Your Coffin or Mine? (10 page)

I quickly typed in
Love it!
Send. And
Forget the lingerie and wrap yourself in a spreadsheet.
Send. Word up: Nina One had fabulous taste and I coveted her every purchase. Nina Two was committed to Wilson the financial guru who got off watching the stock reports on CNN.

I ignored the three latest messages from my mother and headed out the back door. (Gwen was still parked out front with her camera.)

The smell of vitamins and carpet cleaner enveloped me as I stepped out into the small alley that ran behind the building that housed my business, a CPA, a mom-and-pop vitamin shop and a small interior decorating firm. I contemplated vaulting over the back fence and using my preternatural speed to run the several blocks to the television studio. So
not
happening with these shoes, I quickly decided. I wiggled my toes and zings of pain vibrated up my calves.
Ouch!

I closed my eyes and focused. After a few seconds of visualizing myself as Vampy Von Bat, a loud flutter echoed in my ears. Suddenly I felt weightless (move over Jenny Craig). I put my tiny pink wings to good use and flapped toward the sky. I also sent up a silent prayer to the Big Vamp Upstairs that my new shoes arrived with the rest of me when I morphed back near the NBC studios. While I wasn’t too worried, since I’d pretty much perfected my technique when running from the law a few months back, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Please, please, please.

I left the alley behind, took a quick look to make sure that Gwen was still planted in a chair at a small café across the street, and flew several blocks over.

I landed in a nearby alley and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my shoes materialize along with the rest of my outfit. Resolving myself to the sudden weight gain, I straightened my dress and rounded the building to go inside.

The lobby overflowed with women, some of whom I remembered meeting the night before, others I recognized but hadn’t yet made contact with. The sight of the familiar gold and cinnamon decor brought a rush of memories, in particular, Ty’s voice and the desperation that had laced each word.

“Hello? Earth to Ty?”
I sent out the silent message and paused, hand on the glass door. Seconds ticked by and nothing. No shout for help, no crying in misery. Not even a whimper.

I fought down a rush of worry (I had a job to do and sitting around angsting wasn’t going to help) and waltzed inside. The worry, much to my surprise, followed me. I know, right? I’m a born vampire. Translation: pompous, pretentious, self-centered, unfeeling creature of the night. But while I had one, two, and three down pat, I was having trouble with number four.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Ty and how he might be hurting and how much I missed him and—
get a grip, wouldya?

I tried a few breathing exercises to calm my nerves. When that didn’t work, I decided to picture a scenario much worse than Ty’s possible abduction, torture, and dismemberment.

I visualized the stack of bills sitting on my desk (eh). Then I pictured Evie’s freaked-out face when I couldn’t hand her a paycheck (maybe). Then I had a quick mental of Evie’s father—a once upon a time financial wizard who now had ties to the mob—and how pissed he would be if he thought I was trying to take advantage of his precious little girl (and the winner is…).

I pasted on my most compelling smile and headed for the reception desk to check in.

I’d just gotten my info packet, complete with an assigned time at which I would give my taped interview in Studio A, when I heard the deep male voice directly behind me.

“Check out these puppies.”

After Killer’s little surprise, I wasn’t the least bit interested in checking out anyone’s Lassie or Spot, not when I was already debating serious bodily harm to one infuriating feline. “Isn’t there a rule against animals in the studio?” I turned and came face-to-chest with John Schumacker.

He was incognito, his long red hair pulled up in a sleek ponytail. He wore a tasteful ivory suit (an inexpensive label, but still nice) and a pair of matching pumps. The jacket was fitted, outlining what could only have been a pair of double Ds.

“I took your advice,” he told me.

“I said inserts, not beach balls.” I stepped back to put some distance between us and gain a better perspective. They were still there, still huge.

He shrugged. “The salesclerk kept saying I needed fullness to balance out my height, so I figured I might as well go for broke.” He cupped the twins and gave them a squeeze. “They look good, don’t they?”

“They’re going to look deflated if you keep grabbing them like that. You should be showing them off, not copping a feel.”

“I can’t help it. They’re soft and malleable, just like the real thing.”

Um, sure they were. “You haven’t felt up many women before, have you?”

“Damn straight I have.” When I narrowed my eyes, he shrugged. “My wife,” he admitted. “And Jennifer Sue Horowitz back in the tenth grade.”

“Let me bring you up to speed. Saline is nice. Gel is even nicer. But neither come close to a flesh and blood woman.” At least that’s what we au naturale females liked to think. “So what are you doing here?” I asked him.

He held up his bag. “I’m still under cover. Miss High Heels over there made the cut and so did I.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He nodded. Any iota of satisfaction I’d felt at being chosen (as if anyone could resist a hot happening female
vampere
) melted faster than my eye makeup during last summer’s blackout.

He shrugged. “I just answered most of the stuff on the questionnaire with a maybe—on account of there aren’t too many females I know who can make up their minds—and bam, I’m right here with the rest of the chicks waiting my turn for an on-camera interview.”

I couldn’t exactly remember any of the questions myself. I’d been too busy sizing up the lovesick production assistant who’d handed them out. I’d mentally rifled through my database for that perfect someone to replace the two-timing jerk who’d left her for an underwear model named Shag—
after
he’d played dress-up with her favorite thong.

What was it with guys? Was nothing sacred?

“I guess you got lucky,” I told John.

He tapped his temple. “It’s all about know-how.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, so I got dealt an ace yesterday. Today’s a different story. I’m not taking any chances. I’m fully prepared for the long haul. If she makes the cut, me and the boobies are moving up with her if I have to arm wrestle every damned woman ahead of me on the list.”

“It’s amazing what a fake rack can do to a guy’s confidence level.”

