“My gym socks.”
No wonder he was lonely.
I rummaged in my purse, pulled out a Dead End Dating business card and scribbled on the back. “First thing tomorrow morning, head over to La Perla.” I handed him the card. “Here’s the address. Go to the counter and ask for a pair of silicone inserts, then ask for the bra.”
He stared down at the card. “You’re helping me?”
I shrugged. “You’re a poor schmuck in need of a little guidance and I do own a dating service. The best in Manhattan, as a matter of fact. Lil Marchette,” I held out a hand, “at your service.”
“I’m John.” As if I didn’t already know. He gripped my fingers for a small shake before shifting his gaze back to the card. “Thanks, but I don’t need a date.”
My gaze collided with his, but I didn’t vamp him. I didn’t have to. Realization sparked and he nodded.
“Then again, if I got my promotion, I could afford to date again. A good service would certainly come in handy to help me get back into the game.”
“Exactly. In the meantime,” I eyed his chest. “Let’s see what we can do to help you out right now.” I reached out and cupped John’s gym socks.
“I need you.”
The words echoed through my head and I stiffened. “Listen, buster. This is strictly professional.” I squeezed and juggled. “Don’t take my interest personally. I just can’t stand to see a pair of decent sling backs go to waste. When it comes to footwear, you’re not doing half bad. It’s all the rest. You need to stand up straighter, hold your chest out more. You’re loud, you’re proud, you’re a woman. Carry yourself like one.”
“I really need you.”
“I mean it.” I frowned at John. “Just because I’m adjusting your boobs doesn’t mean I have any romantic interest in you. I have my own boobs if I want to cop a feel. And if I want more, I have a significant other.” Okay, so I’d had a significant other. For about six hours—six and a half, tops. That still didn’t mean I was desperate enough to jump the first guy who let me feel his boobs. Particularly since he was human. Sure, humans were great for sex and feeding, but it wasn’t as if you could take them home to the folks. At least not my folks. Already, my mother was debating between arsenic and a sharpshooter to take out my youngest brother’s human fiancée—
“Dammit, would you listen?”
The deep, stirring voice cut into my thoughts again and drew my undivided attention. My hands froze mid-squeeze and my heart stalled.
“I don’t have much time, Lil. You have to listen to me. I need you. I’m in…”
The words faded before the sentence ended, but it didn’t matter. My gut clenched and my throat went tight and I knew.
I hadn’t been hallucinating before when I’d heard the first unmistakable “Help me.”
It was his voice, right?
The one and only Ty Bonner. The jerk-off-made-vampire who’d given me the brush-off.
And he was in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.
Three
You shouldn’t be doing this.
The warning echoed in my head for the trillionth time since I’d left the television station, but I was too busy breaking and entering to pay much attention.
I stood mid-block on Washington Street in the heart of the meatpacking district. While the rest of the area had fallen into the hands of New York’s trendsetters, the art galleries and the chic restaurants hadn’t crept this far south.
It was early evening, barely eight o’clock, but the large warehouse that housed Ty’s third-floor loft loomed dark and quiet against the moonlit sky. Shadows clung to the large steel door. The surrounding motif was classic gangsta. Orange and blue graffiti cut across the fading red metal and splattered the surrounding brick. The remains of a lightbulb hung overhead and tiny particles of glass shimmered from the cracks in the sidewalk.
The only light drifted from the apartments across the street. Not that I needed any. My gaze sliced through the darkness and zeroed in on the small buzzer that sat next to the massive door.
Back when I’d been wanted for murder, Ty had aided and abetted and we’d been roommates. I knew firsthand that he had neighbors on the first and second floors, so I pressed the button and waited.
And waited.
Then again, maybe the neighbors had moved out. Particularly the guy on the second floor. I know I would have taken a hike if two vamps (one of them wanted for slicing and dicing) had dropped through my ceiling while I was doing the nasty.
My fingers closed around the door latch and turned. Hardware groaned and the lock soon gave. I flattened my palm against the metal and pushed. Wood cracked and splintered. The door swung inward. I stepped into the narrow hallway and made my way to the freight elevator at the far end.
I hooked one finger under the massive gate and pushed. The iron mesh slid upward like nails grating on a chalkboard. Stepping inside, I punched the button for the third floor. The engine groaned, wheels turned, and the contraption started to move north.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to accomplish by coming here. I just knew I had to do something. It had been two hours since I’d heard Ty’s silent message.
Since then?
Nada.
While I’d handed out cards at the MMV studio and given my own ten-minute video interview (not that I was even remotely interested in being on the show—my mother would DIE—but I’d had to go through the motions), I’d tried to convince myself that the silent message had been a mistake. Ty had obviously dialed a wrong number. He’d been trying to contact the slut he’d left me for and had inadvertently sent the message to moi.
“You have to listen to me. I need you. I’m in…”
In what?
In the middle of slapping the salami? And he’d needed a booty call to keep from going blind?
Or maybe he’d been in the shower and he’d needed someone to bend over and pick up the soap?
Or maybe he’d been in the mood for a little AB negative and he’d needed a warm, willing donor?
