I eyed the fifth folder in my stack. Gwen Rowley. Part-time PI and full-time man hater. I turned to my computer and did a few searches for men with an interest in amateur photography. I hit pay dirt twice. I ran another search for men with obnoxious mothers. Half the names in my database scrolled across the screen. Okay, narrow the search to men with obnoxious mothers in city government. There. One match.
Three possibilities. Can I follow through or what?
I buzzed Evie to pull the three charts so I could take a closer look before I turned to the dinner-cruise women. I was just about to do another search when it hit me.
What was I doing cold-calling seamstresses? I should be tapping my own database, searching for someone, anyone, that I’d matched up. If they felt eternally indebted to me for their happiness, I could surely talk them into doing a few nips and tucks on one of Shirley’s dresses.
I typed in sewing and waited for the bevy of choices to scroll across my screen.
A single name popped up and I groaned.
Esther Crutch. Esther was a made vampire I’d befriended when I’d first opened my business. I’d been trying to hook her up ever since, but she wasn’t exactly the easiest match. Problem one? Esther had been turned into a vampire back in the 1800’s when beauty equaled ten to twenty extra pounds and zero makeup. While she’d invested in enough MAC to impress even me, there wasn’t a thing she could do about the extra baggage she was carrying around on her hips. Problem two? She wanted to spend eternity with a made male vampire who appreciated full-figured women and enjoyed Bonanza reruns. The thing was, no male MV appreciated a full-figured anything. They all wanted to kick it with Jennifer Lopez or Jessica Biel. And since they had gobs of charisma and sex appeal (see Webster’s for vamp), they could. Also, since they were so busy kickin’ it, they had no free time for TV.
I brought up Esther’s profile and scanned her likes and dislikes. Sure enough, she’d listed sewing under Hobbies. Along with crochet, macramé, and ceramics (yawn).
Picking up the phone, I punched in her number.
“Hey, Es. It’s Lil.”
“Lil? I’m so glad you called! Thanks so much for the face cream you sent over. I loved it.”
“Did it work?”
“No, but it smells really good. Like cucumbers. And it tastes good, too.”
“You ate some?”
“No, but one of my cats did.”
Okay, I know I should have been freaked that some poor feline had slurped up a two-hundred-dollar jar of cream, but the stuff was completely organic and harmless. Which meant I freaked on the real disaster. “You have a cat?”
“Why, yes. Actually, I’ve got four. I used to hate animals. In fact, I swore I would never get even one. But then I found this stray and she followed me home.”
Yikes. Where have I heard this story before?
“One thing led to another and there I was, cuddling on the couch with Mindy. Now I have four total. What about you?”
I thought of Killer. “Nope. No cats.” I told you I did denial really well. “Not a single, smelly, needy, snotty one.”
“That’s a shame. You’re really missing out. Animals are wonderful company. Provided, of course, you train them to stay off the furniture with one of those spray bottles. I just squirt Miffy on the nose when she does something she’s not supposed to and bam, instant cooperation. Oh, and make sure you change the litter every day. And don’t put the box too close to the phone. Why, I tripped just yesterday trying to pick up a sales call and landed face-first—”
“Not a possibility,” I cut in. “Not for me. No cats, remember?” I faked a shiver. “Just the thought gives me the creepies. Listen,” I rushed on, determined to get us off the topic, “I’m calling because you mentioned in your profile that you liked to sew.”
“That’s right. Don’t tell me you’ve found someone who likes to sew? Because I’m right in the middle of this gorgeous quilt and it would be so much fun to have someone help me out—”
“No, no quilters.” I don’t even want to think what a made vampire who likes to quilt would look like. “I’m not calling about a match. I’m calling to ask a favor. See, I’ve got this wedding dress that needs alterations. It’s for my brother’s fiancée and it just isn’t right the way it is. I thought if we could find someone who knew how to use a needle and thread, they might be able to change it up for us.”