“You’re telling me. I was a little freaked out at first, but then I put them on and bam, my clothes fit better and I actually looked pretty damned hot. At least that’s what Ross said.”

“And Ross would be?”

“Nobody. Just an agent at our office.”

My instincts perked up. “She wouldn’t happen to be married, would she?”

“Nah. She isn’t much to look at. Nice, though. Fun to talk to. We do pizza and beer every Friday night.”

Too cute. I arched an eyebrow at him. “A standing date?”

“Nothing like that.” He shook his head. “We’re just friends. She’s not really my type.”

I had a feeling she was exactly his type. He, like every other clueless male in the dating world, just didn’t know it. Yet.

“Why don’t you and the twins pass these out for me?” Before he could reply, I stuffed a handful of Dead End Dating cards into his hand and mouthed
Go.

“I don’t know. I’m not much of a salesperson.”

“You’ve got boobs, John. You can do
anything.
”

He seemed to think. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. What do I say?”

“Just give a nice testimonial about how you’re happily wed thanks to me and my staff and that you would highly recommend us to any and everyone.”

“But I’m applying for a dating show.”

“Just tell them that you’re standing in for your cousin who couldn’t make it today because of acute appendicitis or a bleeding ulcer or something horrible sounding, and that you, yourself, are happily engaged, and you owe it all to DED. They’ll eat it up.”

He looked doubtful. “I really should be taking pictures.” He held up a leopard print key chain. “I’m not only committing everything to video, I’m taking backup stills just in case.”

“So pass them out near your surveillance suspect.” I gave him a little shove.

“I guess that’ll work.” He toddled toward a cluster of women and I made a mental note to find out Ross’s last name.

I spent the next fifteen minutes exchanging cards and talking up my matchmaking service. I was so busy, in fact, that I didn’t even hear my name being called until John elbowed me and pointed toward an irritated production assistant.

“Lil Marchette?” the man demanded when I walked up and gave him my most dazzling smile.

“The one and only.”

“I’ve been calling you for five minutes.” And he wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

In fact, he was seriously considering crossing my name off the list and moving up an alternate to take my place. He—Marty Bezdeck—didn’t need this aggravation. He’d moved out of his parents’ house three months ago, into a flat he couldn’t afford, to escape his five sisters. He’d had it with indecisive, perpetually late women who couldn’t seem to make up their minds. In particular, his ex-fiancée Jeanine, who’d always arrived a half hour late for their dates and had refused to set a wedding date.

My chest hitched. I know, I know. I’m a great big cream puff, but the guy had actually gotten down on one knee and proposed in the middle of Madison Square Garden. Talk about devotion.

She isn’t the only woman in the world. There’s someone else out there for you.
I stared deeply into his eyes and sent the mental message.

His blue eyes clouded for a brief second and then he gazed back adoringly at me.

Not that I’m that someone,
I quickly added.
I’m nobody. Just another ditzy broad with really great highlights and incredible fashion sense. You’d be crazy to want me.

Marty wasn’t buying it. He asked me out twice while escorting me to the set where the interviews were being taped. He offered to get me coffee. And give me a ride home. He even offered to take Killer for a walk: He had his own cat
and
a pooperscooper.

“You know, that sounds like a really good—” I caught myself before I blurted out the rest of the encouragement.

This guy was on the rebound in a major way and I wasn’t going to stomp on what was left of his heart. I was, however, going to find him someone to help him pick up the pieces. I slipped a DED card into his hand, told him to call me tomorrow afternoon, and turned my attention to the video camera that sat in front of me.

“Okay, here’s how the interview goes,” the camera-woman (Sheila, married, two kids, ridiculously happy—
awww
) told me. “I’m going to ask you some simple questions, you’ll answer, and the camera will get it all on tape. Remember, this is your chance to shine, to show Mark what you’re made of, and why he should pick you to be his dream woman.”

“Mark?”

“Mark Williams. Mr. Weather.” When I didn’t seem clued in, she added, “Manhattan’s Most Wanted bachelor.”

“Mr. Weather,” I blurted, nodding vigorously. “The honcho of hurricanes. The top dog of twisters. Of course. Everybody knows him.” Everybody except yours truly. “Pfff,” I made a face. “Of course I know Marcus.”

“That’s Mark.”

“Mark, Markie, Marko, Marcus—whatever.”

She gave me an odd look before shaking her head. “Okay, on three, you’re going to stare at this blinking light and describe your ideal date. The one thing you think is the most ultraromantic thing to do with a man.”

I nodded and thought of a dozen truly romantic activities—everything I’d ever envisioned in my hottest fantasies, from basking on a warm beach together to licking Dom Pérignon off one another in the moonlight. The thing was, the idea wasn’t to nab myself a spot on the show. I was here to circulate. To promote.

When she counted down
three, two, one,
and said “Most romantic activity?” then pointed to me, I found myself blurting the most obnoxious thing that came to mind.

“A wrestling match.”

“Come again?”

“Front row, side-by-side, surrounded by sweat and name-calling and guys with beer bellies scarfing hot dogs.
Tres romantique.
”

“Um, okay.” The woman shook her head. “Next question: Who do you consider to be the world’s most romantic man?”

“Stone Cold Steve Austin.”

“And the most romantic woman?”

“Paris Hilton.”

“Most romantic food?”

“Pinto beans.”

“Most romantic color?”

“It’s a tie between orange and black.”

“Most romantic symbol?”

“Skull and crossbones.”

“Most romantic song?”

“‘Can’t Touch This.’”

“Most romantic saying?”

“Is it always that small?”

“That’s a wrap,” Sheila announced, killing the camera. She eyed me. “You do know this is a dating show, don’t you?”

“Of course.” I did the dazzling smile thing again. “Why else would I be here?”

Twelve