Immortal Matchmakers, Inc.

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Thanks, but I—”

  “You will read it, or I will return later when the children are awake. With the children, of course.”

  Andrus blinked. “I’ll read it. I promise.” Please don’t come back.

  “Very good.” Roberto glanced at the corner of the room. “Come, Minky. Let us hurry and procure a new plaything for my evil seeds.” Roberto disappeared from the room, sifting to wherever ancient ex-pharaohs shopped for evil pets for evil children.

  A shiver rolled through Andrus, realizing that Minky had just been in his room. I hope they got rid of her fleas. It was said that being bitten felt like getting stabbed with a knife. And they were invisible, too.

  He walked over to the window with the view of a smog-coated L.A. and opened the letter. It was from Cimil, and it better fucking explain why he was here:

  Dear King of Asshats,

  Since you bombed big time with Samantha, as I knew you would because I know everything, I have already arranged for a second date tonight with Alexis. She is a nice girl who enjoys men with good hygiene and clothes that do not reek of death. She is also partial to men who do not threaten to take her to their hotel room to be murdered.

  Murdered? He’d simply told the other woman, Samantha, that he would make her scream…oh. Oops. He supposed his looks and assassin-like vibe might have given the woman the wrong impression. He read on,

  I strongly suggest, and by suggest, I mean you shall obey or suffer my wrath—I strongly suggest that you tidy yourself up and behave like a gentleman this evening.

  Andrus scratched the back of his head, wondering what Cimil’s endgame was. He had agreed to go on one date. One. With a woman who might be his second-chance mate. Now she wanted him to go on another? That had not been the deal.

  He flipped over the page to read,

  That is a good question, Andrus. The first date was merely a test, to see what we were up against. Holy clown-crap, you’re a mess. This next date is your second opportunity to fine-tune your manly skills of wooing before our big immortal mixer bash in eight days. I’ve arranged to have your new mate be there, but you will have to work to win her over since her heart will not be automatically handed to you like the keys to dear old mom’s castle.

  She knows I have a castle? he thought, and continued reading,

  Yes, I know about the castle. And about what’s in the basement. Really? Really? And you call yourself a warrior? Any whoodles, don’t fuck up this match. I have foreseen that Zac will flip out because he probably spends too much time in the mortal world. And flipped-out gods do evil things like destroy planets and pluck out eyeballs and gonads—specifically yours.

  Andrus gave it a moment of thought. He didn’t believe her little scare tactic about Zac, and he didn’t want this. He didn’t want love or a mate, now that he’d had a few days to think this all over. Nothing ever worked out well, and he was only setting himself up for disappointment. No, thank you.

  Alrighty, if a deity losing his marbles, ripping off your manhood, and killing everything on the planet will not persuade you to get on the Cimi-train for a ride to everlasting love, then I would like to remind you of the following: Matty’s happiness depends on your success. If you fail, she will never love as she is meant to. She will never be loved as she is meant to.

  Andrus sat down on the plush bed, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about all that. How had he forgotten? Probably because you try to ignore anything that comes out of Cimil’s lying mouth?

  No, asshole. It wasn’t a lie. As I told you long ago (in that other story you appear in) Matty is destined to grow up and marry your son, her mate. Unlike you, she will not be given a second chance. Have a fan-fucking-tastic date.

  Sincerely,

  Cimil, milk jugs for the spawn of mankind’s destruction

  Andrus crumpled up the letter and chucked it in the wastepaper basket across the enormous room.

  “Sonofabitch!” How did he end up in these messes? Now he had to become mated in eight days. With his luck, the woman would be a heartless maniac like his first mate. And who the hell ever heard of having to “woo” a mate? Was this some perverse prank? Mates were your ideal. Your other cosmic half. The cream and sugar to your coffee. Of course, his mate history had been an exception to the rules to begin with. Why stop now?

