Your Coffin or Mine? (30 page)

“He’s so hot,” cried one of Mandy’s morgue buddies. “Yoo-hoo!” She stood on her chair and waved a dollar bill. “Over here.”

“Me, too.” Buddy number two shot to her feet and waved a five.

“He sort of looks like Wilson when he’s excited about a particular stock option,” Nina Two declared, eyeing the beefcake that sauntered and shimmied our way.

Nina
Deux
is the conservative accountant half of the Ninas. She’d been happily committed to her equally conservative financial analyst since I’d hooked them up several months back.

“Not that I’d spend an entire dollar on a kiss,” she added. “Think what that money could buy.”

“Lighten up,” Nina One told her. She wore my Hermés scarf (sniff) and a glam pink Chanel sparkle dress. “It’s a party. You’re supposed to get wild and crazy.”

Despite her advice, I noted that she still had her own roll of ones sitting in front of her. She’d also texted four messages to my brother and was, at this moment, staring at her cell phone, a love-struck expression on her face.

My heart gave a little hitch and I smiled.

My gaze shifted to Esther and Shirley, who stood near one of the adjacent stages. They waved dollar bills at a tall, buff construction worker who went by the name Power Tool. He shook his moneymaker in front of Esther’s awestruck face before plucking the dollar bill from her hand. She panted and I made a mental note to get busy on the made vampire hunt ASAP.

I owed her BIG TIME.

She’d really come through on the dress. Inadvertently, of course, but results were results.

See, she’d been in the middle of finishing up the barest of changes when disaster had struck. The name of said disaster? Miffy. The cat had resented the dress from day one (smart cat), and so when Esther had spread it out on the dining room table for the last cut, the animal had attacked.

Fab, right?

Wrong.

Miffy had done her
Fatal Attraction
imitation only eight days before the wedding and, even worse, a measly five days before the bridal-portrait sitting. I hadn’t had the heart to tell Mandy, who’d already been
muy
freaked because my mother had called in the infamous doctor Pierre Claude Van Dorien to document my brother’s condition.

I’d been
so
busted.

My mother (after dishing out enough guilt to get me to agree to a real date with Remy sometime in the near future) had launched a last-ditch effort to break up Jack and Mandy. She’d even hired a private investigator (the woman now hiding in the corner behind an oversized cutout of Zorro) in the frantic hope that Mandy would rip off her clothes and boink Nightrider, or do something equally atrocious. Fuel for my mother to prove to Jack that tomorrow was going to be the biggest mistake of his afterlife.

Anyhow, the dress had been ruined and we’d had only two choices. Mandy could wear one off the rack from Shirley’s or Esther could attempt to make one from scratch. I’d supplied the material, a dozen bridal magazines, and a temporary home for Miffy, while the made vamp had spent the next five days cutting and sewing.

Esther had unveiled the finished product at the photographer’s and I’d actually kissed her. A totally sexless, completely heartfelt gesture because, (1) I truly loved the dress and am totally heterosexual, and (2) she would now be taking Miffy home.

I already had Killer, and one snotty, pretentious, lazy-ass cat hogging the pillow was enough.

I know, I know. Shouldn’t the hot, hunky bounty hunter be hogging my pillow?

If only.

Closure.

That’s what we’d both said when we’d gotten jiggy in the pool house. And then back at his place. And then at my place. And then dangling over Central Park.

Talk about an extraordinary night. Our last, obviously. I wasn’t his type and he wasn’t my type. He’d gone back to bounty hunting and paying his debt to the deadly born vamp Logan Drake, and I’d gone back to matchmaking and fantasizing.

Over. Really.

Dead End Dating was thriving, thanks to the bump from
Manhattan’s Most Wanted
(they’d aired outtakes from the mad, bad carriage ride). I wasn’t too jazzed about the extra attention (I’d become somewhat of a local celebrity), but I couldn’t complain about the publicity it generated for DED. I was now—drum roll, please—bringing in enough money to pay my credit card bills and, therefore, much too busy to angst over Ty.

Rather, I played it ultra cool—translation, no crying or begging—whenever we ran into each other, which turned out to be fairly often since I was still determined to land Ash Prince and his demon counterparts as clients (sexual demons meant satisfied women and easy moolah) and Ty had a close working relationship with them.

