Dead End Dating (16 page)

“H
e’s human.” My mother took a long gulp of her prehunt Chardonnay and eyed the old man who sat on the imported Belgian sofa next to Louisa Wilhelm.
“Human.”

“Mrs. Wilhelm didn’t specify that she wanted a vamp.”

“I would think that much would go without saying.”

“Not necessarily. For all I know, she could swing both ways. Besides, she’s not looking for an eternity mate. She merely wanted an escort for the soiree.” I let out a little of the breath I’d been holding. At least she hadn’t commented on his age.

“True, but the term
escort
usually implies accompanying someone somewhere. Didn’t you have to help the man onto the sofa?”

“He was a little stiff after the long ride.”

“Dear, he’s stiff because he’s just this side of rigor mortis.”

“He’s not
that
old.”

“He’s human, dear. If he’s over thirty, may he rest in peace.” She shook her head and took another huge gulp of her wine. “What were you thinking? Louisa is the chairwoman of this year’s event. She can’t attend the soiree with an old, decrepit human on her arm.”

“She won’t. This is all part of the process. There’s a trial-and-error period involved in making a perfect match.”
Not,
but my mother didn’t know that, and I was grasping. “That’s why I offer three free dating prospects. Third time is a guaranteed charm.”

“At least he isn’t a made vampire. Did I tell you that Kendra St. Claire has taken up with one? The next thing you know, she’ll be making one of her own.”

A serious no-no among upper-crust born vamps as far as my parents and their hoity-toity friends were concerned. See, made vampires were a liability since they fit the stereotype of a vampire.

It was a made vamp who’d inspired
Dracula.
And
Blades I, II
and
III
? Made. The
Underworld
? Ma-ade.

“I can’t imagine what she’s thinking. Made vampires are all stragglers. The whole pathetic lot. And they certainly don’t know the meaning of the phrase
low profile.
They’ll be the reason for our demise. You mark my words.”

“Sounds a little hypocritical if you ask me. I mean, made vampires wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for us. It’s not their fault.” I know, I know. I had to be crazy to say such a thing to my M-O-T-H-E-R. She gave birth to me, for Pete’s sake. She labored and toiled for hours and hours. She endured
mucho
pain and suffering and for what? So that the object of all that pain and suffering could call her a hypocrite?

What can I say? I had the guilt thing down to an art.

My mother’s gaze narrowed. “What did you just say?”

“I said that I worship and adore you and I totally appreciate your sacrifice. Mrs. Wilhelm!” I cried before my mother could say anything more. I turned my brightest smile on the woman who glided toward me on a pair of black patent Dolce and Gabbana pumps. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

Louisa Wilhelm looked like a walking poster girl for vampires. She had long, straight black hair and eyes as black as obsidian. In my opinion, she needed a bronzer in a major way and a little neutral lip gloss to kill the whole crimson thing she had going on with her mouth, but then I seriously doubted she gave a fig what I, or anyone else, thought. She wore a fitted black dress and a diamond choker and a look that said she was royally pissed.

“Is this some sort of joke? Because if it is, I have to warn you that I don’t have a sense of humor.”

I never would have guessed.

“This is the ice-breaker prospect. See, a lot of clients who come to me aren’t really socially inclined.” When she frowned, I added, “Not that you have that problem, but Dead End Dating has a foolproof system by which we match up all of our clients.” I repeated the whole spiel about the trial-and-error period, and I added a line about the first prospect being someone with whom the client could relax. “Tonight is all about letting your guard down and just enjoying yourself. Talk. Reminisce. Bernie was stationed in Europe during World War I. You love Europe.”

“That is true.” A faraway look touched her eyes. “But I can hardly take him to the soiree.” She glanced back at the old man who sat on the sofa, his head tilted back, his mouth open. His nostrils flared as he snored softly. “He creaks when he walks, so dancing is completely out of the question. And I certainly can’t bite him. Stale blood gives me cramps.” She let loose an exasperated sigh. “I guess I could wake him and inquire about the Louvre. Do you suppose he’s been there?”

“Hasn’t everyone?” I smiled. “Just have a seat and visit and rest assured that you’ll have the perfect escort for the soiree.”

“When do I get to meet him?”

“Soon. But it’s the third time that’s the charm, so that means you have two prospects to go through first. It’s sort of like skulking the countryside for a rare blood type.” When hanging by the skin of one’s fangs, it was always good to throw out a hunting analogy. “You have to bypass a few O and AB positives to get to the really good stuff. Not that it’s time wasted, because you’ve sharpened your skills.”

“True.”

I poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. “Now head back over there and practice your conversation technique.”

“Oh, all right. But I expect results.”

“And I guarantee them.” I smiled, and then I frowned as my mother came up next to me, a good-looking male vamp on her arm.

“I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I invited Jon Naples to join us for the hunt. He’s been wanting to meet you. His fertility rating is off the charts.”

Ugh. Here we go again.

“He’s not really my type,” I said into my cell phone later that evening as I walked up the steps leading to the front door of my building.

“He’s got fangs, a penis, and a bloodline that can be traced back to Napoleon I. What else do you need?”

I paused on the top step and rummaged in my purse for my keys. “Nothing. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know. He sort of smells funny.”

