Undead and Unreturnable (9 page)
"Because you're the eternally young, beautiful vampire queen no man can resist?"
"No!" Aw. But no. "She hasn't gone on a date in forever; she hasn't had a steady boyfriend since—jeez, when
did
she break up with
dave
?"
"
I rested my chin on his shoulder and thought. "Was it before or after my dad threw the Ant the anniversary party at Windows? Because he—
dave
—came with her for that, but was that their 'we really can just be friends' date? Or were they really still living together then?"
"
dave
?"
"Yeah, after they broke up we decided he didn't deserve to have a capital letter in his name. Anyway, I need to fix her up. Trouble is, I'm running around with gay guys and vampires."
"That is a problem."
"Ha! So you agree vampires make rotten dates."
"That is a subject for another time. However, I think this could be very, very good for us."
"What?" I felt his forehead. "Are you all right? Because it almost seems like you're not following this at all."
"So we, and by we I do mean you, dearest, need to be supportive."
"What?"
I heard rapidly approaching footsteps, and Sinclair set me down. So things looked relatively innocent when Jessica burst into the room and yelled, "Nick asked me out!"
Then, the scowl. "I know you bums were talking about me."
I recovered quickly. Which is to say, I stammered and mumbled and Sinclair had to totally help me out.
"Can you believe it?" she said gleefully.
"Of course he did, dear. Frankly, I'm surprised there hasn't been a stampede. You are a worthy prize for any man."
She beamed. "Aw, Eric. Let's gloss over how incredibly creepy that is and instead talk about the fact that I have a date."
"I'm surprised that you're surprised," he said.
"If they're rich, they don't try," she explained, "and if they aren't, they're freaked out because I'm rich. That's oversimplifying it, but…"
"I know several men who would leap at the chance to see you in a… social capacity," Sinclair said. "Really, dear, what are"—another tiny hesitation—"friends for? You should have mentioned this long ago."
"Well, I
dunno
. It's hard to set up a friend with a friend… it's so awkward if it goes badly."
"Wait a minute!" I cried. "Eric Sinclair! You knew when she came back in the room that—you could hear their whole conversation?"
"This is new?" Jess asked. "You guys all have ears like bobcats. Fucking creepy, is what it is."
"You could have a conversation with me, make out a little,
and
listen in on them, but you can't go meet the florist because you've got a conference call in
"I think the thing to focus on," Sinclair said, "is what Jessica will wear to the opening."
She was actually jumping from one foot to another. I hadn't seen her so excited since she got her tax bill down to six figures that one time. "I was thinking my black Donna
Karan
."
"No, no. First, every woman there will be wearing the
de rigueur
little black dress."
"Good point," I admitted, momentarily distracted.
"Number two, you have wonderful coloring that you simply must play up."
Jess was hanging on his every word. "Really, Eric?"
"Dear, you've got the cheekbones of an Egyptian queen. You're a Tiger Lily. You have to, and shall, stand out among the drab little
"Hello!" said one of the daisies.
They ignored me. "Eric, that is
so nice
."
"I'm not nice, dear. Now. Back to the matter at hand." He began to pace. I began to wonder why I'd gotten out of bed that night. "You could get away with, say, the orange Tracey Reese."
"Isn't that one backless? You think that'd be okay for the
"The Kay Unger poppy print, then," he suggested.
"I must say, Sinclair, you are not afraid of color," I commented, trying to affect a Sinclair tone and failing. "Isn't that the one with the green flowers all over it? Head-sized flowers?"
"Not every woman can wear it," he admitted.
"It cost a
friggin
' fortune," Jess said, watching him prowl back and forth like a big panther, "so I'd
better
wear it again."
"We must walk a careful line," Sinclair lectured, "between dressing appropriately for your role, but not making Detective Berry feel out of place or inferior. Which, given the disparity in your incomes, will be difficult at best."
I reeled. There were so many things wrong with that statement I hardly knew where to start with the bitching.
"So dress well, but not rich," Jess said, oblivious to the massive wrongness we were in the middle of.
"Exactly."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Sinclair, I haven't forgotten about the florist/eavesdropping thing. And you're weirdly interested in Jessica's date, which I've got problems with on about nine different levels. And Jess, I have to say—" What? What the hell was I going to say?
