Your Coffin or Mine? (15 page)

I perked up. “What about your case?” I asked him. “Did she make it?”

“You bet your ass she did.” I could practically hear him rubbing his hands together. “She’s about to slip up. I can just feel it.”

“Sounds like this is really turning out to be your stepping-stone up the insurance fraud adjuster’s ladder.” Talk about a mouthful. “Why don’t you go out and celebrate?”

“No time. I need to check my camera and my video cam. And one of my boobs is leaking. I’m going to swing by La Perla and pick up a new one.”

“Just a quickie celebration. Maybe you and Rosie and a couple of beers?”

“Nah. I’ll wait until I actually crack the case open. Then I’ll do it up right.”

“A steak dinner and candlelight?”

“A keg and a disc jockey. I’m going to have a party. You’re invited.”

“Great.” Not.

I said goodbye to John and turned my attention to my computer. I spent the next half hour searching my ever-growing database for a few possibilities for my newest clients—both of which were courtesy of
Manhattan’s Most Wanted
—and dodging phone calls.

First call? My mother, who wanted to know if I’d heard of Dr. Pierre Mancuso, a born vampire and leader in viral research.

Second? Nina One, who wanted her jacket back.

Third? My mother, who wanted to remind me about the dinner party and inform me that she’d also invited Remy.

Fourth? My mother, who wanted to remind me about the dinner party
again,
and inform me that she’d also invited Remy’s mother.

Because, of course, one born vampire mother obsessed with grandchildren wasn’t enough. We needed two.

The Fifth call? A frantic Mandy.

“…forgot all about Claude. He’s the groomsman from Paris,” came her frantic voice. “He e-mailed Jack his tuxedo measurements last night and I was supposed to bring them with me today to give to Shirley because she has to order them right away or we run the risk of not getting the exact ones we want, but I’m already here and I forgot and Jack isn’t picking up the phone and I really,
really
need you to stop by our place on the way over here and pick up—”

“Consider it done,” I said, snatching up the phone.

“Oh, good. You’re there. I was going to try your cell next, but I was hoping you would be at the office instead, but just in case—”

“Mandy,” I cut in, closing out my computer file.

“What?”

“Breathe.” I clicked on shutdown and listened as she inhaled and exhaled. “Good girl,” I crooned. “I’ll stop by your place.” I closed the files and grabbed my purse. “Just relax. Everything is going to be okay.”

“Says you. Shirley managed to get her hands on an additional three dozen dresses.”

“Oh, goody.” Oh, shit.

Seventeen

“O
ooooooooooo…”

My brother’s voice carried from inside the apartment.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh…”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh…”

Someone was either getting laid, or watching a
Sesame Street
episode on vowels.

A loud moan punctuated the thought. Definitely number one. I should probably come back later.

The thing was, I knew Mandy was at Wedding Wonderland. Which meant Jack was inside with someone else. Which meant…

I stiffened and banged on the door. Wood grumbled and groaned beneath the force of my fist (I
am
Super Vamp). A few grunts and I knocked again. Harder. My knuckles made indentations in the wood. I drew back and was about to rip the thing off its hinges when I heard Jack’s voice.

“It’s open. Eeeeeeeeee…”

Oh. Well. Okay.

The knob turned and I walked into the large apartment. Much larger, in fact, than my own, but Jack made at least ten times my salary at Moe’s, not to mention he still drew a nice allowance from my folks for helping with the family biz.

I headed down the small foyer and stalled in the doorway that led to the living room. Shock beat at my temples as my gaze fixed on the two people in the center of the room.

He couldn’t be…No way was he actually…
No!

Jack was sprawled on a portable massage table, a sheet draped over the lower half of his body. He lay facedown, his back gleaming with massage oil. Hans, my mother’s personal masseur, leaned over him, his massive hands kneading and working while Jack ooohed and ahhhed.

My gaze narrowed. “Just what the hell is going on here?”

Jack’s head bobbed up from the table. “I’m getting a deep tissue.”

“I can see that.” Jealousy reared its ugly head and I stared pointedly at Hans. “What is
he
doing here?”

“Mom sent him over. She called this afternoon and said I’ve been working too hard.” Hans rolled and pushed and Jack’s head wobbled. “That I should take the night off and she would have Dad cover for me at Moe’s. She sent Hans over to help me relax.”

Okay, here’s the scoop. I covet Hans. He has the biggest, most fabulous hands
ever.
But like her favorite Dior blouse, my mother never lends him out. I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded. I’ve even considered subbing at Moe’s.

No Hans with the hands.

“How come you get to borrow him?” came my sullen question. Just as the words were out, the answer struck. Terrible infection. Poor Jack.

“Beats me, but she said I should keep him for as long as I want.” Strong, massive fingers grabbed a shoulder blade and pressed. Jack’s mouth dropped open and drool pooled in the corner. “What…are…you…doing…here?” he finally asked, each word accompanied by a loll of his head.

My own muscles screamed,
“Me, too!”
and I fought down the urge to shove my brother off and hop up on the table myself. “Mandy forgot the measurements for Claude’s tux. She tried to call, but she said your cell is off. So is the answering machine.”

“This is a Do Not Disturb moment.” He motioned to the mahogany desk set up on the opposite side of the room. “The measurements are in the middle drawer.” His head dropped and he started to moan.

I knew the feeling. I’d had one massage via Hans when my mom had been away at a Huntress convention in Spain. The airlines had been limiting baggage, and so she’d been forced to leave him at home. I’d begged for two days before the Swedish hunk had finally agreed.

