Lucy and the Crypt Casanova

by Minda Webber

  "Tattletale," Lucy groused. "And I didn't break and enter. The doors were open, and you weren't at your post."

  Hands on his hips, the guard scowled. Pointing a finger at her, he glanced over at Val. "Then arrest her for impersonating a dead body."

  Val chuckled. "That's not illegal. Especially here in the Big Easy."

  The guard started to protest, and Lucy grinned. A wave of relief washed over her. She wasn't going to be hauled off to jail after all.

  Val put up a hand as he noticed Lucy's smile. Whatever chaos she was up to, he was going to nip it in the bud. He said, "However, entering the morgue under false pretenses can get a person into big trouble."

  This time, Lucy scowled and the guard grinned.

  "Good. I've got a pair of handcuffs if you need them," he suggested helpfully.

  Val shook his head, his deadpan expression revealing nothing. "Thanks, Max, but I'll take it from here." And with a motion of his hand, he dismissed the guard.

  Lucy could hear the grumbling as Max stalked off down the darkened hallway. Glancing at Val's rather grim expression, and seeing the slight glare in his vampiric gaze, Lucy decided that fleeing the scene of this tiny little crime was probably her wisest course of action. She took three steps backward.

  Val shook his head, his blue eyes dark with emotion. "Viens ici! Come here."

  Lucy obeyed, took two steps forward, albeit warily.

  "What are you doing here, cherie?"

  "Would you believe my laundry?" Lucy replied. She hoped that humor would somehow defuse the situation.

  "This isn't funny, Lucy. I can take you into the station for this. I probably should." She was up to her pretty little eyeballs in something, and he was going to get to the bottom of whatever crazy scheme she was hatching.

  Setting her jaw, Lucy spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling. She held out her hands, her expression defiant. "Do your worst. Haul me in. Beat me with your nightstick." Campbell women didn't back away from danger, even two hundred pounds of mad, sexy vampire. Campbell women embraced danger, they ran toward it. Of course, Campbell women often had short life spans.

  "I don't carry a nightstick, and you know it. Merde! I ought to take you over my knee and spank you, is what I ought to do."

  "You wouldn't dare. I watch Court TV. I watch Law & Order." But she wasn't so sure. Val looked angry enough to dare anything. "You touch me and I'll scream police brutality. Big-time police brutality. I'll tell all New Orleans that you're a monster. A betraying brute who threatens helpless women with handcuffs and worse."

  "Mais oui—yes, you would, wouldn't you? Do you see any handcuffs, Lucy?" he asked tiredly. His next glare was an exact replica of his last. Jeez, the vampire had no range of expression.

  Lucy dropped her arms as he shook his head, and he said tersely, "You always were hysterical, and willing to embellish the truth. I remember when I flew to talk to you in San Antonio, and you stood on that balcony screaming at me. You shouted that I should be hauled off by Robespierre, and cursed me for peasant abuse—all when I haven't had peasants on my land in two hundred years. I remember you throwing a vase of flowers at my head and screaming obscenities," Val continued, visions of spanking that pert bottom flashing through his head. Baring that bottom, and then the rest would be… something he did his damnedest to forget.

  "You deserved worse, you blood-sucking betrayer!" Lucy waved her finger at him, remembering more of her mama's sage advice: When verbally attacked by an irate male, deflect, deceive, and demand.

  "You mistrustful malicious mortal," Val replied. His eyes glowed with the fires of injustice. Lucy made him angrier than any other female in his entire existence, and that was saying quite a lot. "Shut up, Lucy. You don't know what you're talking about."

  Lucy glared at him, her hands on her hips. Anger flooded her system like the sugar from four too many Fig Newtons. "Don't you tell me to shut up, you two-timing satyr! Don't talk down to me. Don't act like I'm some blond bimbo you can crush under your feet like some rider-stomping bull longhorn. I expect your respect," Lucy shouted. "No, I demand your respect! And I want none of your irritable male syndrome!"

  Val narrowed his eyes. "Irritable male syndrome?" What the hell was that? Well, he'd show her an irritated male, all right. "Merde. You're an expert in deflection and diversion for one so young," he admitted. He still needed to find out exactly what Lucy knew, and listening to his nether region crying out for a hot time in the old town tonight would get him nowhere.

