I could see Evie’s point. He was a little hard on the eyes, and sad looking. Literally. Tonight he’d traded his metal image for pure Goth, and painted black teardrops down one cheek. His eyes were rimmed in black to match his fingernails. “I’ll admit he’s a little out there, but so is most everyone else. There are tons of crazies in Manhattan alone. They just aren’t so obvious. I doubt he’s worse than any of our other clients.”
“You haven’t spent every Christmas of your life hiding in the hall closet with Aunt Gretchen.”
“Was she dodging him, too?”
“No, she’s old and thinks the hall closet is the bathroom.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So best of luck. I’ve got my hands full.” Her face brightened. “We had four phone calls from MMW applicants who didn’t make this last cut.” She held up a couple of checks. “And retainer fees from two of them who stopped by while you were meeting with Mr. Hunky Ass.”
“That would be Hunky Ash.”
She grinned. “Says you.” She put the checks into her cash drawer, slid the profiles into her ENTERED file, and started to shut down her terminal. “There are extra doughnuts and plenty of coffee. Oh,” she turned and grabbed two message slips, “and your mother called while you were in with Hunky. She said not to be late on Sunday, and don’t forget the match.”
As if I could.
She leveled a stare at me. “I know it seems like a no-win situation, but things could be worse.” Have I mentioned that in addition to being a kick-ass fashionista, Evie is also an optimist like the ever-fantabulous moi? “Look on the bright side. At least you have good hair.”
“That’s true.” I beamed for all of five seconds and did a little fluffing before my face fell.
“Brighter?” Evie asked.
“Blinding.”
She seemed to think. “You do have a whopping three whole days to find a decent prospect. Cities have fallen in a lot less time.”
So true.
Three was, well, three. As opposed to two or the dreaded one. That meant seventy-two hours. Oodles of time to find one itty-bitty born vampire and show my mother that I wasn’t a total loser in the matchmaking department. An itty-bitty hot, smoking vampire. But not too smoking. I wouldn’t want Jack to actually fall for her.
Not that he would. He was in love with Mandy. Hopelessly. Desperately. Forever and ever…Right?
I’d never actually asked him if he planned to make her into a vampire. But, of course, he would. If he didn’t, then she would eventually start to sag. She would get insecure and start forking over the bucks for plastic surgery. He would stay his usual hot self and she would end up looking like the cat woman and…Well, he just had to. Another black mark on his already tarnished record, as far as my parents were concerned. Marrying humans? No. Making vampires? Hell, no. Made vamps were the scourge of the earth. The lowest form of vampiric life. Mere peasants (my dad’s words not mine).
Hence my dilemma with Ty. No way would my folks ever go for him—if we managed to develop some sort of relationship, that is. If I managed to free him from whatever crazed psycho was using him for a voodoo doll—
The thought stopped me cold and my mind started to race. Nah. I hadn’t heard any chanting. Or beating of drums. Or squawking chickens.
“Are you okay?” Evie’s voice pushed into my thoughts.
“Um, yeah.” I forced a smile.
“Because you look like someone just kicked your cat.”
I thought of Killer. “I should be so lucky.” I turned and headed back into my office to get to work.
Fourteen
Seventy-two hours turned out to be a lot less time than it sounded like.
For one thing, I had to deduct the ten hours spent sleeping each day, as well as the two hours for hair, makeup, shower, and scooping up cat poop. That left thirty-six minus the time spent working on my other clients, calming a freaked-out Mandy when the hotel cancelled her wedding date due to an overbooking, and worrying over Ty. In the end, I had all of ten hours to search for Jack’s perfect match.
Which meant that by the time Sunday evening rolled around, I’d managed to come up with an impressive zero prospects.
I stood in my kitchen, nursing a glass of warm blood while I contemplated my choices.
One, I could show up without a prospect, piss off my mother, and suffer the consequences.
Two, I could not show up at all, piss off my mother, and suffer the consequences.