I can't believe Nick asked you out. For someone who was supposedly into me, he sure got over me pretty damned quick. How could you agree to go out with him when you were sure he liked me
? I tried to find a nice way to sum up my
weirded-outness
in one sentence. It was tough work, being an honest friend. "—I haven't seen you this, uh, excited in a long time."
"I haven't dated since way before you died." She hugged herself and spun in a small circle. "And he's
sooooo
cute!"
"Exceedingly cute," Sinclair encouraged. "Quite very much cute."
I figured it out right then. Sinclair never did anything without about nine secret agendas. He wanted a cop on the string. Awfully handy. Of course, it was only a first date, but if things went well…
"I thought you didn't go out with white guys," I pointed out. It was a straw, sure, but I was desperate to clutch at anything.
"I thought
you
said that was bigoted, asshole-
esque
, and twentieth-century."
"Oh, you're going to start listening to me now?" I grumbled. "I'm not saying I wasn't right, but your timing's a little weird."
"Now that that's settled, we have to decide on the appropriate post-gallery activity."
"That's not all we've got to decide on," I muttered and was—surprise—ignored.
"Because Detective Berry did the asking, I think we can assume he will want to treat you to whatever diversion you select."
"Dude. You are getting
way
overinvolved
in this. Do you obsessively plan our dates? Not that we've ever actually been on a date…"
"Shut up, Betsy. For just this one time, it's about me. Go on, Eric."
"So it must be something you both like, that will not be terribly expensive, and that will encourage him to see you again in a social capacity, but not be too intimidating or force a false sense of intimacy."
I hitched up an imaginary belt. "That's a tall order, sheriff."
"Dinner anywhere decent is out. So is coming back here for a drink; this house definitely sends a message. Your idea of fast food is Red Lobster, so that lets out activities that are, ah, middle class. Which means…"
Jess waited. I waited. What the hell, I was curious. He could write a book. Nobody was good at dating. Everybody liked advice about it.
"Coffee and dessert at
Nikola's
," he decided after a moment's thought. "The coffee is first-rate, the food is excellent, it won't be terribly expensive if you don't eat a full meal, and the biscotti is homemade."
"
Oooooooh
. Sinclair, you are
it
."
"Yes," he replied smugly.
"I am so scared right now," I said.
Before I could take Sinclair aside and ream him out for… well, everything, and before I could take Jess aside and
get
the real scoop, the doorbell rang.
"Jessica, I would very much like to continue this conversation," he said, "but I must ask you to excuse us."
"
Oooooh
," she replied. "Vampire biz, huh?" The evening must be one shock after another, because I hadn't heard this many
ooooohs
in… ever. "Who is it?"
"No one," he said calmly, "I wish you to meet." He inclined his head toward the door to the stairs. "If you please."
I didn't know what to say, and I could tell Jessica didn't, either. After an awkward couple of seconds, she shrugged and trotted out.
"Scream at me for that," he said, walking toward the front door, "later."
I was sort of terrified to see who it was, and as usual, my imagination ran away from me, because it was a perfectly nice-looking (beautiful, really) older woman. She looked like a librarian in her lilac blouse, gray skirt, sensible panty hose, and black pumps. They were leather and
unscuffed
.
She herself looked to be in her fifties, with black hair streaked with silver, and a handful of laugh lines in the corner of both eyes.
Her eyes.
There was something weird about her eyes. Sinclair had eyes like that, sometimes. When he was pissed at what was going on (read: other vampires trying to kill me), his eyes went like that. They were so black you couldn't see into them, like those sunglasses state troopers wear. You looked in and—it's hard to explain—you only saw yourself. Most times I could see his softer side, his love and worry for me, his amusement, the good stuff. And the times I couldn't see those things, I usually had my hands too full to worry about it.
I stared at her, a little scared, and she bowed and said something in (I think) rapid French.
Sinclair gave her a smile that looked 85 percent real. "Good evening, Marjorie."
"Your Majesties."
"It's good to see you again."
"And you, Sir."
Sinclair bent and kissed her hand, European style, but before anybody could kiss mine, I stuck it out to be shook. She did, smiling at me, and I almost dropped her hand. She was cold, which I expected, and I couldn't see anything in her eyes but me, which I did not.