“Gee. Yeah.” She sounded as doom and gloom as I suddenly felt. “I did make my own clothes and everything,” Esther had grown up predepartment store, “but they didn’t look anything like what’s out there today. As for an actual wedding dress…I’ve always wanted to try one, but I never had the chance.” Her voice ended on a note of melancholy that made me feel like the worst matchmaker in Manhattan.
I couldn’t even match up poor, lonely Esther.
I was a loser. I was worse than a loser. I was a needy loser trying to scrounge a favor out of a poor, lonely, desperate vampire.
Enough with the pity party, already. There’s no sense in the both of you being desperate. Just get on with it. You can make it up to her later.
I sucked it up and gathered my determination. “You could think of this as training for the real thing, which, I’m sure, is just right around the corner.”
“Really?”
Yes. The lie was there on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason it stalled. “I don’t have any prospects,” I heard myself say. Hey, I didn’t do guilt any better than murder or mayhem or polyester. “But as soon as I’m finished with my brother’s wedding and a few other pressing issues that are on my plate right now, I’ll find you someone. I swear. I’m going to hit every made vamp hangout in Manhattan. And Queens. And Brooklyn. And I’ll even head out to,” I swallowed, “Long Island.”
“No way. You would do that for me?”
“If you’ll do this for me. Please, Esther. I really need your help.”
“I suppose I could give it a try. I still have my sewing machine around here somewhere. But just don’t expect too much, okay?”
“Believe me, nothing could be worse than what we’ve got.”
Literally.
While Mandy had called Shirley and picked the least hideous of the bunch, it still had a dozen yards of itchy tulle. And mega beads. And bows. And ick. I felt certain anything Esther came up with would be an improvement.
At least, I was hoping.
I held tight to the notion and chatted for a few minutes about a new stomach wrap I’d seen at my tanning spa just last week. Esther promised to try it (she tried everything on the off chance that her vamp DNA would give out and she would somehow, some-way morph into Nicole Ritchie).
“Thanks, Lil. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah.” I summoned my courage and stopped her just before she hung up the phone. “Wait.” I licked my lips as the question formed. “Suppose I did have a cat, which I don’t. But just suppose I had this friend who had a cat and he kept clawing at her favorite leather sofa. What sort of bottle would my friend buy to discourage the bad behavior?”
“Are we talking scratches or gouges?”
“Slicing and dicing.”
“Get an extra large garden variety, fill it with water, and nail the little bugger every time he even looks at the furniture.”
I smiled. “I can do that.”
“There’s a new sheriff in town,” I told Killer later that night as I held up the bottle I’d picked up on the way home. “And her name is Lil Marchette.”
Twenty-five
“I don’t see how this is going to help me have a great date,” Word said as I attacked his hair with a comb and a bottle of detangler Thursday evening.
We were in my office, Word seated in front of me in a chair. He eyed his reflection in the small mirror I’d set up on my desk. Evie had left the moment I’d walked in with my bag of tricks.
“I know you want to help him but trust me. He’s a lost cause.”
Since I didn’t know the meaning of the
word, I’d walked into my office to face Thursday night’s challenge: Turning Word from scary into succulent—or at least palatable.
“Trust me,” I told him, setting down my comb and reaching for the bottle of spray. “Women love a man with good hair.”
“I don’t want her to love me.”
“Trust me. Women are more likely to like a man with good hair.” I sprayed a full minute before grabbing my comb. “Did you wash it like I asked?” I struggled to pull the comb through but it wouldn’t budge.
“I washed it three days ago. I didn’t see a reason to wash it again.”
“No, no. Of course not. Then you might actually smell like soap instead of an old gym sock.” I thumped him. “What’s wrong with you? You have a date tomorrow night. Aren’t you the least bit excited?”
“Of course I am. I’ve had a walking boner for days. Ouch.” He rubbed his head where I’d thumped him again. “What did you do that for?”
