Dead End Dating (28 page)

Max dropped off Francis in Brooklyn and then took me home. I’d just crawled into bed when I heard the alarm clock go off next door. Next came the sound of the early morning news.

I closed my eyes, determined to shut out the announcer’s voice and return to my usual state of ignorant bliss.

“…on the local front, Laura Lindsey, a bank teller from the West Village, is still missing. She’s the second woman to disappear in the past two weeks. Police have no clues, but an inside source is saying this could be the work of a serial kidnapper…”

Or a serial
killer.

I remembered everything Ty had said about the number of women and how it would be completely impossible to keep such a huge number alive without stirring any suspicion. I knew he was right—he was hot on the trail of a bona fide murderer. One with a growing list of victims.

The truth made me all the more restless because I knew Laura wasn’t just missing. She was dead. Or close to it. And there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.

I spent most of the day tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling. Minus the time spent watching Jerry Springer—today’s episode? my ex-lover is a transvestite serial killer—and giving myself a pedicure.

“Maybe he’s stashing the bodies in a boat shed,” I told Ty when I called him on my way to the office. “Have you checked the boat sheds down near the Hudson?”

“He’s not stashing them in a boat shed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve checked every storage facility in and around Manhattan.”

“Oh, well. That’s good. At least we can rule that out.”

“We?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“If you really want to help, don’t try to play cowboy next time you suspect something. Call me instead.”

And kiss me.

I forced aside the last thought and murmured, “I’m really late.”

“Later.”

“Yeah, later.”

Later ended up being about twenty minutes—the exact time it took me to stop and pick up Evie’s latte and settle myself behind my desk.

“What about transvestite hangouts in the area?”

“You think our guy is stashing his victims at a transvestite hangout?”

“That, or just hanging out there.”

“Doesn’t fit with his profile.”

“Maybe the profile’s wrong.”

“And maybe you should lay off the Springer.”

Maybe he was right. The last thing I needed was to waste my energy worrying over Laura. I had much bigger problems. An entire list of them. First up? Francis. I made him an appointment with Dirkst for the next afternoon and then set about returning the stack of phone calls—minus the ones from my mother, of course. I wasn’t calling her until I’d scheduled an appropriate date for all of my Huntress Club clients.

First on the list was Sally Deville, a widowed seven hundredish vamp who liked to tango. I spent two hours going over client profiles before I picked up the phone and called one of Max’s friends whom I’d once seen tango at one of my parents’ anniversary parties. While he wasn’t ready to settle down, I managed to convince him of the infinite possibilities—all sexual—by going out with an older, more mature female vampire.

Bingo!

I’d just turned my attention to number two when Nina Two buzzed me on my cell phone.

“I’m just calling you back. So you saw Wilson last night?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he’s a low-life dog and so not worth your time.”

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?”

“Not in those exact words, but I’m sure he got the message. I mailed him a refund check.” A painful task, but I’d managed. “He can find someone else to meet his precious criteria.”

“But you can’t do that! Then he’ll know that something’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong.”

“You like him.”

“I do not. Not at all. Really.”

“Liar.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Because we’re not right for each other. I know that. That’s why I want you to find me someone who is right for me.”

“Do you think that’s wise this soon?”

“This soon after what? We didn’t have anything. We’re acquaintances. End of story. I wouldn’t think of getting serious with him any more than he would think of getting serious with me. Really.” She laughed, but it was one of those halfhearted sounds.

My chest tightened.

“I want a man with a much higher fertility rating,” she went on. “And you’re going to find him for me.”

“I am?”

“You have to.”

“You don’t have anything to prove, Nina. Who cares what Wilson thinks?”

“This isn’t about Wilson. It’s about me. I’m not out to prove anything—least of all that I don’t like Wilson. Because I don’t. I’m just doing what all vamps my age do. I’m expressing interest in finding The One, and I want you to help me. No reason to let the grass grow under my feet. Fix me up.”

“I don’t know…” I started, but then an idea struck. A fantabulous idea. (I told you I’m good under pressure.) “I don’t know why you didn’t ask me sooner.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“You just find the sexiest outfit you can, and I’ll have Evie call with the details.”

“Thanks, Lil. I really need this. You’re the best.”

“So true.” The last part. As for needing this…I wasn’t so sure Nina needed a date, aka a distraction, so much as she needed an eye-opener.