“Come on, Daddy. Give it to Big Mama!” Shirley’s voice rose above the blaring lyrics of
I’m Too Sexy
and killed any and all thoughts of Ty.

Sort of.

Shirley wore red polyester pants, a flower-print smock and a cloud of Emeraude. I watched as the buxom owner of Wedding Wonderland crawled up onto the stage and started to bump and grind (which looked more like bobbing and jumping). Daddy, aka Power Tool, turned and ran for the dressing room (smart guy) and left her dancing all by her lonesome.

“We’re going to get thrown out of here,” Evie told me. “You know that, right?”

One could only hope.

“As long as she doesn’t touch anyone, we’re okay,” I heard myself say. “Let her have her moment. She’s just excited.”

Understandably. Shirley had not only aced her first major wedding (Mandy and Jack’s), but a few more as well. Word had quickly spread about her one-of-a-kind bridal gowns thanks to the photographer who’d done Mandy’s wedding portrait and yours truly, who’d just so happened to mention Shirley’s boutique during a radio interview regarding the
MMW
outtakes. Shirley had hired Esther to be her head designer and they were already putting together sketches for a fall collection.

“Houston, I think we have a major problem,” Evie said as Shirley unbuttoned her blouse and started twirling it in the air while dozens of intoxicated women chanted
“You go, girl!”
“You don’t think she’ll actually—uh-oh.”

Elastic snapped and the bra came off.

Evie gasped.

I screamed.

And that’s all, folks
…

Read on for a tantalizing taste of Kimberly Raye’s

Just One Bite

B
eing a five-hundred-year-old (and holding) born vampire, I’ve pretty much seen the worst of the worst.

War.

Famine.

Natural disasters.

Stock market crashes.

Powdered bob wigs (my father is
so
not living that one down).

Bottom line, there isn’t much that can shock me, the Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette (aka Lil for short), Manhattan’s
numero uno
when it comes to matchmakers.

Except walking into the office of my hook-up service—Dead End Dating—to find an Anthony Soprano clone holding a very lethal-looking stake.

I came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, my Constanca Basto sandals refusing to carry me the rest of the way inside.

Twisted, right? I had the whole vamp super package—HD vision, enhanced hearing, mind-reading capability—working for me. Throw in the glamour trick (aka the ability to mesmerize and persuade the opposite sex with my deep, entrancing stare), and I really had little to fear despite the nuclear toothpick in his meaty hands.

Then again, he
was
wearing a pair of pitch-black Ray Bans, which sort of put a crimp on the mind reading and the glam thing. He sat behind my desk, his feet propped on the glass and chrome. He had thinning brown hair and a recessed hairline that said he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. A black Gucci jacket hugged his pot belly. Black slacks, argyle socks, and gleaming black loafers completed the outfit. He shuffled the stake from one hand to the other. Back and forth. And eyed me.

My heart shifted into overdrive and I drank in a deep, calming breath (so NOT a necessity for my kind, but after years of blending with humans, it’s become sort of a habit).

I tamped down the urge to bolt (hey, my feet
were
frozen) and decided to go for Plan A—faking my way out of a very difficult situation. I pasted on my most mesmerizing smile. “Can I help you with something?”

“Lil Marchette?” he asked, a Bolivar cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. He had a thick Jersey accent and the cold, emotionless tone of a hit man.

Duh.

“Um, no,” I blurted. “I’m Evie. Lil’s assistant. She’s on vacation right now. A really long vacation.”

“Evie, huh?” The Ray Bans swept over me once, twice. “Funny, but I met an Evie about an hour ago.” He waved the cigar at me. “You don’t look anything like her. I mean, you’re both blondes, but she’s short and you’re tall. And a vampire.”

So much for Plan A.

Enter Plan B—charming my way out.

“Nice jacket,” I told the guy.

“You like? My mother bought it for me.”

“She has excellent taste.”

He actually smiled. “Damn straight she does. She’s a saint, that woman.” The Ray Bans zeroed in on my face. “Goes to mass every Saturday and Sunday. She don’t like liars, and neither do I.”

