Driving Mr. Dead

by Molly Harper

  “Oh, I think this visitor will be happy to see you, no matter how you’re dressed.”

  Was my mom being held hostage? Was that why she sounded so sunny—and somewhat desperate? I grabbed a heavy walking stick from the umbrella stand and stuck my head into the parlor entryway.

  “Collin?”

  I dropped the walking stick with a clatter.

  He was standing in my mother’s parlor, impeccably dressed in a slate-blue pinstriped suit, leaning against the mantel as if he’d been taking tea in the family parlor for decades. My mom was perched on the edge of her seat, entranced by the smooth vampire.

  Collin smiled winsomely at me. “Miranda.” He eyed the stick on the floor and suppressed a grin. “Thank you for disarming.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that,” I warned him.

  “Oh, Miranda, hush. Don’t be rude to the man when he dropped by to give you flowers.”

  “Flowers?” I glanced down at the elaborate arrangement of cream roses, lush orange calla lilies, and hypericum berries all bound together with a crisp orange taffeta ribbon. He placed the bouquet in my hands, fingers brushing against mine as he gazed down at me. “It’s a little unusual to tip your driver with flowers, don’t you think?”

  “Well, my driver was rather unusual,” he said. “And I brought you this.”

  He handed me my photo journal, which I’d apparently left at Ophelia’s when I huffed off. I grinned at him, opening the book. It seemed slightly heavier. New photos were taped onto pages toward the back. Pictures I recognized as shots I’d taken on our trip. The abandoned drive-in with its crumbling screen in the middle of nowhere. Collin at the diner booth, his eyes closed as if he was praying for strength. The Batmobile’s boobs. Me sleeping in the slanted bed at the Country Inn. My hair was tumbling around my face. My features were relaxed and untroubled. Despite the surroundings, I looked almost angelic.

  “I was not aware that you took this,” I said, lifting my eyebrows and showing him the picture in question.

  “I may have played with your camera a little bit while you were sleeping,” he admitted.

  “My camera that was burning at the bottom of the ravine?”

  “I also may have taken the memory card out of your camera while you were sleeping, so I could find a way to make copies of your photos,” he said, palming the memory card with a flourish, extending that hand to me, then snatching it away at the last minute. “You’re not the only one who’s good with sleight-of-hand.”

  “Thanks for giving this back,” I said, closing the book and clutching it to my chest. “I would have been very upset if I’d lost it.”

  “I wanted to make my own mark on it before I gave it back to you,” he said.

  “Sophie’s just a friend?” I said, eyeing him carefully. “There’s no history there?”

  “I have no interest in Sophie,” he said. “She’s too predictable, too polished. I want a woman who picks fights in parking lots with unknown assailants and loves to eat questionable food from even more questionable establishments and makes beautiful pictures of ordinary things.”

  “Hmph,” I grumbled.

  “And for the record, Ophelia’s sister was turned when she was a child. Ophelia does everything she can to make life more interesting for Georgie, including collecting very rare, very expensive toys. That teddy bear we were transporting was worth more than five hundred thousand dollars at auction. It’s one of a kind. And I only managed to track it down by threatening several of my sources with …” He spared my mother a glance. “A very harsh scolding.”

  “A half-million-dollar teddy bear?”

  “A very, very rare half-million-dollar teddy bear.”

  I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I hate you guys. I really, really do.”

  “Oh, Miranda,” Mom scolded.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I never meant to make you feel foolish. And I know I have been churlish and arrogant and—”

  “Pigheaded,” I suggested.

  “That seems fair,” he conceded as I stepped toward him.

  “Demanding,” I added.

  He slipped his hand through my hair, cradling my cheek against his palm. “I’ll accept that.”

  “Dickish,” I said.

  “I’m not sure that’s a word,” he protested.

  “Which would be a problem if we were playing a board game, but since this is supposed to be an apology to me, I’ll say whatever I want. Mmm-kay?”