  No, he certainly shouldn't be finding her attractive—not in one of her temper tantrums, standing there covered in ketchup. But he was either sick or he had gone too long without mind-blowing sex. Lucy was the only mind-blowing sex he had experienced in over three hundred years, and she was driving him crazy.

  "I never said you were a bimbo, Luce," he said with a sigh. "Stop the stalling techniques. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Research," she answered.

  "For what?" Val had a sudden glimmer of suspicion that Lucy knew something about the incubus. Earlier today they had discovered the existence of another victim. Fortunately, the woman was still alive, and Christine was interviewing her at this very moment. Hopefully, when Val met back up with his partner at police headquarters, they would both have considerably more information to share about the youth-stealing monster.

  "Research… for a show," Lucy lied, trying desperately to come up with some reasonable explanation to be here in the morgue. But it was hard with Val standing there so tall, dark, and handsome, with his unphony French accent. Campbell women could come up with a great white lie or two—or even three, if absolutely necessary—in any situation or circumstance, except where handsome hunks of the walking dead were concerned. Just because Val looked like some pirate out of a romantic fantasy, what with his sexy smile and that dimple in his chin, that was no reason for her to lose her old Campbell common sense.

  "What show?" he pressed.

  "I just knew you were going to ask that."

  "Imagine," Val remarked wryly, his suspicions growing stronger.

  Lucy glanced away from those beautiful blue eyes, thinking that Val should be declared a criminal, even if he was the city's ace detective. How beautiful he was. How tempting. She wanted him and didn't want to want him. She loved him and despised him. How typically Pisces.

  Val thought Lucy looked tired and messy. But then, that was her—his ex-love who created mayhem and havoc wherever she went. Damn, how he wanted to lay her down on that ketchup-smeared gurney and sink into her hot, wet depths. It had been so long. But his body wouldn't have its way. He was stronger and harder than that.

  "What show?" he repeated.

  "A show about corpses," Lucy said.

  "Corpses? What kind of corpses?" Right. What cock-and-bull stories she could come up with! He would give her an A for effort. He always had.

  "Dead ones," Lucy explained, then turned to leave. "What else?"

  Grabbing her arm, Val stopped her, his fingers and brain registering the warmth of her body and the smell that was all her—a bit wild, a bit earthy, and a bit like gardenias, although it was perverted by the pungent scent of ketchup. "What corpse show, Lucy?" And why on earth did he care? He should just let her go.

  "None of your business," she snapped. That fired his ire.

  "I'm making it my business."

  "Oh, go find a stake and put it where the sun doesn't shine." Lucy yanked her arm out of his hand. Her skin burned where he had touched her. Her heart had sped up. She wanted to lean into him and kiss his soft, angry lips…

  But she didn't.

  "Tu es trop grand pour tes cullottes." He didn't have time to verbally fence with Lucy; he had an autopsy to attend. Yet here he was, savoring her temper and her words. He was a fool. A great big vampire fool.

  She looked annoyed. "Quit spouting French at me and talk English."

  "You're too big for your britches," he explained. Did she know or not know about the Ka? Val stared h
ard at her, shaking his head. At last he warned, "Stay out of the morgue. Stay out of police business, or I'll have you arrested. Keep that enormous and poky nose of yours occupied by staying home. I mean it, Lucy," he finished.

  Jerking her arm free, she turned abruptly and walked off, seething. She was uncomfortable and sticky. Her foot still hurt where she had dropped the gurney on it, and she was beginning to get a backache. All she wanted was a hot bath, and then to be held and comforted. She certainly didn't want to be dictated to by some two-timing tick of an ex-boyfriend, especially one who had absolutely no right to dictate to her. "Oh, screw you and the horse you rode in on," she muttered, forgetting about vampires' supernatural hearing.

  He called out after her, "Me? In your dreams. Luce. In your dreams! Though you can ask the horse yourself."