  He blew out a breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  He envisioned Matty’s sweet little face and what a bright, intelligent woman she would grow up to be. Then he imagined her withering away on the vine, without anyone to love for eternity.

  He shook his head. Very well. I will do my practice date tonight and woo away.

  The question was, did he really know how?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “No. No. No. I’m going to lose my apartment?” Twenty-three-year-old Sadie Townsend looked at the eviction notice in her hand and sighed. She had exactly fifteen days to pay the rent or she’d be thrown out of her closet, aka studio apartment the size of a steam trunk with horrible brown shag carpet and 1970s pea-green kitchenette.

  What am I going to do?

  She didn’t want to go crawling back to her parents in Cleveland, where she would be forced to endure the endless stream of lectures. Why didn’t you finish college? When will you grow up and get a real job that pays the bills? Why can’t you stay in Cleveland and pursue your career?

  Because actors didn’t make careers in Cleveland. They moved to L.A. or New York.

  She scrubbed her face with two hands and groaned. She could probably pick up a few more shifts between the two restaurants she worked at, but it wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to work double-time, including day shifts, but if she did that, she wouldn’t have time for the auditions that she just knew were coming. Signing up for a shift and not showing wasn’t an option, either. It would cost her the job completely.

  She stared at the notice and ran her hand over the top of her head, twisting her long ponytail in her hand. There have to be some G-rated ways to make a couple thousand. All she needed was to make it another month or two. She’d gone on four casting calls recently, all for speaking parts in different movies where she was a perfect fit both for the personality of the roles and the physical description—fair complexion, medium build, auburn hair, and brown eyes. I’m so close to something big. I can feel it.

  Her phone rang and she jumped. It was buried somewhere in her bed. She threw the floral sheets and blankets to the floor, following the sound.

  “There you are, you little shit.” She looked at the screen and felt her hopes fizzle. “Hi, Carlos.” She listened to the owner of the restaurant she worked at. “Yeah, I can come in early tonight.” She listened. “And stay late. Thanks.” What the hell. Extra hours were extra hours.

  She hung up and went into her postage-stamp-sized bathroom, with old cigarette stains on the ’70s-orange tub and sink, to get ready for work. Either she got a good-paying job acting or she’d be homeless.

  And done with L.A.

  Sadly, her friends slash acquaintances weren’t in much better shape. Most of them—okay, all of them—were struggling actors, too. Four or five guys or girls sharing a small apartment. Then there was the reality that many couldn’t be depended on for help anyway. A lot of the folks she met at work or in her acting group would up and leave L.A., never to be heard from again. She supposed it was the reality of pursuing a career in Hollywood. Many couldn’t take the rejections.

  I could reconsider Tim’s offer. He’d asked her to move in with him, but they just hadn’t known each other very long. Two months. On the other hand, he was a nice steady guy who owned a gallery over in Malibu—exactly the kind of man she should date. They’d met when she’d been hired to serve wine at one of the gallery’s big openings. And when she said “big opening,” she meant it. Vaginas everywhere. A huge walk-through vagina sculpture that was supposed to give the feeling of being born, talking robotic vaginas sitting on a sofa and discussing Plato
on a hidden speaker loop, and vagina beanbag chairs. There were so many vaginas, she’d wondered if that was what it felt like to be a player’s penis. When she actually shared the thought out loud, the man next to her started to laugh.

  “Welcome to my world,” he’d said.

  “Oh. So you’re a big dick, huh?”

  “I feel like it for having this show in my gallery—the artist is a friend of mine.”

  “He must really be into women.” She chuckled.

  “No. Just their vaginas,” he replied. “Ironic, because my friend is gay.”

  “Well, that sounds like the making of a good psychiatry patient.”

  He laughed, and before she left, he asked for her number, which thrilled her. The man was positively beautiful—dark eyes, dark skin, lean and muscular. Around date number four, after he’d given her a very strange evening of sex where he kept telling her to eat him up, he asked her to move in. Regardless of the strange pillow talk, she wasn’t ready. And oddly, every time she started to have second thoughts about dating him, he’d show up at her work or at her door. Then he’d kiss her, and she’d feel all tingly and into him again. It was strange. So strange.