Really, who knew how many women Ty was currently playing? He probably let everyone with a vagina and a pair of fangs sip away at him. He could be telepathically linked to every female vampire in Manhattan.
Or he could be in serious trouble.
My mind voted for the first explanation. My hormones chanted for number two. And my heart?
Girlfriend, pu-lease.
I was saving that particular piece of anatomy for Count Right. Since Ty’s a made vampire and I’m born, settling down, squeezing out a few baby vamps, and living eternally ever after are not in the realm of possibility for us. Made vamps can’t procreate. I need one of my own kind for that. Someone as megalicious as Ty, but with the appropriate born vamp DNA. Someone like, say, Remy Tremaine.
Remy was the chief of the Fairfield police department, and owned a megabucks security company on the side. I hadn’t really liked him at first. We’d been friends forever and I’d seen him wear knickers back in the old country. Nuff said.
Recently, however, he’d helped me in a desperate fight for my life with a vengeful female vamp. Funny how kicking royal ass can make a man oodles more attractive.
Then again, Ty kicked ass for a living. Day in. Day out. He faced danger with a capital D. Which meant that I couldn’t get him or his naked badass bod off my mind.
It also meant that he’d probably pissed off his fair share of people and made a great deal of enemies. People who might want to hurt him. Or worse…
The elevator car came to a jarring stop. I stepped into another small hallway. The gangsta theme continued. More blue and orange with a little purple, and a few four-letter words thrown in.
I reached his door and grabbed the knob. With any luck, the place would be a train wreck and ripe with clues as to his whereabouts.
Metal ground and snapped. The door creaked open.
My preternatural gaze sliced through the darkness and swept the inside of the large loft. Ditto on t
he train wreck. Furniture had been overturned. Pillows had been slashed. Drawers upended. Trash littered the floor. I was fairly certain there were dozens of possibilities for fingerprints and DNA.
Unfortunately, my Super Vamp benefits package didn’t include crime scene analysis and I didn’t have a friggin’ clue what to do or where to start looking.
I concentrated on breathing instead. Not a requirement for my kind, but it comes in handy when I get a little freaked.
Just breathe. In. Out. In…
I stepped inside the loft and a sick feeling started in the pit of my stomach. Instead of drinking in the whole scene in one large gulp, I decided to sip slowly, one small section at a time.
Moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows that filled one wall and illuminated what had once been a dark blue leather couch. It had been shredded, along with a nearby black leather chair. The chrome and glass coffee table had been upended. A matching entertainment center lay on its side. Shards of glass littered the floor and mingled with broken bits of electronics. The big-screen television sat like a huge cave filled with dangling wires and broken components.
My throat burned as my attention shifted to the kitchen. Once upon a time, that is.
The refrigerator looked as if someone had taken a baseball bat to it. More glass littered the floor courtesy of several shattered bottles of O positive. The rich smell still lingered in the air. Dark, dried splotches stained the wood where the liquid had pooled.
I know, I know. I’m such a bitch. Here I’d been accusing the guy of slipping his fangs into any and everything in a thong when he’d really been bottling it.
Because he couldn’t stand the thought of drinking from another woman who’s name didn’t start with an L and end with an il? Well, yeah. That’s what my heart chanted and hope blossomed in my chest. Guilt nipped at my heels as I made my way over to the far corner where the bedroom had once been.
The bed frame lay in a broken heap on the floor, the wood splintered. One of the mattresses had been flung against a nearby wall; the other sagged against the dresser. A deep sapphire-blue comforter lay in a shredded pile on the floor next to several dark red stains.
Hope and guilt disintegrated into a rush of fear.
Crazy, I know. I’m a vamp. I shouldn’t be afraid of anything, right?
At the same time, I shouldn’t have a mad, bad crush on Brad Pitt (he’s a human, for Damien’s sake) or get calls from bill collectors I can’t pay (all born vamps are loaded), or do half the things I do on a daily basis, such as bring my human assistant Evie her favorite latte, slip five bucks to the local homeless guy, or rank a male BV’s smile higher than his fertility rating (it’s a vamp thing.)
Word up, I’m not your average vampere.
My hands trembled and my skin prickled as I toed my way through a pile of scattered clothes toward one of the dried puddles.
I knew even before I drank in the rich aroma that it wasn’t the imported stuff splattered all over the kitchen. The stains were much larger, the color richer. And the smell…
The smell was too ripe.
Too potent.
Too Ty.
I tried to swallow, but suddenly my throat refused to work. My heart stalled. The air lodged in my chest (not a good feeling since it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place) and my primo blood ran cold.
As cold as the tip of the gun that was suddenly pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Fair’s fair,” came the equally frosty voice. “He’s dead now, and so are you.”
Four
Don’t panic. Do. Not. Panic.
It was just a man with a gun making death threats.
No biggie.
At least when it came to the gun and the death threats. I am a vampire. Translation: I can dodge bullets and leap tall buildings in a single bound. Wait a second; that’s Superman. Oh, well, you get the idea.
Gun? No problemo.
Death? Technically, been there, done that.
It was the man part that was making my head spin and my nerves tingle.