“Funny?”

“Like bourbon-soaked sponge cake.”

“Actually, the bourbon part is your father’s fault. They had a few drinks while we were waiting for you.”

Which left the second half of the equation. Sponge cake and cotton candy?
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

“He’s a little too tall,” I blurted, eager to fill the expectant silence. I felt for my keys and promised myself for the umpteenth time that I would trade fashion for one of those compartmentalized bags my mother carried.

“So you’ll wear your shoes a little higher. You like high heels.”

“True, but I still don’t think he’s right for me.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got brown eyes. I hate brown eyes.”

“You have brown eyes, dear.”

“Uh—yeah, and I happen to wear contacts.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I don’t think this infatuation you have with the Barbie image is healthy.”

“I’m not infatuated with Barbie.”

“Of course you are. The blond highlights. The blue contacts. We all know that humans can’t resist falling victim to society and peer pressure, but we’re different, dear. We’re strong. We’re superior. You’re embarrassing yourself. Embrace who you are.”

“I do embrace who I am. I just like to tweak a little.”

“Born vampires don’t tweak.”

“Mom, I really need to go.”

“You’re embarrassing us all,” she repeated again. “Me. Your father. Your brothers. The entire Marchette family.”

“I
really
need to go.”

“Luckily, Jon is willing to look the other way and ignore your eccentricities in the interest of making a good match.”

“That’s admirable, but unnecessary. I can make my own match.”

“Another ninety-year-old human who keeps losing his dentures? That’s hardly appropriate son-in-law material.”

“Actually, I’ve got a totally good-looking prospect standing right next to me.” Sort of. My nostrils flared and the scent of leather spiraled through my senses. “He’s tall, dark, and handsome, and he’s definitely got a penis.” Not that I would ever make that acquaintance firsthand, but a girl could dream.

Excitement filled my mother’s voice. “What about his bloodline?”

“What?”

“His bloodline? How old is he and where is he from?”

“You’re breaking up, Mom.” I made a few crackling sounds for good measure. “I’ll…you…to…evening…” I said in a garbled voice and hit the end button before she could reply.

I slid the phone into my purse and tuned my senses to the man standing nearby. “Do you mind not breathing down my neck?”

“First off, I don’t breathe, sugar.” The deep timbre of his voice vibrated inside my head. “Second, I’m a good ten yards away from your neck.”

Unfortunately.

I squelched the thought and tried to calm the sudden pounding of my heart.

“Do you make it a habit of sneaking up on unsuspecting women?”

“You’re a vampire. Unsuspecting doesn’t touch you.”

No, but you could.

Another squelch.

I turned and gazed down the sidewalk. He stood several houses down, his back against a tree, his arms folded as he stared in my direction.

“So what brings you to the neighborhood?”

He grinned, slow and easy, and I felt a quiver down south.

Major squelch.

“You.” He pushed away from the tree and, in the blink of an eye, stood directly in front of me, his gaze dark and mesmerizing as he stared deep into my eyes. “I need you, Lil.”

“I
need to talk to you,” he corrected once he realized what he’d said.

Thankfully,
I told myself. Otherwise I would have had to send him on his way because I didn’t
do
made vampires, even ones who needed me. Even tall, good-looking ones who smelled like fresh air and freedom.

I was about to drop to my knees and cry when another thought struck and I smiled. “You changed your mind.”

His brows drew together. “About what?”

“Letting me hook you up. You realized how right I was and how lonely you were and you decided to stop being so stubborn and let Fate work her magic.”

His gaze narrowed. “You
are
a vampire, aren’t you? Because if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were one of those wannabes.”

“These fangs are the real thing, buddy.” I gave him my best offended look despite the strange warmth bubbling deep down inside. Of course I was a vampire. Always had been. Always would be.
Always.

I ignored the depressing thought and focused on Mr. Tall, Dark, and No-No. “You need a social life.”

“And you need to keep a watchful eye on your clients.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wanda Ellen Shriver. Twenty-nine. Single. No children. Moved here from Wisconsin last year to take an entry-level job at a publishing house. She went out on a date set up by Meet and Match on Wednesday and hasn’t been heard from since. Her boss thought she was sick, but when he stopped by to check on her this morning, she wasn’t at home. He alerted the police.”

“Meet and Match?” I recognized the name of the Lower East Side dating service I’d seen advertised in several of the local papers. “They are
so
yesterday’s news. They don’t even use a personality profile. They just invite a bunch of singles to these meet-and-greet parties and let the clients match themselves.” I shook my head. “If people were good on their own, they wouldn’t need a dating service.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Oh, no I’m not. They just throw everyone together, no rhyme or reason, and see who clicks. Talk about old school. That’s why I’ve spent weeks perfecting the Dead End Dating questionnaire. To save my clients the time and trouble of pairing up with losers. Or, in this case, a kidnapper/possible murderer wanted by the FBI.”

He looked like he wanted to strangle me almost as much as he wanted to smile. “You took the long route, but I think you got it.”

“You were right. This guy
is
targeting the most populated cities.”

He nodded. “The local authorities aren’t as convinced. Since the MO is a little different—he used a dating service instead of the singles ad—they’re telling themselves this might be an isolated case.”