Your Coffin or Mine? (12 page)

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

I didn’t. That was the problem. “I’ll keep trying to contact him.”

“Good, and stop thinking so hard about what happened.”

“You’re the one who made me repeat it a zillion times.”

“To get the facts. Now it’s done, so don’t dwell on it. You might be inadvertently blocking a vital piece of information. Just try putting your mind on something else and, who knows, you might have a breakthrough and give us something solid.”

“And if I don’t?”

His eyes grew brighter until I actually had to blink. “We’ll have to deal with the situation.” He started to turn and I couldn’t help the sudden curiosity that burned through me.

“Why are you so intent on finding him?”

He paused and shrugged. “I hunt criminals for a living, but there are so many that it’s a full-time job. Ty’s good at what he does and he eases my caseload. Usually bounty hunters get in the way, but he’s the exception.”

“Because he’s a vampire.”

“Exactly. When he brings in a bounty, he knows whether to bring them to me or hand them over to the police.”

“But aren’t you the police? You’re a homicide detective,” I pointed out. “At least that’s what you told me.”

“I am, but I don’t work directly for the local police or the feds. I operate out of a smaller, more elite department. We function with a completely different agenda in mind.”

“To serve and protect?”

“To retrieve and punish.”

“Vigilante justice?”

“Quite the opposite. We’re sanctioned by Big Daddy himself.”

Hmmm…

In human terms, Big Daddy referred to the head of the FBI or CIA or even the president.

In vamp terms, it referred to a royal descendant of the daddy of all born vamps—at present Count Christoff Deville. I’d matched up one of his cousins—Francis—not too long ago. Since Francis was still sort of dweeby and, therefore, the black sheep of the Deville clan, I’d finally given up the hope that I’d be seeing any sort of token of gratitude—high five, new car, small country. Plus, I’d kind of matched him up with a human (big no-no), which would have killed my chances anyway. Not that I regretted pairing him up with Melissa. They were in love and living together. Big sigh.

As for Big Daddy…In were terms, B.D. meant the pack leader, be it wolf or bear or labradoodle.

I eyed Ash. Nix human. Forget vamp. Were? Nuhuh. He
was
some sort of Other, I knew that much since I couldn’t read him and he could make his eyes glow brighter than the sun at midday (or so I’ve been told). But since I’d led a sheltered, pretentious existence like every other born vamp, my knowledge of Other supernatural creatures was a teeny bit limited.

“We let the cops and the bounty hunters take out the minor offenders,” he went on, “while we concentrate on a select few. The most dangerous.”

“The least human?”

He grinned. “You just might have the intellect to go with that mouth of yours.”

I followed him out into the lobby where Evie still sat at her desk, looking office fab in a pair of leather and embroidered cork wedges, a cotton dress, denim vest, and Tina Tang gold vermeil bracelet. She salivated over Ash as he walked through the outer office and then disappeared through the front glass doors.

She sighed. “Can I have him?”

“He’s not mine to give away.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“He said no.”

She breathed a deep sigh. “That’s what they all say. He’s probably got a girlfriend. That, or he’s gay. The good ones are
always
taken.”

“Let’s hope not,” I told her, fingering through the stack of profiles she’d just entered into our database. I spared a glance at Word, who stood on a ladder in the far corner and drilled a hole in the ceiling for one of the docking speakers. “Any luck matching up your cousin’s profile?”

“Sorry. Last night I was too busy watching a
CSI: Miami
rerun to catch
Animal Kingdom.
”

I grinned. “Keep looking. I promised him three matches.”

“
You
promised him,” she pointed out. “Me working his profile is a major conflict of interest on account of we’re related.”

“Three times removed is not related.”

“Okay, it’s a conflict of interest on account of I can’t stand the sight of him.”

I could see Evie’s point. He
was
a little hard on the eyes, and sad looking. Literally. Tonight he’d traded his metal image for pure Goth, and painted black teardrops down one cheek. His eyes were rimmed in black to match his fingernails. “I’ll admit he’s a little out there, but so is most everyone else. There are tons of crazies in Manhattan alone. They just aren’t so obvious. I doubt he’s worse than any of our other clients.”

“You haven’t spent every Christmas of your life hiding in the hall closet with Aunt Gretchen.”

“Was she dodging him, too?”

“No, she’s old and thinks the hall closet is the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So best of luck. I’ve got my hands full.” Her face brightened. “We had four phone calls from
MMW
applicants who didn’t make this last cut.” She held up a couple of checks. “And retainer fees from two of them who stopped by while you were meeting with Mr. Hunky Ass.”

“That would be Hunky
Ash.
”

She grinned. “Says you.” She put the checks into her cash drawer, slid the profiles into her ENTERED file, and started to shut down her terminal. “There are extra doughnuts and plenty of coffee. Oh,” she turned and grabbed two message slips, “and your mother called while you were in with Hunky. She said not to be late on Sunday, and don’t forget the match.”

As if I could.

She leveled a stare at me. “I know it seems like a no-win situation, but things could be worse.” Have I mentioned that in addition to being a kick-ass fashionista, Evie is also an optimist like the ever-fantabulous
moi
? “Look on the bright side. At least you have good hair.”

“That’s true.” I beamed for all of five seconds and did a little fluffing before my face fell.

“Brighter?” Evie asked.

“Blinding.”

She seemed to think. “You do have a whopping three whole days to find a decent prospect. Cities have fallen in a lot less time.”

So
true.

Three was, well,
three.
As opposed to two or the dreaded one. That meant seventy-two hours. Oodles of time to find one itty-bitty born vampire and show my mother that I wasn’t a total loser in the matchmaking department. An itty-bitty hot, smoking vampire. But not
too
smoking. I wouldn’t want Jack to actually fall for her.