“I’m not really Evie,” I admitted, giving him a sheepish smile. “I just thought you were another fan from
MMW
and I wanted to avoid a confrontation.”

Manhattan’s Most Wanted
was a local reality dating show fashioned after
The Bachelor
that paired Manhattan’s hottest guys with a bevy of beautiful, buxom women. While I hadn’t made the final cut for the actual show, I had made it into the outtakes that had aired a few short weeks ago.

“I saw you riding that carriage through Central Park. You’re a wild one.”

“That’s me.”

“I bet you’ve seen all kinds of crazies.”

“There was this one guy who wanted to lick my toes and another who asked me to spit on him. But most are just desperate. And lonely. They just want a date.” I eyed the stake and swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat. “There’s no chance that you’re here for that, is there?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, I
am
here to kill you, but I might consider a date instead.”

“I’m there,” I said, hope blossoming. “Just name the time and place, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Not with you. You’re not exactly my kind of woman.”

True, so why did the comment make me feel so crappy? Oh, yeah. Because I was a hot, megalicious vampire usually wanted by any and all males, vamp or otherwise, and so this was a stab at my already fragile ego.

We’re talking paper-thin, ultra-delicate,
this
close to snapping in two—thanks to one hot, hunky bounty hunter/made vampire. We’d had fabulous sex several times and then he’d walked.

Uh, yeah. You both agreed that there was no chance of a future, remember?

I was a born vampire (i.e I’d come into the world via eighteen hours of labor, done the toddler and adolescent thing, and had stopped aging when I’d lost my virginity) and he was made (i.e. a human who’d been bitten and turned), and the two DID NOT go together. BVs lived to make money and procreate. I was planning on doing both someday, just as soon as I paid down a monumental VISA bill and found my eternity mate (aka another born vamp with a high fertility rating—a little digit that reflected the likelihood that a male vamp could hit a bullseye when it came to procreation—and great taste in clothes). Made vampires, on the other hand, lived to drink blood and have gratuitous sex. No bullseye needed.

While Ty didn’t come across as the typical MV (he seemed more interested in hunting dangerous criminals than sucking and humping any and everything with a vagina), he still wasn’t the guy for me.

My head knew that, but my undead heart…Talk about a slow learner.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Vinnie Balducci.”

The name echoed in my head and stirred a great big
Aha!
Suddenly, everything made sense. I’d become somewhat of a local celebrity thanks to
MMW
and I’d obviously attracted the attention of the local representative of the SOBs, short for Snipers of Otherworldly Beings. They were a worldwide organization committed to the extermination of any and all paranormal creatures. I’d heard my father mention Vinnie on occasion, along with the juicy tidbit that the man could be bought off if the price was right.

For my father, that meant a monthly delivery of free file folders and liquid paper courtesy of
Moe’s
(think copy machines and office supplies and printing services and
major
boredom).

Moe’s
was the family business and my biggest fear should my dating service go bust. All three of my brothers managed various locations while my father over-saw things at the corporate level. I had my own stash of Moe’s uniforms (beige dockers and lime green polo shirts) hanging in my closet just waiting for me to fail.

“I can get you free toner cartridges.” I launched into Plan C—bribery.

“Your father already threw in a stash last month.”

“Highlighters?”

He shook his head.

“Copy paper?”

“Got it.”

“New business cards?”

He seemed to think before shaking his head. “No, forget it. I need kids.”

O-kay. On to Plan D—more bribery. “I thought you wanted a date?”

“Well, yeah. One that’s interested in kids. See, Mama wants grandchildren and it’s high time I settled down and gave her a couple. Which means I need someone who can squeeze them out on account of the only thing I can squeeze out is a—”

“Gotcha,” I cut in. “No need to elaborate.”

He grinned. “That’s where you come in. You can help me find the right broad.”

“So what sort of, um,
broad
are you interested in?”

“Somebody nice. Sweet. Wholesome. Catholic. That’s what Mama always says. ‘You need somebody nice and sweet and wholesome and Catholic. Don’t go bringing home any atheist bimbos. I don’t like atheist bimbos in my house.’”