  His lips twitched, even with my mom’s horrified gasp in the background. She never cared much for my way with words. “I can’t say I love you yet, but I know that I want enough time to figure it out. I’ve been alone for so long. And I was unhappy, but I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t know what I was missing. And then you came stumbling into my life and I saw that it was you. I can live without you, but I don’t want to.” I stood motionless, gaping at him. He grimaced. “Too far?”

  I shook my head. “No, that was just about perfect.”

  “I do find myself curious—have you finally broken ties with the ‘butt-dialer’?”

  “Yes. Decidedly. What exactly are you asking from me?”

  “I was thinking that after spending much more time together, we could determine whether you want to spend the rest of your life with me. Whether you feel the way I do. I think I could make you happy … barring natural disasters, mechanical failure, inadvertent public nudity, and pestilence pouring forth from the sky.”

  “Not funny, but I accept,” I murmured against his lips as he moved in to kiss me. I could hear my mother sniffling in the background. She was clearly eating this up with a spoon, and who could blame her? This was every suave-ass Cary Grant moment ever filmed, wrapped up in a much hotter package.

  “Iris doesn’t accept your resignation, by the way,” he told me. “She said that anyone who can deliver a client safely, on time, with all of the mishaps we suffered and the, er, difficult nature of said client, is definitely someone she wants on the payroll.”

  “Even with the damage to the car?”

  He shrugged. “She said to think of it as a prototype. Clearly, a built-in GPS system is the first feature she will be ordering in the next model. She would like you to take a few days off to recover, then return to work on Friday, with a pay raise.”

  “A raise?” Mom exclaimed.

  “Ophelia found my description of our adventures to be highly entertaining. I think Iris is afraid that Ophelia will try to poach you to be her personal driver. Either way, Iris has another assignment for you.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said.

  “It’s a bit closer to home this time, from the Hollow to New Orleans and back. Jane has a vampire author coming into the shop for a book signing, and she prefers to see a bit of the country when she travels.”

  “I don’t know if I can face another motel for a while,” I told him.

  “She specifically mentioned the Peabody Hotel in Memphis. Luxurious accommodations and a minibar you can ransack to your heart’s content.”

  “Memphis?” I squealed. “I’ve never taken pictures of Mud Island. Oh, I can get kicked out of Graceland!”

  Mom sighed. “Oh, Miranda, not again.”

  “That security guard had no sense of humor, Mom.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be alone,” Collin said. “I’ve requested that you drive me back to Washington … at some point … which I haven’t determined yet.”

  “Let me guess.” I snorted. “Return date wasn’t mentioned in that sixteen-page contract rider.”

  “No. I expected to return immediately. But I’ve found that Half-Moon Hollow has certain … attractions I did not anticipate.”

  “I thought you were the master of anticipation.”

  He slipped his arms around my waist. “Well, some things are even better than anything my paltry gift could conjure up.”

  “You are too much,” I told him.

  “And by the way, Iris has a new policy. All client-re
quirement riders are to be a maximum of three pages. Her exact words were, ‘You will never have to put up with anything like that again.’”

  “Will wonders never cease?” I said, smirking at him. “So we have a few days before I have to report back to work. We can get into a lot of trouble in a few days. If only we had vampire-safe transportation.”

  “And I just happen to have vampire-safe transportation available,” he said, pulling the curtain aside to reveal a dark SUV.

  “How did you rent a car without ID?” I asked.

  “Did you know that the Council can issue valid vampire identification without a waiting period? And negotiate money transfers with Swiss banks? And replace vampire-safe vehicles destroyed in the course of Council business?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “And they managed to wrangle a replacement for the credit card that motel clerk cut up.”

  I asked, “Do I want to know how they knew my account numbers?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Because the housekeeper had finished the laundry, my traveling clothes were already clean and neatly folded. I stuffed them into my battered bag and slipped into jeans and one of Collin’s shirts. He would get it back … eventually.