Okay, so I’d cried and he’d been so freaked out that he’d begged me to stop. (He
so
didn’t want to risk my mother’s wrath.) One thing had led to another and, well, tada! Those meat hooks had been all over me.

I shivered at the memory. We’re talking pure ecstasy. There’s no other way to describe it. The oil seeping into my skin. The rough fingers pushing this way and pulling that and—whew, is it hot in here, or is it just me?

I picked up my steps and snatched open the drawer. If past experience served me, I had about three minutes to get the hell out of there before Jack—

“Ohhhhhhhhh…”

Uh-oh. Too late.

My preternatural instincts kicked in and I moved so fast I made myself dizzy. The door slammed shut behind me and, hurray, I was safe!

Sort of. I could still hear him.

I’d love to say it was the vampy thing and I’m just special, but he was now screaming. The entire building was privy to his “Yesssssssssssssssssssss!”

The old woman down the hall stuck her head out, saw me, and gave me a disapproving frown.

“Oh, no, it’s not what you think—” I started.

Slam!

Down on the first floor, a college-aged girl peered out and grimaced. A fiftysomething woman with a cheating husband gave me the evil eye.

“It’s not—”
Slam! Slam!

I’d just reached the door to the building when I heard the creak of hinges behind me. I whirled. “I didn’t do anything, all right!”

“Lil? It is you! I thought I heard your voice out here.”

I drank in the woman smiling at me and my own expression eased into a grin. Rachel Sanchez was twenty-four with long brown hair and an olive complexion. She was short and petite, with big, bright brown eyes and a cute nose. Once upon a time, she’d been hooked on Jack (who hadn’t?). She was now a Dead End Dating client. One of my most difficult, as a matter of fact.

You try matching up a
were
-Chihuahua.

Luckily, in addition to being a
were,
she was also patient. She beamed. “Thanks so much for the dog biscuits.”

“Thank you for going out with the sanitation worker. I know he wasn’t really your type.”

She shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Atta girl.

“So you wanna come in and have a drink?”

“I’m on my way to an appointment,” I started and her face fell, “but I suppose one quick drink wouldn’t hurt.”

“You’re just in time,” she told me. “It’s apple night.”

“Apple what?”

“See, me and the girls from work get together every Monday. Sort of like a celebration that we all made it through the first day of a new week. We used to do nachos and chocolate cake, but then Denise, one of the girls, gained twenty pounds. So now we try to make something that’s healthy. Tonight it’s appletinis and apple pie.”

“How is that healthy?”

“Appletinis are liquid, so they don’t count, and the apple pie is made with a low-fat crust and artificial sweetener.”

Hey, it made sense.

I followed her into an apartment with the same layout as my brother’s, through the living room, and into a small kitchen.

“The other girls aren’t here yet. Just Susie. Suze,” she motioned to a twentyish girl with short brown hair, a pug nose, and brown eyes, “This is Lil. Lil, Suze.”

My gaze met with the girl’s and…Nothing. I couldn’t read a thing, which meant she wasn’t human. I did, however, have the sudden urge to scoop her up and cuddle, which told me she was definitely a
were.

A Chihuahua like Rachel?

Maybe. Maybe not.

She wore a yellow T-shirt and white Capri pants. Her nails were painted a bright peach. I watched as she slid on pink mitts and retrieved a freshly baked apple pie from the oven.

She set the hot dessert on a trivet, pulled off the mitts, and walked over to where she’d cored the apples. She sniffed a Granny Smith before slicing it into quarters and lifting one to her mouth. She started nibbling, her two front teeth chomping away at the fruit.

I can’t explain, but just like that an image of Word popped into my head. Crazy, right? What could they possibly have in common?

“You like to bake?”

She beamed. “I love it.” She nibbled some more.

“What about pizza?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never actually made one.”

“I meant do you like to eat pizza?”

She grimaced. “Too greasy. Since Rach and I have been doing the healthy-eating thing, I’ve given up all junk food.”

Which eliminated every single favorite listed on Word’s profile.

“What about beer?”

“Too many calories.”

“Music?”

Her eyes lit. “I absolutely love boy bands. Back-street Boys. *NSYNC. Even the old ones like Bell, Biv, DeVoe and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.”

It would never work.

Even so, there was just something about her that drove me and kept the questions pouring out of my mouth.

“Favorite color?”

“It’s a toss-up between yellow and mango orange.”

“What are your thoughts on piercings?”

“Barbaric.”

“Men wearing eyeliner?”

“Gay.”

“Men wearing glasses?”

“Geek.”

She nibbled some more and I should have taken the cue to stop, forget this girl, and drink my appletini.

I eyed Suze, my mind racing. “You’re a
were,
right?”

She looked nervous for a split second, her gaze zigzagging to Rachel, who held a martini shaker in one hand and a glass in the other. “It’s okay. She’s not a real vampire.”

A rush of happy went through me.

Because I was onto something, I reminded myself.
This
close to matching up a difficult client, which never failed to fill me with euphoria, and the giddy notion that true love was out there, waiting for any and everyone brave enough to reach out (awww).

No way was my heart suddenly pumping so fast because I actually
liked
Rachel’s statement. I was a vicious, bloodthirsty vampire and I would show them—just as soon as I satisfied the niggling in my gut.

“You
are
a
were.
” It was more statement than question, but Suze nodded anyway.

“Chihuahua?”

She smiled. “Right size. Wrong species.”

“Cat?”

“Hardly.”

“Possum?”

“Nah.”

“Skunk?”

“No, but I have been called a skank before.”

Haven’t we all? My curiosity kicked into over-drive. Okay, this was it. I was going for broke. “Rabbit?”

She shook her head. “Squirrel.”

“Close enough.”

Eighteen