  Damn, he was quick. Lucy felt herself blush, and not at his insult. No wonder he was the whiz kid of the New Orleans PTF. She was on TV, and a damned fine actress; she knew how to hide her feelings. So how did the clever bastard know that he still held a starring role in her X-rated dreams?

  Chapter Eleven

  Mama, Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to Love Vampires

  The next night, the phone was ringing when Lucy unlocked the door to her apartment. Dropping her purse and kicking off her shoes, she answered.

  "Hello?"

  Her mom's West Texas accent filled the line. "Lucy, sugar, I just loved your show tonight. That wererat impersonator—he did such a good impression of Jimmy Cagney! And you were just wonderful."

  "Thanks, Mom," Lucy said, sitting down wearily. She was tired, and still had to go out and make her rounds of the Overbite Bar. Not to mention that tonight was Friday the thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth might not be Mardi Gras, but ever since monsters had come out of the proverbial closet, this particular date was a big deal in New Orleans.

  Yes, parties were thrown everywhere to celebrate the unlucky day. She knew the Big Monster Ball was being held at the House of Usher, just a couple of blocks west of the Overbite. Lucy had promised her boss that she would put in an appearance, as he still wanted her to mix and mingle with some of the more elite ranks of supernatural celebrities.

  "I'm just so proud of you. Your show is better even than that Tonight Show," her mom remarked. "And Blade has those flashy big teeth, and all that black leather. He looks like some kind of vampire James Dean!"

  In spite of her weariness, Lucy smiled. No way her show could compare to the vampire's. His cutting style, his awesome guests… Blade always had the most interesting preternatural predators. But then, this was what mothers were for, to value their kids above all others.

  "That vampire is just too pretty for a man if you ask me. I wouldn't believe a word he says, since a girl can't trust a man who is prettier than she is. Pretty soon they start staying out late and showing up with lipstick on their collars, and it isn't even your shade."

  "I know, I know," Lucy agreed. Val was prettier than she, and even though he hadn't had any lipstick on his collar that ill-fated night—he wasn't even wearing a collar—she had still caught him cheating, the promiscuous parasite. Hadn't she? His protestations flashed again through her mind.

  "Do you have a date tonight?" her mom asked, drawing her thoughts away from the stark recollection of a nearly naked Val with that bloodsucking bathrobed bimbo.

  Lucy pulled out a slinky green number that just screamed for sin and laid it on the bed. She planned to wear her matching bite-me heels, just in case she ran into Val. "Not tonight," she admitted.

  "Are you dating anyone special, hon?" her mother pressed.

  Hmm, Lucy thought, what an easy question to answer. How sad. "No, Mama, I'm not."

  "What about that nice man on your show tonight? He was tall, dark, and handsome."

  Lucy sighed in exasperation. "And hairy, Mom. He was a wererat. I date enough human rats as it is without dating the supernatural ones," she added truthfully, moving to run some bathwater. "He also had beady little black eyes."

  "Oh, Lucy. What am I going to do with you? I want grandkids to spoil, and at this rate I'll be ninety before that happens."

  Lucy shook her head. Her mom must have been talking to her sister, whose two married daughters had five kids between them. "Maybe someday, Mom. But right now I'm focusing on my career."

  "That shouldn't stop you from dating!"

  "All the good guys are gone—married or dead or something," Lucy snapped, tiring of being hounded. But her mother seemed unfazed.

  "Don't give me that old song and dance. I know you. You've never gotten over that Cajun detective, have you? I know you don't talk about him anymore, but I remember how devastated you were when you caught him cheating on you. If the man hadn't been dead already, I'd have made sure he was! After what he did to you, my little girl—that supernatural skunk should have been hanged. I should have kicked his arrogant ass from here to Mexico."

  "Mom, this isn't up for discussion. I'm over him," Lucy lied. Her mom sounded unconvinced.

  "Lucy, hon, you need to get back in the saddle. Just because you've had a major spill doesn't mean you can't ever ride again."

  But Lucy didn't think that was true. After riding Val and Val riding her six ways to Sunday, galloping off into the sunset for a happily-ever-after with some other man just didn't seem possible. Because—and this was a big because—when you've had the best, you couldn't try the rest.