  I tromped down the stairs and could hear Mom tittering about the romance of a spontaneous weekend trip and how she and Daddy used to do that all the time together. I’m not sure which marriage she’s remembering, but I certainly didn’t recall Daddy whisking Mom anywhere that didn’t involve a deposition.

  Collin was shooting a pleading look at the stairs just as Mom said, “I’m so sorry Lyle wasn’t home tonight to meet you. He’d planned to be here, but he got held up at work, which is typical. But I suppose Miranda won’t have to worry about that with you, will she? She mentioned that you work from home. How fortunate for her …”

  Was I mistaken, or was my mother sort of flirting with my vampire almost-boyfriend?

  “Ready?” I asked, snickering.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Be careful, sweetheart. Do let Collin drive every once in a while.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Puckett, we tend to fare better when Miranda is driving.”

  “Really?” Mom lifted her brows. She rubbed her sternum, just over her heart. “I think I just stopped worrying, just the tiniest bit. What a refreshing change of pace.”

  “She’s hallucinating,” I told Collin. “Run for it.”

  I trotted out to the rented SUV, which looked like the Batmobile’s clone. I patted the boobless hood fondly. “I dub thee the Batmobile Two. I would crack champagne over your grille, but I think we all know how that would turn out.”

  “A busted headlight?” Collin guessed. I nodded. “Well, she’s been christened in spirit, if not in spirits.”

  “If that’s the quality of humor I can anticipate on this trip, it’s going to be a long drive,” I told him, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “Can we discuss your damaged knuckles?” he asked as I handed him the atlas. He bent his head over my hand to inspect the bruises. “Does this new injury have anything to do with your fiancé’s poor taste in jewelry?”

  “I think it’s best to leave you wondering.”

  “I would expect nothing less of my girl.”

  I chuckled. “Memphis is only going to take a couple of hours. Did you want to swing around on our way back and visit somewhere else? I’m thinking Branson. It’s the Las Vegas of the Midwest.”

  He frowned. “I was thinking something closer for our first stop. Someplace like your bedroom.”

  “I haven’t had time to get an apartment. I was staying with my parents. I just woke up. Did you think I normally looked like that in the evening?”

  He ignored that verbal land mine and chirped, “Branson it is, then.”

  “It was just a suggestion. We don’t even have to go to Memphis if you don’t want to. We can just drive until we find a nice little bed-and-breakfast … or the closest available flat surface …”

  “I like that last option.”

  I angled my chin toward the atlas. “So which way do we go?”

  He tossed the map into the backseat, where it landed in a heap. He leaned over the console, catching my mouth in a hot, sweet kiss. “You decide.”

  Click through

  for a sneak peek

  of the next scintillating tale

  NICE GIRLS DON’T BITE THEIR NEIGHBORS

  by Molly Harper

  Available March 2012 from Pocket Books

  Whoever said childbirth is the most difficult thing a parent can go through has never dealt with a moody teenage vampire.

  —Siring for the Stupid: A Beginner’s Guide to Raising Newborn Vampires

  Three months after he moved into my ancestral home, Gabriel Nightengale’s last box was finally unpacked. The catch was that we could never break up, because I had run out of friends who were willing to help us move.

  “I have good news,” he said, striding into the library, where I was sprawled on the velvet chaise longue we’d moved into the room only a few days ago. I was reading Persuasion again, but this time, I was reading Gabriel’s very old, very delicate original edition. It was practically a religious experience.

  This was a vastly different library from just a year ago, when it was stuffed with my well-worn paperback versions of Jane Austen and Roald Dahl novels … and my creepily extensive collection of unicorn figurines. This was a grown-up library. I’d cleared out quite a bit of space for Gabriel’s books and furniture. It wasn’t a difficult choice, considering that most of his books were valuable antiques, whereas most of mine were purchased at secondhand paperback shops.