And three, I could just stake myself and get it over with.
I’d just reached for the letter opener sitting near my latest Visa bill when I heard Killer’s meow.
I glanced down and big green eyes blinked back up at me.
“Before you end it,” he seemed to say, “could you move your ass over to the cabinet and get me something to eat? I’m starving, here.”
My fingers closed inches shy of the opener. It’s not like I could let him starve. I was totally more responsible than that. I walked over to the pantry. A few minutes later, I spooned a can of Gourmet Kitty into a silver Pucci pet dish (I’d gone shopping) and set it on the floor next to a matching water bowl. Killer strutted over, sniffed, and started lapping up the treat.
I grabbed the letter opener. “I’m going for it,” I said to the cat. He kept scarfing without sparing me so much as a glance. “No, no. Don’t cry and beg. It’s better this way. Really. I won’t have to listen to my mom. Or worry about Ty.” Or help him.
The last thought stopped me cold.
Well, that and the sinfully delicious thought that followed—me and Ty and hot, life-affirming sex to erase his totally horrific experience.
My conscience (yes, I have one) and my hormones raged and I abandoned the letter opener. I was much too young (and too freakin’ scared) to end it all. Besides, what would happen to Killer? And Evie? And desperate males and females the world over who would give anything—anything—to fall in love?
Geez, what was I thinking? I had people (and a snotty cat) who needed me. I couldn’t take the easy way out simply because I was scared of my mother.
Not yet, anyway. Not without exhausting every resource.
Grabbing my cell, I punched in Nina One’s phone number.
“Tell me again why I should do this,” Nina said after I’d explained my desperate situation.
“Because I’m your best friend and I would do it for you.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Okay, so I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t have to because you’re not a matchmaker with an overbearing mother and a letter opener.” Nina’s mother had believed in the wine and wait method of child rearing. Namely, she’d drunk wine and waited for the nanny to deal with the children. She still drank wine and stayed as far removed from Nina and her brother as possible. Unlike my mother, she wasn’t pining away for grandchildren. It was hard to pine when you were pickled.
“What kind of letter opener?”
“A sharp one.”
“That’s not what I meant. Where’d you get it? Tiffany’s?” Nina’s addiction to designer couture and accessories was even worse than mine. Really.
“It’s sterling silver with tiny diamonds in the handle. It’s Cartier. My brothers got it for me when I opened Dead End Dating.”
“It sounds divine.”
“Get a grip. It’s a letter opener.”
“Sorry. We’ve been hosting a convention and I had to work five nights in a row, double shifts. I’m beat. And going into withdrawal.”
“So go toss around some cash at the gift shop.”
“I already have one of everything. A girl can only have so many I Love New York T-shirts.”
“So what about tonight?”
“I would love to, but I have a date with this really cute French waiter—he does the graveyard shift with room service—and I promised I’d meet him in the penthouse tonight for a little midnight snack and quickie.”
“You would choose sex over our lifelong, five-hundred-and-twenty-tw
o-year friendship?”
“It’s really good sex.”
“Fine, if you won’t do it for our friendship, what about for the white silk Donna Karan jacket that I borrowed this past New Year’s Eve?”
“I thought I’d lost that.”
“Apparently not, because I’m looking at it right now. So far, I’ve treated it as if it were my own, because we’re such dear friends. But if we’re not that close, then I don’t really need to be careful. What do I care if you hate me for spilling an entire glass of blood all over the front?”
“That’s blackmail.”
“I prefer to think of it as effective bargaining.”
“What do I have to do?” she finally blurted.
“Just come with me to Connecticut and act interested in Jack.”
“What about his girlfriend?”
“I’ll distract her every now and then so you can cozy up to him in front of my mother.”
“And the jacket?”
“You’ll get it back in mint condition. Tomorrow.” When she didn’t answer, I added, my voice softer, “Please, Nina. This would really mean so much to me.”
Several seconds ticked by. “Oh, all right. But you owe me.”
