled, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. “We’re not going to eat them, dear. We’re going to have sex with them.”
If you fell in love at first bite with Dead and Dateless, read on for a sneak peek at
Your Coffin or Mine?
by
KIMBERLY RAYE
the next delectable novel in the Dead End Dating series!
I was being followed.
If that wasn’t creepy enough, it was dark out, I was all alone, and I was standing in a smelly alley near Times Square.
Talk about a Wes Craven flick.
For me, however, it was just another day in the life of a fantabulous five-hundred-year-old (and holding) born vampire. My name? Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette, but my best buds call me Lil. Because of my BV heritage, I ooze sex appeal, and since it’s oozing out of a totally hot package (great body, great face, kickin’ highlights), I’ve had more than my share of stalkers. Like the rest of my kind, I attract the opposite sex en masse.
Okay. So en masse might be stretching things a teensy bit. I haven’t actually had an official date in…
I can’t actually remember the last time (fix-ups DO NOT count, Ma), and I was sorta, kinda dumped recently by a megahot bounty hunter after our one and only night together (sniffle).
But neither of those is due to a lack of hotness on my part. The Dating Deficit? My choice. Really. I’ve given up meaningless flings in favor of finding my eternity mate, settling down, and populating the species.
As for the bounty hunter…I’m sure (fingers crossed) he’ll soon realize what a babe I am and come begging for forgiveness. I, of course, will tell him—as would any female who’d been dumped with not so much as a Later scribbled on a Post-it—to go bite himself.
At least that was the revenge fantasy I was currently tuning in to. In between numero uno—I rip off all of his clothes and we make like jack rabbits—and three—he rips off all of mine and we make like jack rabbits.
I know, right? It was one measly night. I should get a life (or an afterlife in my case) and forget all about him. And the way he kissed. And touched. And tasted.
Yes, I’d tasted him, too, but not during sex. I’m weak, but not that weak. The tasting had occurred before the sex.
I’d been staked, and he’d been trying to help me recoup my strength. I drank from him, and since then we’ve had this mental connection thing going on. He could send me thoughts and vice versa.
Not that he’d sent me anything in the past months.
No desperate apologies. No sweet nothings. No flowers. Not even a measly IOU for a night of hot, wild, primo mattress-dancing.
All the more reason to push him completely out of my mind and get back on track, right? Right.
So, um, where was I?
Oh, yeah. Dark and creepy alley. Me being followed. No biggee.
Until now.
Wedge heels tapped the pavement behind me and thundered through my head as I rounded a corner and started down another alley. The sharp aroma of cheap hairspray mingled with generic body spray and 100 percent rayon burned my nostrils. I turned and caught a glimpse of a chipped manicure clutching a tiny camera before my stalker realized I was looking and ducked behind a garbage Dumpster.
A man I’d expected (see the long rambling above), but a woman?
While I knew chicks got off to really hot chicks every day (I could appreciate the latest Angelina Jolie pic as much as the next mature, sexually confident, semilonely woman), I couldn’t shake the gut feeling that there was more to this than a love-struck groupie eager to feed her own private fantasies.
I kept staring, until she stole another glance at me. My gaze collided with hers for a nanosecond, and her stats rolled through my head like movie credits.
Gwen Rowley. Thirty-nine years old. Italian. Full time fourth-grade teacher and part-time private in vestigator. Divorced mother of three. Hated men. Even more, she hated her mother who’d put her up to following a small-potatoes matchmaker when she could have been a) grading tomorrow’s math assign ment and then b) tailing her ex and his new girlfriend. They were going bowling. She hated bowling, too.
She retreated behind the massive metal monster, and the connection ended before I could find out the really good stuff.
Like who in Damien’s name was her mother and why would she want me followed?
And, more important, had Gwen started dating again?
FYI—in a
ddition to being a hot, happening vampere, I’m also Manhattan’s newest primo matchmaker.
She peeked around the corner once more, camera poised, and my instincts screamed for me to shift into Supervamp mode, make like my last client fee, and disappear.
Fast.
Our species, and the dozens of Others out there, hadn’t survived thousands of years by keeping a high profile. We exercised caution and kept to ourselves and avoided cameras at all cost.
I paused and made a show of adjusting my shoe (snakeskin Prada stiletto), and gave her my best profile.
Hey, we’re talking stiletto. As in mucho P-A-I-N. I simply had to wiggle my toes.
And ease my own conscience. What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for potential clients. Even more, I’m a jumbo marshmallow when it comes to potential clients with bossy, overbearing mothers (DO NOT get me started).
The camera clicked a few times, and I morphed from white ball of fluff into determined vampere. I stepped forward, my feet moving so fast that I emerged from my back-alley route a half block away, walked into the massive high-rise near the heart of Times Square, and sailed onto the elevator before Gwen had a chance to blink, much less follow.
Did I mention that born vamps are superfast in addition to being total hotties?
While I wasn’t opposed to giving her a few pics so she didn’t go back empty-handed, I hadn’t taken a back-alley route for the great scenery. The last thing—the very last thing—I needed was to be caught dead (or undead) in a place like this.
I stepped off the elevator at the eighth floor and walked into the lobby of KNYC, a local cable net work near the NBC studios responsible for several home-grown news programs, a handful of talk shows, and the recent reality smash Manhattan’s Most Wanted.
MMW was a local version of The Bachelor that paired up one of the city’s most sought-after males with fifty marriage-minded, crème de la creme females and let him weed them down to the One.
At least that was the idea. The last guy—a Wall Street financier—had narrowed his bevy of bombshells down to the One Who’d Taken the Rock and Hauled Ass. She’d pocketed the cash and headed for Mexico, and the financier ended up on Dr. Phil.
Plush gold carpeting cushioned my stance and eased the pressure on my tootsies. Pale yellow walls decorated with gold deco mirrors surrounded me. Cinnamon-colored leather chairs traced the perimeter. Several tables overflowed with magazines. A man stood near a glass doorway marked Studio A, a head set hooked around his neck and a clipboard in his hands.
The only man in a room that otherwise overflowed with single, successful, smart, attractive, desperate women.
Talk about a target-rich environment.
I’d taken on several vamps and weres over the past few months, but Others were much harder to pair up than your average human. There was too much emphasis on orgasm quotients and fertility ratings for vamps, and alpha mates and lunar cycles for weres. Since I’m an equal-opportunity matchmaker—one with an addiction to MAC cosmetics and enough credit card bills to make the national deficit look like chump change—I’d decided to beef up my human client list.
I smiled, reached into my leather Prada clutch for a stack of cards, and stepped toward the first cluster of females.
I was just about to slide a card into an attractive woman’s hand—twenty-five, nurse, fed up with losers with great big egos and tiny penises—when I heard the deep, familiar voice.
“Help me.”
Dead and Dateless is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2007 by Kimberly Raye Groff
Excerpt from Your Coffin or Mine? by Kimberly Raye copyright © 2007 by Kimberly Raye Groff
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Your Coffin or Mine? by Kimberly Raye. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-49729-1
v3.0
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