  "Look, Mom," she said, "I have to go out again on some business, and I need to get ready. I love you, and I'll call you on Sunday."

  Lucy got off the phone and into her bathwater, but as she lay back, she thought about Val. Meeting and loving him had been like a wild hot wind had swept them up and tossed them into the eye of a tornado. And in the end he had been nothing but a heartache, a big old larger-than-life heartache that had taken her for one hell of a spin. "Fangs for the memories, Val," she grumbled.

  Frowning slightly, Lucy soaped her arms. She'd suddenly remembered how Val was angry with her. Why? He was the lying, lecherous leech who had been unfaithful! She had been pure as the driven snow. But there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that Val was really ticked. Did that mean he felt slighted? Had he been slighted? She'd been thinking it earlier, and doubt reared its ugly head once more. Could she have been wrong in what she saw? Could he possibly have had a reasonable explanation for sipping on someone else?

  Lucy sat up slowly, tiny droplets of water sliding down her back, making her shiver. Had she done the right thing in not listening to Val's explanation? Had she been hardheaded and stupid? Of course she couldn't have. When was she so stubborn?

  Disgusted with herself, she stood up and grabbed a towel. Glancing into the mirror, she saw confusion staring back at her. Maybe she had been wrong.

  No, she told herself. Maybe mountain oysters were really chicken livers, and cows jumped over the moon.

  Chapter Twelve

  Old Unfaithful?

  As Lucy walked up the cobbled sidewalk to the House of Usher, she listened to the music that spilled out through the bars surrounding the old antebellum home. The structure had been renovated and turned into a club three years earlier, and it was now the hangout for the elite of the supernatural world—and it required a membership for all but special occasions like Friday the thirteenth or Halloween.

  The music, rich and vibrant, was almost a living thing as it poured into the night from nearby bars. The air was fraught with sounds of zyedeco, jazz, and blues. Lucy loved that about New Orleans: the killer music and the mouthwatering food. Texas might be a state of mind, but New Orleans was a feast for the senses.

  The inside of the club was cool and dark, and it smelled of incense and a hint of orange blossoms. A huge mahogany bar with brass rails stretched all along the ballroom floor. The floor was tiled in black and white marble, and couples were dancing and swaying upon it to a soft tune.

  The club was packed to the rafters, and that made her search more difficult. Lucy sighed. "Everybody and their dog
and cat is here," she complained. But she hadn't really expected anything else.

  She spent the next half hour wandering through the house, studying the faces and looking for a creature with violet-colored eyes and a scar on one cheek. And perhaps she was also hoping for a detective with eyes the color of an arctic sea.

  She also did as her boss had bade her do, mingling and mixing whenever she could with the elite of the paranormal world. After about twenty minutes, Lucy found herself chatting with one of the blues' undisputed kings. His name was Holiday, and he had a way with the sax that should be declared illegal. He was also a werewolf, the head of the Pirate Alley Clan. Maybe, just maybe, if she played her cards right, she could get him to do her show.

  Unfortunately, Holiday had had too much to drink and was being a little too frisky for her comfort. As his hands latched on to her buttocks for the fourth time, Lucy tried to brush them away… only to feel a strong wrist and hand touch hers. Glancing back, she found herself staring into Val's face.

  "Val!" she said, her heart pounding.

  He gave her a look of angry disgust, then went about sending Holiday off with a flea in his ear about treating a lady with respect. Just seeing Lucy with the lecherous wolf made Val feel as if someone had poisoned his Bloody Mary.

  Turning back to Lucy, he gave her a dark look. "What's gotten into you, cherie? Why were you letting that fur ball feel you up in public?"

  "Letting him? A lot you know! I was removing his hands from my butt, you ass."

  But he just gave her his inscrutable look—a look that had used to infuriate Lucy when they were going out.

  He'd made it whenever she tried to make an important point that he felt was silly.

  "I could have handled him," she growled.

  Val nodded. "It sure looked that way. And he could handle you. Another few seconds and he'd have had your dress up to your waist." Val's blue eyes blazed. Seeing Holiday's hands all over the behind of the woman he'd once loved was bringing things to the front of his mind—feelings that were better left buried.