  No. You are definitely not moving in with that guy. In fact, she needed to dump Tim, now that she thought about it. She didn’t quite feel safe around him. After work. I’ll do it after work. Yes, it was the right choice. She needed her life cleared of any distractions so she could focus on two things: getting a job to save her apartment and not losing faith in her dream.

  Easier said than done. She didn’t know how much more of the pressure and rejections she could take.

  Don’t think that way. You can figure this out, Sadie. Just have faith.

  ~~~

  Later that evening, a few hours into her shift at the churrascaria, or Brazilian steak house, three of the passadores, or “meat servers,” decided not to show for the dinner rush shift.

  Real nice, guys. Strangely, not a one had mentioned that they’d be ditching work when everyone went for drinks after closing last night. Probably decided to drive to Baja. The three boneheads were roomies, notorious flakes, and big-time surfers.

  I don’t know who’s worse, surfers or actors. This was the fifth time something like this had happened since she started working there a few months ago. But they’d never had three no-shows in one night.

  Carlos, the owner, who was a middle-aged man with a fake tan and a bald head, shoved a thick leather belt with attached carving knife at her. “You will have to cover for them, Sadie. Go put on your costume.” Being from Brazil, he had a thick accent and conveniently forgot how to speak English whenever anyone tried to tell him no. Not that she was in a position to refuse him, but it might make sense to point out the obvious.

  “Carlos, you’ve never trained me to work with those knives. Do you really want me bleeding all over the customers?” She was a regular waitress, the one who served wine, side dishes, and anything else that was not meat roasted on a giant skewer and then sliced off in little strips right at the table. It required a steady hand used to working with a sharp knife and the ability to balance what was basically a sizzling hot sword stacked with meat in the other.

  “You are an actress,” Carlos said, “so act.” He headed into the back office to start calling every waitperson on the roster, but it was Friday night in L.A. He wouldn’t get anyone. That meant she and the two other waiters would have to cover the entire restaurant on the busiest damned night of the week. Not that the place was huge—about twenty-five tables total—but they were going to be swamped.

  I hope the guests are into finger food, ’cause one of them will be getting mine on their plate tonight. She headed to the kitchen locker room to find a costume and put on her passador belt.

  Ten minutes later, she emerged into the dining room, tucking her white blouse into her black gaucho pants—kind of like capris with some serious flare. She’d tied up her long brown hair into a tight bun for safety reasons, and then used a red scarf to hide the scratch marks on her neck. She’d been waking up with them all over her body lately, the results of stress and nightmares, she guessed.

  She turned the corner and slammed right into something warm that smelled like sinful manly deliciousness—leather and freshly cut wood and some other floral notes she couldn’t pinpoint.

  When her gaze traveled up, up, up, two bright turquoise-blue eyes stared down at her with amusement.

  “Oh God,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She jerked her hands back from the man and watched a devilish smile form on his two sexy lips. With the short black beard he sported, his mouth looked like a sexual centerpiece, created for serious adoration.

  “No worries,” he said, with a slightly accented voice as deep as the ocean and as silky as her black panties.

  Panties? What panties? Hers had just melted off.

  Sadie tried to pull her eyes away, but looking at his face was addictive. He’s so goddamned beautiful. Slightly high cheekbones, square jaw, straight nose with a faded scar across the bridge. That short dark hair was kind of a mess, like he’d just showered and dried it with a towel, but the rest of him looked like sleek sex in a dark suit—tall, lean, and muscular, with an air of old-world sophistication. Or maybe not sophistication as much as it was…well, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Eh-hem,” a woman nearby cleared her throat, knocking Sadie back to reality.