“Can’t you think about anything besides sex? Don’t you want a woman to admire you? To appreciate you? To look into your eyes and fall head over heels?”
“I’d rather have sex.”
I blew out an exasperated breath and drank in another to help slow my pounding heart. Easy, I told my inner vamp. Do not attack. He’s just a kid.
“That or a blow job.”
My fangs slithered forward and I hissed, and then I pinched his arm like a mother.
He yelped and nearly toppled the chair. “What’d you do that for?” he managed after several gulps and a few girly whimpers.
“Because you’re an idiot. I’ve found the perfect woman for you and you’re going to screw it up because you can’t think beyond your dick.” Human males.
Then again, I’d just described every male from made vamp to born, were to demon.
I drew another deep breath. I wasn’t going to pinch. Or thump. Or kick. Or rip his balls off. No, I was going to reason with him. To appeal to him on his own level.
“Trust me,” I tried again, spritzing more detangler onto his spiked locks. “Women get extremely turned on by men with good hair. And good hygiene. And nice clothes—or at least clean ones. And they’ll practically orgasm on the spot if you open the door for them or look them in the eyes rather than the chest.” Okay, so I knew I was fudging the expectations a little, but I needed a surefire way to get Word’s attention.
His eyes brightened. Bingo. “You mean, she might actually come, too?”
It was clear Word hadn’t considered anything beyond his own good time. Another trait human men had in common with the other various species.
“As foreign as the concept is, yes, it’s possible. And highly likely if you play your cards right. And I can tell you one thing, if you think it feels good when you get off, it’s nothing compared to how you’re going to feel if she gets off, too.”
“No way.”
“Total way.”
He touched his hair and eyed his reflection before seeming to come to a conclusion. “This had better work or I’m disconnecting the entire docking station and the speakers.”
I smiled. “Like a charm.” I gave up my present course of action and opted for a new idea. I set the comb and detangler aside.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s what we’re doing.” I grabbed my purse and motioned him to follow me.
He pushed up from the chair. “What are we doing?”
“Finding a shower.”
His eyes lit and he gave me a hopeful look. “Are you going to get in with me?”
“Not without a decontamination suit. Now move.”
I took him to my place, herded him into a hot, steaming shower, handed him shampoo and a bar of soap, and left Killer sleeping—er—guarding the door until I returned.
I headed several blocks over via furry pink bat (I didn’t trust Killer’s guard dog instincts and the thought of a naked and wet Word mucking around my apartment for any length of time made me sort of queasy) to Pierre Claude’s, a small men’s shop owned by one of my fave designers.
Pierre was a genius with cut and color, and also a born vamp. He wasn’t committed and I secretly suspected he was gay, which was another reason I liked him. Not because I prefer gay men in order to avoid investing in a real relationship (did I mention that I’d started watching Dr. Phil since I wasn’t sleeping very well?). No, I liked him because gays were as unheard of among born vamps as, say, matchmakers.
“So what are you looking for today?” Pierre asked me, flashing me a dazzling smile. He wore a tailored white shirt, black slacks, and trendy black cowboy boots. He had a tape measure hanging around his neck. “Top? Bottom?” His eyes lit. “Undies?”
“You don’t do undies.”
He nodded. “I do as of yesterday.” He pulled a pair of red silk nothings from his pocket. “What do you think?”
“If you can’t wear it, you could always floss with it.”
He grimaced and stared at the underwear. “Oh, well. It’s still in the cooking phase. You want chic? Ultra chic?”
“Something simple.”
“Jeans?”
“That would be good. Maybe a silk shirt or something clingy to show off muscle definition.”
He growled and wiggled his eyebrows before reaching for a few suggestions. “These might work.”
I eyed the black button-up. “Too Tim McGraw-ish.”
He pulled out a red one and I shook my head. “Too Tom Jonesish.”