Not that he would. He was in love with Mandy. Hopelessly. Desperately. Forever and ever…Right?

I’d never actually asked him if he planned to make her into a vampire. But, of course, he would. If he didn’t, then she would eventually start to sag. She would get insecure and start forking over the bucks for plastic surgery. He would stay his usual hot self and she would end up looking like the cat woman and…Well, he just
had
to. Another black mark on his already tarnished record, as far as my parents were concerned. Marrying humans? No. Making vampires?
Hell,
no. Made vamps were the scourge of the earth. The lowest form of vampiric life. Mere peasants (my dad’s words not mine).

Hence my dilemma with Ty. No way would my folks ever go for him—if we managed to develop some sort of relationship, that is.
If
I managed to free him from whatever crazed psycho was using him for a voodoo doll—

The thought stopped me cold and my mind started to race.
Nah
. I hadn’t heard any chanting. Or beating of drums. Or squawking chickens.

“Are you okay?” Evie’s voice pushed into my thoughts.

“Um, yeah.” I forced a smile.

“Because you look like someone just kicked your cat.”

I thought of Killer. “I should be so lucky.” I turned and headed back into my office to get to work.

Fourteen

S
eventy-two hours turned out to be a lot less time than it sounded like.

For one thing, I had to deduct the ten hours spent sleeping each day, as well as the two hours for hair, makeup, shower, and scooping up cat poop. That left thirty-six minus the time spent working on my other clients, calming a freaked-out Mandy when the hotel cancelled her wedding date due to an overbooking, and worrying over Ty. In the end, I had all of ten hours to search for Jack’s perfect match.

Which meant that by the time Sunday evening rolled around, I’d managed to come up with an impressive zero prospects.

I stood in my kitchen, nursing a glass of warm blood while I contemplated my choices.

One, I could show up without a prospect, piss off my mother, and suffer the consequences.

Two, I could not show up at all, piss off my mother, and suffer the consequences.

And three, I could just stake myself and get it over with.

I’d just reached for the letter opener sitting near my latest Visa bill when I heard Killer’s meow.

I glanced down and big green eyes blinked back up at me.

“Before you end it,”
he seemed to say,
“could you move your ass over to the cabinet and get me something to eat? I’m starving, here.”

My fingers closed inches shy of the opener. It’s not like I could let him starve. I was totally more responsible than that. I walked over to the pantry. A few minutes later, I spooned a can of Gourmet Kitty into a silver Pucci pet dish (I’d gone shopping) and set it on the floor next to a matching water bowl. Killer strutted over, sniffed, and started lapping up the treat.

I grabbed the letter opener. “I’m going for it,” I said to the cat. He kept scarfing without sparing me so much as a glance. “No, no. Don’t cry and beg. It’s better this way. Really. I won’t have to listen to my mom. Or worry about Ty.” Or help him.

The last thought stopped me cold.

Well, that and the sinfully delicious thought that followed—me and Ty and hot, life-affirming sex to erase his totally horrific experience.

My conscience (yes, I have one) and my hormones raged and I abandoned the letter opener. I was much too young (and too freakin’ scared) to end it all. Besides, what would happen to Killer? And Evie? And desperate males and females the world over who would give anything—
anything
—to fall in love?

Geez, what was I thinking? I had people (and a snotty cat) who needed me. I couldn’t take the easy way out simply because I was scared of my mother.

Not yet, anyway. Not without exhausting every resource.

Grabbing my cell, I punched in Nina One’s phone number.

“Tell me again why I should do this,” Nina said after I’d explained my desperate situation.

“Because I’m your best friend and I would do it for you.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Okay, so I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t have to because you’re not a matchmaker with an overbearing mother and a letter opener.” Nina’s mother had believed in the wine and wait method of child rearing. Namely, she’d drunk wine and waited for the nanny to deal with the children. She still drank wine and stayed as far removed from Nina and her brother as possible. Unlike my mother, she wasn’t pining away for grandchildren. It was hard to pine when you were pickled.

“What kind of letter opener?”

“A sharp one.”

“That’s not what I meant. Where’d you get it? Tiffany’s?” Nina’s addiction to designer couture and accessories was even worse than mine. Really.

“It’s sterling silver with tiny diamonds in the handle. It’s Cartier. My brothers got it for me when I opened Dead End Dating.”

“It sounds divine.”

“Get a grip. It’s a letter opener.”

“Sorry. We’ve been hosting a convention and I had to work five nights in a row, double shifts. I’m beat. And going into withdrawal.”

“So go toss around some cash at the gift shop.”

“I already have one of everything. A girl can only have so many I Love New York T-shirts.”

“So what about tonight?”

“I would love to, but I have a date with this really cute French waiter—he does the graveyard shift with room service—and I promised I’d meet him in the penthouse tonight for a little midnight snack and quickie.”

“You would choose sex over our lifelong, five-hundred-and-twenty-two-year friendship?”

“It’s really good sex.”

“Fine, if you won’t do it for our friendship, what about for the white silk Donna Karan jacket that I borrowed this past New Year’s Eve?”

“I thought I’d lost that.”

“Apparently not, because I’m looking at it right now. So far, I’ve treated it as if it were my own, because we’re such dear friends. But if we’re not
that
close, then I don’t really need to be careful. What do I care if you hate me for spilling an entire glass of blood all over the front?”

“That’s blackmail.”

“I prefer to think of it as effective bargaining.”

“What do I have to do?” she finally blurted.

“Just come with me to Connecticut and act interested in Jack.”