Your Coffin or Mine? (2 page)

I smiled, reached into my leather Prada clutch for a stack of business cards, and stepped toward the first cluster of females.

I was just about to slide a card into an attractive woman’s hand—twenty-five, nurse, fed up with losers with great big egos and tiny penises—when I heard the deep, familiar voice.

“Help me.”

 Two

M
y entire body went rigid and my heart paused mid-beat. (Yep, I’ve got one and it keeps time like everyone else’s.) If I wasn’t a vampire with a royal heritage to uphold and a Christian Dior skirt and jacket to keep wrinkle-free, I would have fainted dead away.

It couldn’t be…Ty?

It wasn’t, I realized a few frantic heartbeats later when I heard the voice again. Higher pitched this time, and not nearly as stirring.

“I could use some help here. I think my boobs are crooked.”

My heart started beating again and I turned to see the female who’d come up behind me.

She (and I use the term loosely) had long, flowing red hair. She wore a pale beige lip gloss (MAC Spring Sunset) and a faint shimmer of bronzing blush. My attention shifted downward, over a clingy crimson dress, shapely calves, to a pair of strappy red suede high heels.

Not bad.

I might have bought the whole XX act if I hadn’t been gifted with the deluxe benefits package that comes with my kind at birth.

Super-hearing?
Check.

Night vision?
Check.

Mind-reading ability?
Check.

Unsurpassed beauty?
Check, check.

Big brown eyes rimmed with kohl collided with mine.

John Schumacker. Forty-two years old. Insurance adjuster. Divorced. No children. Wife had an affair. But not because John had driven her to it or anything like that. So what if he’d worked a lot of hours? He’d wanted to give her nice things. He hadn’t been desperate to avoid intimate contact because of a certain erectile dysfunction and even if he had, it was no big deal. Men the world over had the same problem. He was just a little fast on the draw, that was all. Nothing major. Certainly not enough to send Melba running into the arms of some Latino lover named Julio with a big bank account and an even bigger—

I tore my gaze away and concentrated on his perfectly lined mouth. Gender aside, the man knew how to use a lip pencil.

“What do you think?” The question came out soft and breathy, as if he were doing his best to convince me that he was more Jane than John. He wiggled his shoulders as if to adjust an uncomfortable bra strap.

“I think you need a personal shopper.”

“What?” He glanced down. “I bought this off the mannequin at Macy’s just yesterday. It’s the latest for this season. And it all matches.”

“The dress is great. But it’s a
dress.
”

“So?” He frowned at me. “A chick can’t have a nice dress or what?”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re not a chick.”

His gaze narrowed. “I’m one hundred percent, prime, Grade A chick. I’m chick to the bone. I’m—”

“Chicks don’t say
chicks,
” I cut in. “When I refer to one of my same sex sistahs, I say
woman.
Or
lady.
Maybe the occasional
you dumb bee-yotch. Chick
is a guy term. Like
broad
or
hot mama.
The shoes are a nice touch, though.” I hadn’t read cross-dresser in his mental repertoire and I couldn’t help but wonder. “Enzo Angiolini?”

“What?”

Cross-dresser my ass. “Enzo is a who, not a what, and you are definitely NOT a chick.” I eyed him, my gaze sweeping him from head to toe—oooh, nice pedicure—and back up. “You’re not even close.”

“Am, too.” Panic chased desperation across his face and I suddenly felt like the IRS agent given the lucky task of auditing Mother Teresa.

“Come with me,” I said before I could stop myself. “I grabbed his hand. When he didn’t budge, I exerted a little vamp strength and hauled him along after me.

“Come on, lady,” he muttered, his voice deeper now. “Don’t turn me in. I’m just trying to make a living.” He tried to dig in his heels but only succeeded in stumbling after me. His voice lowered a notch. “I’m undercover, okay? I’m working an insurance fraud case. See that blonde over there?”

I stopped. My head swiveled to a group of women. All blond.

“The tall one. Blue dress. Nice legs. She’s currently collecting a check for a debilitating back injury.”

“She looks all right to me.”

“Exactly.” His voice lowered as if he were about to tell me something I didn’t know. “She’s lying.”

“You think?”

He nodded. “She’s milking the insurance company. I’ve been following her for two weeks now.”

I glanced at her shoes. Three-inch pumps. “So what are you waiting for? Take her down.” If the height wasn’t cause for an arrest, the fact that they were white and we weren’t even close to Memorial Day would have been reason enough.

“I can’t. Yes, the shoes are a direct violation of her doctor’s orders, but it isn’t enough ammunition to hold up in court. She’s just standing there. She hasn’t really
done
anything. Yet. But if she sets one foot on the dance floor, goes waterskiing, bungee jumping, or any of the other crap they do on those group dates, her butt is mine. That’s why you can’t blow the whistle on me. I’m tailing her.” He held up a maroon clutch purse. “And I’m getting it all on tape.”

“Won’t it be on tape anyway because the show is being taped?”

“
If
she makes it that far. But what if she doesn’t? She might not make it past the applicant phase, and I need to crack this case regardless. I’m filming everything in the meantime. My promotion is riding on it.”

A promotion he desperately needed since his wife had taken him to the cleaners and he was now living in a one-room efficiency eating SpaghettiOs every night.

My chest hitched.

