Dead End Dating (27 page)

When I walked back into the house, I noted that Wilson had left. Lucky for him. While I’d stopped shaking, I was still wound up and not in the mood to take any crap.

Jack had been rewarded with five extra vacation days after pouncing on Max near the pecan orchard—following one heck of a chase. My youngest brother sat on a nearby sofa celebrating his victory with his latest minion—Dolly something or other, a buxom bartender from Greenwich. Rob stood across the room with my father. My mother had gone off in search of a fresh bottle of AB negative.

“What’s up with you?” Max asked as I settled on the sofa next to him.

“Why do you men have to totally suck?”

“What?”

I shook my head. “Never mind.” I pinned him with a stare. “Thanks for taking so long. I could be back in Manhattan by now.”

He grinned. “I had to put up a fight. What sort of prey just rolls over and surrenders?”

I nodded toward Jack and the woman holding his wineglass. “Dolly?”

“Okay, but she’s human. I had to give Jack a run for his money. You’re just jealous because you got caught in the first fifteen minutes.” He winked before turning to my mother, who handed him a glass of AB negative.

“So what happened to Delphina?” my mother asked him.

Delphina was my oldest brother’s current live-in. She taught human sexuality at NYU, and she was—you guessed it—human.

“We’re taking a break. We’re tired of each other.”

“Of course you are.” She cupped his cheek. “You’re too young to be tied down, dear, much less with a human. This is the time for you to spread your wings. To soar. You’ll have plenty of time for commitment later with a born vampire who’s more suited for you.”

Yep. I was jealous of Max, all right. But not because he made a better
it
person.

“So where are Thirston and Theodore?” My mom’s gaze met mine as she handed me a glass. “I haven’t seen them since we started the hunt.”

“They, um, left. Something about business.”

“On a Sunday night?”

“Probably some super-duper emergency. Say, Mom”—I pointed past her—“is that a new vase?”

“Why, yes.” She smiled and walked over to pick up the large ornate container. “My club had an auction, and I picked this up. It’s from a very small village near the Riviera…”

She gave us the full history of the vase before going to retrieve another glass.

“You are so lucky,” I said once she was out of earshot.

“There’s no luck involved. It takes practice to be as cunning as me. I think. I concentrate. I
blend.
”

“You also pee standing up.”

When my meaning hit, he winked. “What can I say? I’ve got it going on.”

“Going?” My mother returned with another glass and handed it to me. “Who’s going somewhere?”

“I didn’t say…” His words trailed off as his stare collided with mine. “Actually, um, I really should get going. I had a delivery of ink toner that came yesterday, and I haven’t had a chance to check in any of it.”

“But it’s early.”

“Which gives me plenty of time to get those ink toners organized. Lil offered to help.”

“You did?” My mother’s gaze swiveled to me.

“I did?” I glanced at my brother. “Oh, yeah,” I said when realization hit, “I did. Just for tonight. I’m not working there,” I added when I saw the excitement light my mother’s dark eyes. “I’m just helping my big brother out this once because he desperately needs me. Don’t you, Max?”

“I don’t know if I would say desp—
ouch
!” He rubbed his arm where I’d pinched the hell out of it. “Yeah, I need her.”

“Desperately?” I smiled.

“Hey, I’m the one helping you—yeah.” He grunted and rubbed his thigh this time. “Desperately.”

“I ought to make you walk back,” he told me when we climbed into the black Hummer he’d bought last year by selling his free vacation days back to my father. “You’re vicious, you know that?”

“Am not. You’re just a big sissy. And speaking of sissies, can you do me a favor?”

“No.” He keyed the ignition.

“Thanks. I need to stop off at Viola Hamilton’s.”

“Are you shitting me? In case you haven’t heard, she’s the enemy. Dad’s so wound up about the golf ball that he actually talked about hiring a professional sniper to go in, retrieve the ball, and take out anyone who gets in his way.”

“Dad overreacts. He should try asking her nicely.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I don’t know. She seemed like a decent enough woman.”

“And when did you get this impression?”

“When I brought her a peace offering the other day.”

“As in money, gold, your firstborn?”

“A meat loaf, doofus.”

“So what? Did you leave the pan or something?”

“Actually, I left a client.” I fastened my seat belt and settled back into the leather seat. “And I need to get him back.”

“H
e looks…different.” I stood in Viola Hamilton’s marbled foyer and stared at Francis.

“Don’t we all?” Viola waved her hand. She looked immaculate in a clingy black Christian Dior dress that hugged her from breasts to midcalf. High-heeled black sandals completed the out?t. Bright red lipstick shaped her plump lips, and dark eyeliner rimmed her eyes.

“He looks really different,” I said. Francis could barely stand up. He slumped against the wall. He had huge shadows beneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept since I’d dropped him off. His shirt had been buttoned up all wrong, and his khaki trousers were wrinkled.

“To hell with different,” Max said, peering over my shoulder. “He looks
orange.
”

Bye-bye, pasty face; hello, Tony the Tiger.

“Camille, I told you you used too much bronzer,” Viola called down the hall. “See”—she shifted her attention back to me—“he kept turning such a bright pink every time one of us got too close or, heaven forbid, tried to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t do interaction well.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. Anyway, I swear, we all thought his face was going to explode. Since nothing seemed to stop the blushing, we thought maybe we could camouflage it. Camille—that’s Camille Rhinehart of the New England Rhineharts—just bought this new do-it-yourself spray tanning gun, and so we thought we’d try it out. But I told her she was using too much bronzer and not enough base tan.”