  I’d also packed most of my unicorn collection away in the cellar, threatening Gabriel with permanent sunburn if he so much as breathed a word about it to Dick.

  As Gabriel moved toward me, my pitifully hideous but lovable dog, Fitz, raised his head from my knee. Gently nudging Fitz aside, Gabriel pressed kisses along the line of my throat and announced, “My VHS tapes now have a permanent home in your entertainment center, alphabetized and divided by genre.”

  At this announcement, Fitz trotted out of the room in search of some pair of Gabriel’s shoes that he hadn’t managed to chew yet. I peered up at him over the top of the book, cringing. “So now would be a really bad time to tell you that I don’t have a VHS player anymore, right? This is a strictly digital household.”

  Gabriel groaned and flopped down next to me. “I’m going to have to buy Casablanca again.”

  “You didn’t notice the lack of a VCR in the TV cabinet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You know I don’t understand half of the gadgets you have around here.”

  That was true. The previous week, I’d caught him trying to “reboot” my wireless network by kicking the router across the room. That was a long conversation. I shook my head. “How did I end up in a relationship in which I am the tech person?”

  He leaned in and kissed me. “When you taught me how to work my voicemail, I knew I could never let you go.”

  I giggled as Gabriel crossed the room and selected an older volume from the crowded shelves. I watched him move, unabashedly lovestruck. My human relationships had been few and far between, but they’d been polite, civilized—boring. I craved Gabriel with a bone-deep lust I’d once reserved exclusively for Godiva truffles. I was fixated, not just in the physical sense—although that was an obvious, and occasionally distracting, bonus—but also with what he thought, how he saw the world, how he saw me. It was addictive to see myself reflected in his liquid silver eyes as strong, beautiful, intelligent, and interesting, though slightly exasperating. We each provided a vital service for the other. He made me stronger, and I kept him from taking himself too seriously.

  Gabriel settled in next to me, absorbed in a vintage copy of Jane Eyre. We sat like that for some time, quietly reveling in not having anything to do, anywhere to be. Crisis-free moments like this had been rare in our relationsh
ip.

  “Jane Eyre?” I asked. “Not your usual selection.”

  He nodded. “You’ve only mentioned a dozen or so times that Edward Rochester is second only to Mr. Darcy on your ‘Fictional Character Free Pass List.’ I want to know what I’m up against.”

  I smirked, snuggling into his side. “You stand a fair chance. As long as you don’t have a crazy wife hidden away somewhere …” I stared at him for a beat.

  “I don’t,” he said, shaking his head at me and opening his book.

  That may have seemed like an unfair shot, but Gabriel and I had suffered serious relationship issues related to his “careful editing” of his past. Case in point, the fire in my cellar caused by Gabriel’s psycho childe, Jeanine, who had stalked me, nearly killed me with aerosol silver, and eventually arranged for our friend Andrea to be forcibly turned into a vampire. I try to resist pointing out that of all this could have been avoided if Gabriel had told me about Jeanine, instead of playing the tortured “I can’t tell you because you’ll hate me, so I’ll protect you by keeping you in the dark” card.

  Trust me, that card never works. I ended up with more undead friends and a serious cleaning bill for smoke damage. And then, as the vampire who technically defeated her in a Taser-versus-lunatic-soaked-in-lamp-oil battle, there was the hassle of receiving the proceeds from Jeanine’s estate through the Council, then donating them to various charities. I didn’t want one penny from her crazy behind darkening my doorway.

  “Just checking,” I said, smiling sweetly and earning an undignified but amused snort from Gabriel. I returned my attention to poor, persevering Anne Elliot. Once again, I wondered how she managed to go so many chapters without bitch-slapping every single person she came into contact with. I actually wrote a paper about it in college. My professor deducted points for using the phrase bitch-slap in the title.

  It was totally worth it.

  I was just settling into the salons of Austenian Bath when Gabriel muttered, “This is strange.”