He stood directly behind me, a solid mass of muscle and warm flesh that made my undead heart skip its next beat. He pressed closer, and his body seemed to grow hotter, until I felt like a marshmallow dangling over an open campfire.
I know, I know. What kind of a ho am I to even think of melting over this guy? I’m standing in the middle of Ty’s apartment, smack-dab in the middle of what could only be a major crime scene, and I’m getting all ooey gooey over another man.
A human on top of that.
At least I was pretty certain he had the whole living, breathing thing going on. My nostrils flared and I drank in his scent. Definitely more Ivory soap than Krispy Kremes.
FYI: Born vamps give off a rich, sugary-sweet scent detectable only by other born vampires. The scent was unique to each individual vampire, and ran the gamut from cinnamon rolls to Key lime pie, crème brûlée to cherries jubilee. The fantabulous moi? Cotton candy.
No sweet scent meant either human, made vampire, or an Other. Others included the whole were nation—from werewolves to were-poodles—as well as any other being that didn’t qualify as human.
I concentrated on taking another whiff, searching for a hint of Alpo or cat litter. Nada. His fingertips burned into my arm. Definitely too warm for a made vampire.
Not that made vamps were ice cold, as Hollywood would have us think. They were more lukewarm. Except, of course, when they were panting and sweating and having incredible sex. Then they warmed right up like anyone else.
My thoughts shifted to Ty, who’d definitely undergone a significant rise in body temp the last time we were together.
The only time.
The Captain Ho morphed into Protective Vamp. I bitch-slapped my hormones into submission and stiffened.
“Let’s hope that’s not a gun in your hand and you’re just extremely glad to see me,” I told the guy. “Otherwise, if you don’t back off, things are going to get really ugly in here.”
Several seconds ticked by before a soft chuckle vibrated the hair on the back of my neck.
“Go ahead and laugh, buddy. You won’t be doing it for very long,” I said.
“Your name wouldn’t be Lil, would it?”
“Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you. I’ve heard all about you. You’re one of a kind.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “I do have a fabulous sense of style.”
“I don’t know about that, but you’ve definitely got a big mouth.” The gun fell away and I turned to get my first glimpse of my attacker.
My gaze collided with his and…nothing. Which nixed the human theory. I could read humans faster than the latest edition of InStyle. Lose the were theory as well. I wasn’t getting any vibes off this guy other than the sexual variety.
He was yummy-looking with his cropped black hair and tanned complexion. He had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen—so dark that I could see my own reflection mirrored in their depths—and kissable lips. (Not that I was thinking about kissing him, mind you, but if I had been a ho-ho and looking to get lucky, I would definitely say his lips scored a big fat ten on the Kiss-O-Meter.) He wore a black button-up DKNY shirt and Levi’s. Not enough style to make me salivate, but enough to satisfy my internal fashionista.
“You’re the vampire who was wanted for murder a few months back,” he went on. “You drove Ty nuts while he was trying to save your ass.”
“I saved my own ass, thank you very much.” When he gave me a knowing look, I added, “Yes, Ty helped a little. But he was busy being in a garlic-induced coma when I really needed him, so I had to step up to the plate and save us both.” My gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Ash,” he said, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows. He glanced out as if looking for someone. Or something. “Ash Prince.”
One down. One to go. “What are you?”
His eyes twinkled as his gaze swiveled to me. “A homicide d
etective with the New York Police Department.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
His eyes brightened, lightening into a liquid gold before fading again. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“I’m a vampire. You could try, but it’s not going to happen.”
He winked. “Oh, it could happen, all right. Faster than you think.”
“Go on.” I held out my hands. “Just try to stake me. I could turn you into a popsicle faster than you could say grape or cherry.”
“I don’t have to stake you. I have other ways.”
Because he wasn’t an ordinary Other. At least none that I’d encountered. Which didn’t really mean anything because I’m not exactly the most worldly vamp. Sure, I’m five hundred years old (and holding), but I’ve led a fairly sheltered afterlife up until opening Dead End Dating.
Since then, however, I’d gotten up close and personal with several werewolves (twenty-eight to be exact), oodles of made vampires and even a were- Chihuahua named Rachel. I’d definitely expanded my horizons.
As I stared at Ash, I was fairly certain I hadn’t expanded quite that much. I decided to change my line of questioning before I became privy to his other ways. “Where’s Ty?”
His gaze collided with mine again. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for him.”
“Ditto,” he told me. Another glance out the window and he turned to survey the room.
“How do you know him?”
“He helps me out on the occasional case, and I help him out.” He eyed the chaos before running a hand over his face. “We had a meeting yesterday. He didn’t show. When he didn’t call, I thought I would swing by and see why he got held up.” His gaze lingered on the sticky pools of blood. “Something bad happened here.”
“Ya think?” He flashed me a glare, but I was unmoved.
He walked toward the kitchen and knelt down to examine the shards of glass. He dabbed a finger into the splattered blood and took a sniff, proof beyond a doubt (if there’d been one) that he wasn’t a made vampire. Otherwise, he would be tasting rather than smelling.
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 2