“No problem. I’ll give you—”
“And don’t even think about offering me a free profile,” she cut in.
“—free, um, coffee. And cream. And sugar.”
“Forget it.” She paused before delivering the verdict. “I want your Badgley Mischka sunglasses.”
“The ones with the Swarovski crystals?”
“Those are the ones.”
“But—”
“Or I’ll call Pierre and tell him to meet me upstairs. It’s quickie time.”
“Deal,” I muttered. Bitch.
“I heard that.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I told my mother when she opened the massive front door later that evening. “I couldn’t decide between the Anne Kleins and the Jimmy Choos.” I stared at my feet outlined against the expensive marble tile. “Jimmy won.”
“Fine, fine.” Jacqueline Marchette looked her usual stunning self in a black Emanuel Ungaro dress. The material that draped her body accented her tall, svelte figure. Her long, dark brown hair was slicked back into its usual chic ponytail. She had high cheekbones, rich brown eyes, and glossed lips. White gold mesh earrings dangled from her pale earlobes. She had one hand on the doorknob and a tumbler of vodka in the other. She reeked of French perfume, cherries jubilee, and major disapproval. “Just hurry and get inside.” She spared Nina a look as she waved her glass. “Your father’s already in the middle of his fourth putt and your brothers are here. And the human.” The door thudded shut behind us. The ice in the vodka glass tinkled.
My mother wrinkled her sculpted nose as she led us toward the main living room where everyone was gathered. “I tell you, if I have to see that Molly fawn all over my baby one more time, I’m going to throw myself on the nearest sharp object.”
“It’s Mandy, Mom.” The click, click of my shoes echoed in the massive hallway, keeping time with my frantic heartbeat.
I know, I know. She was my mother. She’d given birth to me. Fed me. Nurtured me. She wasn’t going to end my existence if I happened to disappoint her.
At the same time, she was my mother. She’d given birth to me. Fed me. Nurtured me. She wasn’t going to end my existence if I happened to disappoint her.
No, she would make me suffer.
“It’s outrageous is what it is,” my mother went on. “She keeps touching him.” She took a long swallow from her glass as we reached the main room.
My oldest two brothers—Max and Rob—stood by a polished cherrywood sideboard. Max looked as handsome as ever in expensive casual—Guess jeans and a fitted, washed-out gray tee. Rob had gone for modest casual in a pair of Levi’s and a navy henley, while my dad pulled off tacky casual in black, red, and white plaid pants and a red golf shirt. Max sipped a scotch on the rocks, Rob nursed a bottled beer, and my dad leaned over a small putting green, golf club in hand.
My mother nodded toward the couple who sat side by side on the tapestry sofa. “What did I tell you? She’s holding his hand.” She said it with the same outrage as “She’s plotting to destroy the entire born vamp nation” or “She’s wearing a Dior knock-off.”
Let’s see. Hopelessly in love. Wedding in three months. Joint checking accounts. “The nervy bitch,” I murmured.
“Exactly.” She forced a smile. “Everyone, Lil’s here. And Nina.”
Several pairs of eyes turned toward us and I gave a little wave before scanning the rest of the room in search of some sign that tonight was going to be even worse than I’d anticipated. An indentation in the couch. A pair of car keys that didn’t go to the Marchette fleet of filthy expensive vehicles. A jacket or a pipe or—I swear I’m not making this up—a scorecard for total Orgasm Quotients.
Long story short: My mother wanted grandbaby vamps to carry on the Marchette line. Since no female was good enough for her three boys, the fate of this particular branch of the family tree rested solely on yours truly. Hence the constant fix ups.
At least until Mandy had entered the picture. My mom had been so freaked lately that she’d forgotten all about finding eligible, fertile son-in-law candidates. I’d been solo for the last six hunts.
I smiled. Make that seven.
“Remy’s running late. He’ll be joining us for dinner later,” my mother informed me, wiping the smile off my face. “He’s your date for tonight.”
