Dead End Dating (4 page)

He was obviously as cheap as he was dweebish.

“Half price for a full consultation and four prospective mates
and
we’ll pick up the tab for your first official date.” My smile widened so much I thought my face would crack. “All you have to do is fill out the Dead End Dating profile and wish list, and we’ll get started.”

I gave him my most impressive
you want to do this
look, which had been known to influence not only humans but the majority of unattached heterosexual male vamps. I even narrowed my eyes just a hint and threw in a dose of sexy, sultry
, you want to do this because you want to do me.

Not that I would ever allow him to lay one finger on me. I don’t do dweebs. Okay,
okay,
so at the moment I wasn’t doing anyone. But he didn’t know this, and, frankly, there are times when a woman has to use everything in her power to make things happen. Be it ancient
vampere
magic or a full-blown tease.

I expected a dutiful nod. At the very least, a little drooling. I
am
pretty hot.

He merely blinked his pale, watery eyes and stared at the flyer again.

Okay, so I really hadn’t done the sultry, sexy
do me
look in a long time. (Try one hundred and sixty-some odd years…He’d been fighting the Mexicans for truth, justice, and the Texas way, and I’d been a sucker—literally—for a man in boots and spurs.) I was obviously out of practice. That, or this guy wasn’t just a dweeb.

I eyed him. “You do like females, don’t you?”

He actually looked offended and relief swept through me. “You bet I do.”

“So what’s the holdup then? You should have dozens of little…What did you say your name was, again?”

“It’s Francoise. My friends call me Francis.”

It figured. “Look, Frank, a guy like you owes it to the entire community to continue the grand tradition of vampires everywhere. Procreation of our kind is a privilege. It’s a duty.” I clamped a hand over his puny shoulder and stared at him as if he were the last drop of AB negative at an all-you-can-eat vamp fest. “The survival of our race depends on you, Frank.”

He stood silent for a long moment. “I, um, never really thought about it that way,” he finally said.

“It’s about time you did. Every day, more and more humans are born. The world is overrun with them. Throw in several hundred thousand werewolves, a few thousand werevamps, and a hodgepodge of Others, and we’re talking a major population explosion. Meanwhile, strong, virile, fertile male vampires like yourself sit idly by and do nothing.”

Obviously, there were no strong, virile, fertile male vampires sitting idly by, but he didn’t seem to realize this, and I was definitely on a roll.

“Before you know it, we’ll be extinct,” I went on. “Fortune hunters the world over will be digging up vamps and selling their fossilized fangs on eBay.”

I was definitely making him think. I considered humming a few bars of Queen’s “We Are the Champions,” but I didn’t want to overkill. So I just tightened my grip on his shoulder as if the fate of the world rested with him and waited for his answer.

“It really would be nice not to be alone so much of the time. I mean, I’m not exactly alone alone. I do have Britney and the twins, but they—”

“I thought you didn’t have any little vampires running around?” I cut in. No way did this guy have baby vamps, much less twins. A male vampire had to have a fertility rating that went off the charts to dish out a set of twins. Which would have made him something of a legend. Which would mean I would have heard of Francis long before now.

“The twins are a pair of kittens and Britney’s my cockerdoodle.”

That made sense. Sort of. “Your
what
?”

“A cockerdoodle. You know, part cocker spaniel, part poodle. A cockerdoodle.”

“Please stop saying that word.”

“What word? Cockerdoodle? That’s what she is. A—”

“I know, I know. I just don’t want to hear it.”

He gave me an odd look. “She’s a real looker. I’ve had her for ten years now, and she’s won ten dog shows. Not that I care about the competitions themselves. I just enter her to have something to do in my free time.”

“That’s a great hobby. My mother has at least a half-dozen friends who live and breathe dog shows.” Of course, most of them had large-breed dogs. Dobermans, great Danes, huskies—the kind that ate cockerdoodles for breakfast. But that was beside the point. “Showing dogs is great common ground. You’ve got the whole primal animal appeal. On top of that, it’s competitive. I’m sure there are oodles of female vamps who are really into it.”

“What about scrapbooking? See, I save all the pictures and ribbons and things from Britney’s shows and keep them in several books. It’s sort of a hobby of mine, too.” He held up the bag with his Moe’s purchases. “That’s what this stuff is for.” Excitement lit his gaze. “I even bought pinking shears to bevel the edges on the pictures.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“I guess scrapbooking’s not very macho.”

“Not even close. So what do you do for a living?”

He shrugged. “Nothing much now. I used to be in real estate and I made a few good investments, but I haven’t done anything lately.”

“Real estate, huh?”

“My family owns a lot of land in the old country.”

“You own land in France?” He nodded. “What part?”

“Most parts.” He must have noticed my stunned look. “I go all the way back to Napoleon. The first one. We used to play chess together.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Deville. Francoise Deville.”

The name set off an alarm in my head, and my hands started to tremble. I hadn’t just stumbled upon a really old geek. I’d stumbled upon
the
really old geek. From the oldest family in France. And the richest. And that was saying a lot when you considered that we vamps had some major bucks.

“Where are your parents? Brothers? Sisters?”

“Most of my family is still in Paris. My parents live in the country.”

“Do you ever see them?”

He shook his head. “They don’t really like to have me around. I’m sort of the black sheep.”

“I hear ya on that one.” Boy, did I ever.

“You really think you can find me an eternity mate?” he asked after a long, silent moment, his voice quiet.

Hopeful.

Scrapbooking and cockerdoodles aside, the guy was sort of sweet.

In a pathetic, desperate, dysfunctional sort of way.