He pulled out a blue spotted shirt and I grimaced. “Too Blues Cluesish.”
“Why don’t I leave you alone and go get a glass of champagne?”
“I’d love a glass.”
“Not for you, darling. For me.” He shook his head and muttered “Female vampires,” as he walked away. “This is why I’d sooner castrate myself.”
Um, thanks a lot for that image.
I spent the next few minutes flipping through his latest collection until I’d found a few possibilities. I handed over my credit card and headed back home. I arrived to find Word wrapped in nothing but a table, plopped on my sofa, Killer curled up in his lap.
“You were supposed to keep him contained,” I told the cat.
For a few scratches behind the ear and an extra can of cat food, I’ll jump ship for anybody.
“You wouldn’t happen to have on underwear, would you?”
“Nope.”
I swallowed against the sick feeling in my stomach and tossed the clothes at him.
“What’s this?”
“There’s an outfit for you to wear tonight to sort of acclimate your body to decent fabric, and another for tomorrow night.” When he continued to stare, I added, “It’s your new look.”
“But I like my old look.”
“You’re the only one.” I pointed toward the bathroom. “Go.”
When Word started to grumble, I rolled my eyes heavenward and gave my loudest, most ear-splitting “Yessssssssssss!” followed by lots of panting and moaning and a long, shuddering sigh.
His ears turned red and I was pretty sure he’d decided to change. Just to emphasize my point, I grabbed the super deluxe water bottle.
Killer took one look, jumped to the floor, and scrambled for cover.
“You wouldn’t,” Word told me.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?”
He made a beeline for the bathroom to change while I disinfected the couch.
“What do you think?” he asked a few minutes later when he returned.
I swept a glance from his head to his toes and tried not to grimace (at the toes, not the in between). “You look hot.”
“Really?” Hope fueled the one tiny word and I actually went sort of soft. Sure, he was obsessed with sex. But he was young. Inexperienced. Deep down he really and truly did want to find that special someone and his insecurity was proof.
“Really.” I stepped forward and ran my fingers through his freshly washed hair. “You look good with the whole wet head look. I say we leave it as is.” My
gaze dropped to his face. The peach fuzz that had covered his chin was now gone, his skin freshly shaven and slapped with aftershave. He smelled good, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m really proud of you.” I slid my arms around him and gave him a sisterly hug.
Which lasted all of five seconds before I heard his voice.
“Enough to have sex with me?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.” I finished my hug, stepped away, and left him to gather his dirty clothes from my bathroom while I answered my cellphone.
A quick glance at the caller ID and my heart kicked into overdrive.
“What is it?” I blurted the moment I hit TALK.
“We have a lead,” Ash told me.
“You’re kidding. Really?”
“One of Moe’s contacts ID’d Ty. He claims he saw him with a man a few weeks ago right around the time he would have disappeared. He’s giving us a sketch and we’re going to see if we can trace the man’s identity. Moe’s contact said he heard Ty call the guy something that sounded like Morgan. Or Borgan. Something like that. Does that ring a bell?”
My mind rushed back through the scene, but I couldn’t come up with anything solid. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Well, think about it and call me if you make any kind of a connection or remember anything else. And FYI, you can fire up your computer. You’ll be getting a new client soon.”
I perked up despite my anxiety. “You’re lonely and ready to settle down?”
“No, but Moe and Debbie had such great sex last night that she doesn’t want to settle for any more losers. She’s giving up the profession and going back to college full-time. And she’s going to let you match her up.”
“Great,” I said, but I didn’t actually feel it in my gut. In my mind, I was still rehashing the episode with Ty and the shadow. “I give a finder’s fee.”
“Sex?”
I snapped out of worried mode and frowned. “What is it with males and sex?”
“Sex makes the world go ’round, sweetheart.”
“So sayeth a man. A free profile and one potential match. And I’ll throw in a dozen doughnuts. Take it or leave it.”
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 16