Fifteen
Did she just say Remy?
My heart jumped and if I hadn’t been a perfect, pretentious born female vampire, I would have sworn I could feel the sweat popping out on my fore-head.
Not Remy.
Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy. As far as born male vamps went, he was one of the most tolerable. I grew up with him in the old country. We’d played connect the blood drops together and chased our human nannies and even terrorized the occasional small village. While I didn’t see him that often now—I lived in Manhattan and he upheld the law as the chief of police in Fairfield—we still had a lot in common. Even more, I never had to worry about giving him the brush-off because I knew he didn’t like me like that.
At least, I’d never thought so until my close brush with jail a few months back. He’d helped me out and I’d sort of promised him a favor, and, well, the debt remained unpaid. Now whenever he looked at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was picturing me naked.
Particularly since I’d started to picture him naked.
“So where is she?” my mother asked as she came up beside me, effectively killing my anxiety over Remy’s imminent arrival.
“Right there.” I motioned to where Max poured a drink for my best friend. Meanwhile, everyone else tried to look awestruck while my pops demonstrated his latest twist and curl, and griped about his failed sniper attempt on Viola.
“…tried to take her out from several different vantage points. Who knew the woman could move that fast?” he told my brother Rob.
“She’s a were, Dad. They have fast reflexes.”
“I had five fully cooked pot roasts as a distraction and she still dodged every bullet.”
“You really shot at someone?” Mandy asked. “Isn’t that attempted murder?”
“Not during hunting season,” Jack informed her.
“But that’s Nina,” my mother murmured. “She’s hardly appropriate for Jack.”
“Why not? Born vamp. Impressive Orgasm Quotient. Great shoes. Killer eyelashes.” Nina had gone for the Christina Aguilera look, complete with multicolored lashes that shimmered every time she blinked. “I think I hit the jackpot.”
“But all of you were in knickers together.”
Thanks, Ma, for that great visual. “Look at it this way. She already knows what a shit he is, so there’ll be no surprises a few centuries down the road.”
She seemed to think. “True. I suppose it could work.” She
shrugged. “Anything’s better than that Maxie.”
“Mandy.”
“Whatever.”
“Besides, Nina isn’t going to actually hook up with Jack. This is just a little teaser to get him ready for the real prospects.”
“You already have more lined up for the dinner party?”
“Do I have more?” I snorted. “I’m a professional, Mother, a detail-oriented perfectionist who is always fully prepared and leaves nothing to chance. Of course I have more.” At least I was hoping like hell I would. “You’re paying me good money and I fully intend to deliver.”
“If she’s really a prospect for Jack, why is she flirting with Max?” She eyed the blonde who leaned into my oldest brother and rested a perfectly manicured hand on his arm.
“That’s not flirting. They’re just talking. And laughing.” And looking as if they’d like to strip each other bare and do the nasty right there on my mother’s prized Berber rug. I snatched my mother’s glass. “Let me get you a refill.”
I made a beeline for the liquor and breezed by Nina. “Would you cool it?” I hissed.
“You told me to cozy up to him.”
“Jack, not Max.”
“I’m practicing.”
“Well, stop it. Ooops, we’re out of ice,” I declared. I motioned to the human perched next to my youngest brother. “Mandy, can you help me get some from the kitchen?”
She popped up, excitement bubbling in her eyes at being called by her actual name. “Sure.”
“Fab.” I turned to Nina and whispered, “You’ve got five minutes to impress my mom. Make it good.”
“As soon as I get home, I’m lining my cat’s litter box with your Donna Karan jacket,” I told Nina as we hid out in the pool house a half hour later while everyone else searched for the it person.
“Since when do you have a cat?” She gave me a curious glance.
I shrugged. “I’m trying an alternative diet.”
“Ewww.”
Yeah, ewww. But it was the best I could come up with considering the fact that I was extremely upset. And pissed. I gave Nina the evil eye. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 9