My chest hitched a little, and I suddenly felt even more determined. “You bet I can. Of course, I might have to
GQ
you up a bit first.” I pushed a strand of hair off his forehead and tried to envision him as Brad Pitt à la
Troy.

Okay, so forget Brad Pitt.

Maybe a young George Clooney.

All right, all right. George was out. But there was always Matt Damon.

I squinted my eyes and let Frank’s image blur. There. Definitely more Matt Damon.

Sort of.

“We’ll definitely need to do a mini-makeover. It’s part of our VIP Service Package.”

“A makeover?” He touched his hair. “You mean I’ll have to get it cut?”

“Shaped,” I corrected. “And colored.”

“You want to
color
my hair?”

From the look on his face you would have thought I’d suggested a torture fest with garlic and the first
American Idol
CD. “You’ll definitely need a facial, too. Maybe some contacts.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know about this.”

“Obviously. Otherwise, you would have been snatched up long ago.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure, I do.” I patted his arm. “Just leave everything to me. You’re in capable hands.”

While my
do me
look was definitely rusty, I still had it when it came to touching. Another pat on his shoulder—coupled with a little stroking persuasion from my fingertips, of course—and his expression went from worried to slightly confused. (Okay, so I’d lost a little in the touch department, too. I’d been going for relaxed.)

“What’s the name of your business again?” he asked me.

“Dead End Dating, and we’re the best.” Or we soon would be, once we took Francis from humdrum to hunky. Until then…“Did I mention that the half price is payable up front?”

I
left my new friend Francis at the subway station, his phone number and address already entered into my BlackBerry and a check for half of my fee stashed in my purse, and walked to the corner to catch a cab home. I was so pleased with my night’s work that I decided to head home on a high note rather than going back to the office to face the dismal number of profiles on the Dead End Dating website.

I stepped down off the curb and signaled for a cab. I know, I know. I should do something vampy like change into a bat and fly back to my place. But black is
so
not my color, and a pink bat doesn’t actually fit with the whole low-profile thing my kind have preached for the last trillion years. I could run, too, but my feet hurt. It’s tough being a fashion vixen.

I put my fingers on either side of my mouth and let loose a shrill whistle that would no doubt have every dog within a ten-block radius whimpering. A yellow cab squealed to a stop in front of me, and I pulled open the door.

The creepy feeling hit me again when I climbed into the cab. I chanced a glance behind me. Of course, no one was there. Just the empty sidewalk and the darkened building that housed a bakery and a small convenience store. The musty smell of garbage drifted from a nearby doorway, mingling with the sharp scent of the cab’s exhaust and…something else. Not necessarily something unpleasant, just…different. It was stronger, slightly more musky, and definitely out of place on a New York street.

Like the scent of an exclusive men’s cologne in the middle of a cheap flea market.

I couldn’t help the sudden goose bumps that chased up and down my arms. As if someone were watching me.

Someone or something.

“Awful late for a pretty gal like you to be out and about.”

The voice drew my attention to the rearview mirror to find the cabdriver’s gaze boring into me.

“I’m a night owl.”

“Me too.” He was an old man with steel gray hair and a mass of wrinkles. He wore a button-down plaid shirt, the cuffs rolled up to reveal beefy forearms sprinkled with white hair. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled, giving me a glimpse of straight white dentures. His brown eyes crinkled and more wrinkles cut into his weathered cheeks. “Most of the other cabbies can’t stomach the late shift ’cause of all the crazies, but me, I like it. It keeps things interesting.”

He looked nice enough. Like someone’s grandfather. But there was just something about the strength in his hands as he gripped the steering wheel that made me uncomfortable. I glanced up and caught his stare in the rearview mirror, and goose bumps chased up and down my arms again. I could picture his hands wrapped around something soft and slender, his forearms flexed with force as he tightened his hold…

Okay, so he had some pent-up rage, but he’d never acted on it. Not yet.

I quickly closed the window in my head that let me see into his character, a trait that all born vampires shared. We could look into any human’s baby blues, and see the real person. The one most people tried to hide from one another. While I could see how such character insight could be beneficial—it meant no going into business with a human crook or hiring a receptionist that might be a mass murderer or climbing into a car with an SOB—short for Snipers of Otherworldly Beings, an organization of the enlightened few who actually believed in vampires and other supernatural creatures, and made a living trying to rid the world of us. At the same time, I knew more than I wanted to about most humans.

Namely, that they could be more evil than any vamp. And much more ruthless.

I shook away the deep, disturbing thought and pulled my cell phone from my purse. I didn’t do
deep
very well.

“So where are you headed, little lady?”

“Manhattan.” I gave him my street address and settled back into the seat. Before he could initiate any more conversation, I flipped open my phone and punched the button to check my messages. I had ten.

The first played and a familiar female voice filled my ear.

“You’re not going to believe what happened to me tonight. I was walking down Fifth Avenue and I looked to my left, and there it was in the window.
The
most kick-ass LouisVuitton handbag. It has a blue jean print and a snakeskin handle and I just
had
to have it. I can’t wait for you to see it. Where are you? Oh, yeah, you’re doing the work thing. I hope you’re having as much luck as me! I’ll call back later.”
Click.

Nina Lancaster was the blond half of The Ninas—my two best friends in the entire world.

The three of us had been hanging out for more than three hundred years. We’d played hide-and-go-seek as children, nursed dozens of broken hearts, and sampled our very first full-blooded Italian together—his name had been Giovanni and he’d tasted even better than he’d looked. Nina Lancaster was the daughter of Victor Lancaster, an ancient vampire and hotelier who, unlike someone who shall remain nameless, didn’t force his daughter to wear a name tag or tacky clothing. Rather, Nina played hostess at the Waldorf Astoria to feed her designer handbag addiction.