“Tan?” Max scratched his head. “He’s
orange.
”

“He’s Tahitian,” Viola corrected. “Tahitian Sunrise. It’s a great shade provided you get the base right.” She raised her voice toward the end of the sentence and we heard a faint “I got it right. I didn’t have much to work with” from somewhere inside the house.

“So he’s still blushing?” I asked.

“Well, technically we haven’t actually seen him blush since last night. But I would be willing to bet he still is. That, or he’s traded one bad habit for another. Leona Stallenburk—that’s the Philadelphia Stallenburks rather than the ones out of Chicago—peeled off her clothes a few hours ago and paraded around in front of him to sort of test the waters. To make it even more difficult, she challenged him to a game of poker. While we didn’t see any actual color change, he started blinking. And then they started to actually play and that only made it worse.” She leaned in front of him, whispered a few seductive phrases, and licked her lips suggestively.

Sure enough, he started blinking as if he were sending Morse code with his eyelids.

“Oh, no.” The blushing was bad enough, but blinking?

“Then again”—Viola shrugged—“maybe it’s just a nervous tick reserved especially for us.” She drew a deep breath. “When midnight strikes and the moon is full, we can be quite a handful. Perhaps instead of shocking him out of his shell, we’ve just fortified the walls. And speaking of walls”—she turned and retrieved a piece of paper from a small marble side table—“give this to your father and tell him to keep his stupid golf game on his side of the hedges.”

I stared at the receipt from Connecticut Glass and Mirror.

“He broke my window and shattered my favorite painting with his stupid golf ball. Of course, I expect him to pay for both.” She retrieved another sheet of paper. “This is the insurance policy on my Rembrandt. He can either replace the frame and glass or the entire piece. His choice. And”—she turned and grabbed a small brown bag—“tell him here’s his precious ball.” When I started to open the bag, she held up a hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. See, when the ball came flying through and hit the painting, I was a little out of sorts, if you know what I mean.”

Full moon. Werewolf. Got it.

I remembered my mother’s comment about Viola mistaking the wayward golf ball for a game of fetch.

“Exactly,” Viola said as if she read my thoughts. Which, of course, she hadn’t. Werewolves didn’t have telepathic abilities. Did they?

“It’s a small ball,” she went on. “So when I opened my mouth to catch it, I swallowed it.” She shook her head. “Your father, being the unreasonable man that he is, kept demanding I give it back even though I explained the situation in detail.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “The man just wouldn’t listen. Kept ranting about my being a thief, which I most certainly am not, and how he’s going to file charges and have me arrested. So here.” She nodded toward the bag. “There it is.”

I let her explanation sink in for a full thirty seconds before my nostrils flared and reality zapped me. I quickly handed the bag off to Max, who held it at arm’s length.

“Say, Miss Hamilton, have you met my brother, Max?”

“It’s Viola, and no, I don’t think I have. But I have seen him before.” She swept a gaze from Max’s dark head to the tips of his Gucci loafers. “You’re even more attractive up close.”

“If you like bossy and pretentious,” I said.

“I like.” She winked at Max before turning her gaze back to me. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. I’ve met many vampires—and had many of them,” she added, her gaze drifting to Max again, “but I’ve never run into one quite like Francis. Where did you find him?”

“Moe’s.”

“That explains a lot.”

You’re telling me.

“Hopefully he’ll stop the blinking sometime soon,” she added. “If not, I know this really great cosmetic surgeon who could actually sew his eyelids open.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I need him in tip-top shape by this coming Saturday, and I doubt the swelling would be down by then.”

“Probably not.”

“So, um, how long is that stuff supposed to last?”

“Four weeks. Five if you’re not prone to flaky skin.”

Four?

“At least you won’t notice the blushing until then.”

“That’s true. Take care, Miss Hamilton. Come on, Frank.” I grabbed the exhausted vampire and steered him down the front walk. I smiled as I helped him into the back of Max’s Hummer. He collapsed on the seat.

“What about Britney and the twins?” he managed to mumble.

“They’re fine.”

“Did you feed them while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Water them?”

“Yes.”

“Take them out to tinkle?”

“Yes, and it’s pee, not tinkle. Male vamps don’t say tinkle.”

“They say piss,” Max added from the front seat. “At least that’s what I say.”

“Okay.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

I climbed into the front seat beside my brother.

“I’m not an expert, but I know badass vampires aren’t orange,” Max said as he slid the key into the ignition and steered around the circular drive.

“No,” I said. “They’re not.”

“But you’re smiling.”

“Because I think the idea has some merit.” Let’s face it. It was either smile or cry, and I’d never liked to play the helpless, weepy female. Not in front of other people, that is. Besides, I hadn’t suggested a tanning appointment because born male vamps didn’t have to tan to look mega-hot. But why not? And, if done right, it
would
disguise the blushing.

I glanced at him and noted the strange pallor, and hoped with all my vamp heart that Dirkst could manage to fix him. Otherwise…

Not going there, I told myself.

I would not consider failure, or the possibility that I would have to go crawling back to my folks because the entire vamp community blackballed me for handing one of their own over to a spray-happy werewolf who’d painted him Tahitian Sunrise.

So much for not going there.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, flipped on the radio, and did my best to focus on the Black-Eyed Peas pouring from the stereo system.