  Reluctantly, Sadie peeled her eyes from the gorgeous, tall, godlike man and found a slender brunette with long hair, bulgy eyes—sort of like a reptile might have—wearing a skimpy black dress, and hanging on his arm.

  How embarrassing. She’d totally been caught drooling over this woman’s date.

  “Can we be seated now?” the woman said in a bitchy tone.

  “Oh. Uh…” Sadie looked around the crowded restaurant. The hostess was busy serving water. Everyone was doing three jobs tonight. “Right this way.”

  She turned to show them to a table and caught the man not so subtly looking her over and smirking. Thanks, buddy. Like the outfit? Just wait until you see me with the sword. It would only get better.

  As she weaved through the tables, she tried not to pay too much attention to the tower of hot man oozing sex and raw male virility behind her. But something about the way he carried himself made it hard not to sneak a few peeks. He wore a very expensive-looking suit over that muscular frame, but he definitely didn’t act like some nouveau riche, superficial Beverly Hills douche bag that were a dime a dozen in this city. This guy even smelled different. And he definitely made her womanly bits perk up their little ears like a pack of tiny crotch wolves who scented something delicious in the air.

  Crotch wolves? Seriously, Sadie.

  “Here you go.” She gestured toward the small empty table, trying her best not to make eye contact with the man and his smoldering turquoise gaze.

  The woman’s face twisted with disgust. “I’m not sitting there. It’s too close to the kitchen. It’s all smoky.”

  It wasn’t smoky, but Sadie didn’t want to argue with a customer, and after drooling over the woman’s date, she kind of felt bad, too.

  “Not a problem,” Sadie said, “uh…” Crap! The only other table was across the restaurant in her section. Just great. Now I have to try not to drool on the guy while I serve his food. “Right this way.”

  While she walked them to the table, she felt his eyes on her the entire time, the air between them growing sexually electric. Or was she imagining it?

  “I’ll be right back with menus,” Sadie said nervously, once they reached the empty table in the corner. As she turned away, she noticed the reptile-eyed woman waiting for the huge, magnificent man to pull out her chair. Instead, he sat himself down, continuing to keep his eyes locked hungrily on Sadie.

  Oh, my god. That man is so hot. And he so should not be looking at me. Just like she should not be looking at him. The customer. On a date with a woman.

  When Sadie returned with menus, the woman
was snarling at her date, who seemed too occupied to give a crap, his cold, fierce gaze scanning the restaurant almost like he sensed some sort of threat. It instantly put her on edge.

  “Here are your menus,” Sadie said. “Have either of you had churrascaria before?” Sadie clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.

  The man looked up at her with those shockingly icy blue-green eyes, which he then slid down her body, slowly sweeping her from head to toe before settling on her breasts for a few seconds too long.

  “Yes,” he finally replied, in a deep sensual voice laced with an ominous vibe. “However, I like the sound of your voice. Continue talking.”

  Thinking he’d made a joke, Sadie laughed anxiously.

  He didn’t laugh with her. “Do I amuse you, woman?”

  She blinked. Had he really called her “woman,” like some medieval barbarian? “Uh, no sir. Sorry, sir. I was just thinking of a joke someone told me earlier.”

  He gave a cool nod. “Go on.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, we serve the meat here straight from the kitchen’s fire pit, right at your table. If you prefer, however, we also have menu items—a selection of vegetarian or fish entrees. The side dishes are also listed there. May I start you off with a salad?”

  He flashed her a stern look. “I meant the joke. I want to hear what is so damned funny.”

  “Andrus,” his date snapped, “let the woman get back to work.”

  His name was Andrus. Funny how it suited him—strong, classic, masculine. With a pinch of jerk.

  He slowly peeled his eyes off of Sadie and moved them to his date. “Silence, Alexis.”

  Oh. Make that a side helping of jerk. She never would put up with that kind of crap from a man no matter how hot and mysterious. On the other hand, something about this guy screamed dark and dangerous, like the sort of guy you should stay away from if you valued your life.