Excitement, I told myself. Divorced? Lonely? Smacked of potential client to me. I certainly didn’t
care
that he was divorced and lonely.

All right, already. So maybe I cared a little. Have you ever smelled a can of SpaghettiOs?

“Come.” I hauled him through the glass doors and out into the hallway.

“Wait.” His voice fell several octaves as he struggled to keep up. “Stop. Please don’t do this, lady. You can’t blow the whistle on me. I need this. I need—”

“—a better bra,” I finished for him as I jerked him into the ladies’ room.

The door rocked shut behind us. I leaned over and checked to make sure the stalls were empty before I turned back to him.

“My best piece of advice: underwire. Otherwise, you’re liable to lose the stuffing. What’s in there anyway?” I stepped back and eyed the uneven lumps.

“My gym socks.”

No wonder he was lonely.

I rummaged in my purse, pulled out a Dead End Dating business card and scribbled on the back. “First thing tomorrow morning, head over to La Perla.” I handed him the card. “Here’s the address. Go to the counter and ask for a pair of silicone inserts,
then
ask for the bra.”

He stared down at the card. “You’re helping me?”

I shrugged. “You’re a poor schmuck in need of a little guidance and I
do
own a dating service. The best in Manhattan, as a matter of fact. Lil Marchette,” I held out a hand, “at your service.”

“I’m John.” As if I didn’t already know. He gripped my fingers for a small shake before shifting his gaze back to the card. “Thanks, but I don’t need a date.”

My gaze collided with his, but I didn’t vamp him. I didn’t have to. Realization sparked and he nodded.

“Then again, if I got my promotion, I could afford to date again. A good service would certainly come in handy to help me get back into the game.”

“Exactly. In the meantime,” I eyed his chest. “Let’s see what we can do to help you out right now.” I reached out and cupped John’s gym socks.

“I need you.”

The words echoed through my head and I stiffened. “Listen, buster. This is strictly professional.” I squeezed and juggled. “Don’t take my interest personally. I just can’t stand to see a pair of decent sling backs go to waste. When it comes to footwear, you’re not doing half bad. It’s all the rest. You need to stand up straighter, hold your chest out more. You’re loud, you’re proud, you’re a
woman.
Carry yourself like one.”

“I really need you.”

“I mean it.” I frowned at John. “Just because I’m adjusting your boobs doesn’t mean I have any romantic interest in you. I have my own boobs if I want to cop a feel. And if I want more, I have a significant other.” Okay, so I’d
had
a significant other. For about six hours—six and a half, tops. That still didn’t mean I was desperate enough to jump the first guy who let me feel his boobs. Particularly since he was human. Sure, humans were great for sex and feeding, but it wasn’t as if you could take them home to the folks. At least not my folks. Already, my mother was debating between arsenic and a sharpshooter to take out my youngest brother’s human fiancée—

“Dammit, would you listen?”

The deep, stirring voice cut into my thoughts again and drew my undivided attention. My hands froze mid-squeeze and my heart stalled.

“I don’t have much time, Lil. You have to listen to me. I need you. I’m in…”

The words faded before the sentence ended, but it didn’t matter. My gut clenched and my throat went tight and I
knew.

I hadn’t been hallucinating before when I’d heard the first unmistakable “
Help me.”

It was his voice, right?

The one and only Ty Bonner.
The
jerk-off-made-vampire who’d given me the brush-off.

And he was in trouble.

Deep, deep trouble.

Three

Y
ou shouldn’t be doing this.

The warning echoed in my head for the trillionth time since I’d left the television station, but I was too busy breaking and entering to pay much attention.

I stood mid-block on Washington Street in the heart of the meatpacking district. While the rest of the area had fallen into the hands of New York’s trendsetters, the art galleries and the chic restaurants hadn’t crept this far south.

It was early evening, barely eight o’clock, but the large warehouse that housed Ty’s third-floor loft loomed dark and quiet against the moonlit sky. Shadows clung to the large steel door. The surrounding motif was classic gangsta. Orange and blue graffiti cut across the fading red metal and splattered the surrounding brick. The remains of a lightbulb hung overhead and tiny particles of glass shimmered from the cracks in the sidewalk.

The only light drifted from the apartments across the street. Not that I needed any. My gaze sliced through the darkness and zeroed in on the small buzzer that sat next to the massive door.

Back when I’d been wanted for murder, Ty had aided and abetted and we’d been roommates. I knew firsthand that he had neighbors on the first and second floors, so I pressed the button and waited.

And waited.

Then again, maybe the neighbors had moved out. Particularly the guy on the second floor. I know I would have taken a hike if two vamps (one of them wanted for slicing and dicing) had dropped through my ceiling while I was doing the nasty.

My fingers closed around the door latch and turned. Hardware groaned and the lock soon gave. I flattened my palm against the metal and pushed. Wood cracked and splintered. The door swung inward. I stepped into the narrow hallway and made my way to the freight elevator at the far end.

I hooked one finger under the massive gate and pushed. The iron mesh slid upward like nails grating on a chalkboard. Stepping inside, I punched the button for the third floor. The engine groaned, wheels turned, and the contraption started to move north.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to accomplish by coming here. I just knew I had to
do
something. It had been two hours since I’d heard Ty’s silent message.

Since then?