Ditto for Wilson.

I pulled his file and punched in his phone number. He picked up on the second ring.

“Wilson Harvey.”

“This is Lil.” When he started to protest, I rushed on, “Look, I know I told you off earlier, but I’ve got an amazing woman you just have to meet.”

He was silent for a long moment. “What’s her orgasm quotient?”

“Off the charts. In fact, she’s the current record holder for the Vamp Book of World Records. Single and desperate to find an eternity mate. And she likes opera.”

“Okay.”

Male vampires were such suckers.

B
y the time Saturday rolled around, Laura Lindsey was still missing, I was still watching Springer, and Francis was still orange.

Dirkst had done his best in a three-hour session yesterday and, believe me, it had cost dearly to get him worked in on such short notice. Yep, you guessed it—a date with the lesbian receptionist. Not that I was worrying over that now, particularly after seeing Jerry’s episode on “My Boyfriend’s Really a Chick and I’m Still Turned On.” Besides, I had more important things on my plate.

Today was
the
Saturday. The big kahuna.

The Huntress Club’s Midnight Soiree.

I had six matches on for the big event, including Miss Wilhelm, whom I’d finally fixed up with Jeff the
au naturel
construction worker from the Laundromat.

I know, I know. He’s human. Fine. Get technical on me.

But flaws aside, the guy had
mucho
qualities that made him the perfect date (notice I said date, not mate) for the snotty, pretentious vampire. Lo and behold, Jeff’s mother had been a dance instructor, which meant he could do everything from the cha-cha to the bunny hop to the ever-popular cotton-eyed Joe.

Good looks. Dance know-how. Can’t get any more perfect than that.

I’d made five other hookups, as well. I’d paired up mostly human dates with my vamp clients. The females wanted a good time only, which meant dinner and dancing and
dinner.
Thanks to the awesome power of vamp mind control, I didn’t have to worry about the humans getting overly nosy or making the other guests nervous. Come morning, none of them would remember where they’d been or what they’d seen. They would just know that they’d had oodles of fun courtesy of DED.

With the exception of Dara and Dorien Cranford. They were sisters. Both widows. Both terribly lonely even if they wouldn’t admit it. And so I’d hooked them up with a few born male vamps who’d called DED after picking up my card at their local health club. (Did I get around or what?)

The real issue, and the reason I’d spent over an hour angsting in front of the closet was that my parents would be there. And my brothers. And every other vamp who could trace his or her bloodline clear back to the Stone Age.

This was it. My chance to shine. To prove my stuff. Sort of. I’d intended for Francis to be my crowning glory, but that obviously wasn’t happening in his present condition.

Thanks to Dirkst, he now leaned toward a golden orange, but he was still more of a Tony the Tiger than a bronzed Adonis. Nix the whole Lil-is-a-genius thing I’d envisioned during all of those sleepless days (when I wasn’t envisioning myself and Ty getting busy on the beach).

Obviously, my mother wouldn’t be falling all over herself to beg my forgiveness for not believing in me (fantasy number two). But I did expect, at the very least, grudging acceptance.

Which, in my opinion, kicked guilt’s ass any old day.

“I can’t do this.” The deep voice came from behind the closed bedroom door.

I’d stopped to pick Francis up in Brooklyn, and I now sat on the sofa in his living room, Britney on my left and the twins on my right. I waited for him to put on the new shirt I’d picked up for him on the way over.

“Yes, you can,” I told him, setting one of the twins aside as I pushed to my feet and walked over to the closed door. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“You’ve seen me. Who would want to go out with me looking like this?”

“Me, that’s who,” I told him, and the door swung open. Despite his complexion, he looked good. He wore black slacks and his new shirt. His black shoes gleamed. He had his hair slicked back and—

I reached out and ruffled the hair. There.

“
You’re
my date?” I nodded as I worked with a wayward strand that had fallen across his forehead. “A mercy date.”

“This is
so
not a mercy date.” When he gave me a
get-the-fuck-outta-here
look, I shrugged. “Okay, it’s a mercy date. But not in the way you think. You’re actually the one taking pity on me. If I don’t show up with someone, I’ll be fair game for my mother.” I finished messing with his hair and noted that he hadn’t blushed. At least not visibly.

Just call me the Miracle Worker.

“So
you
need
me
?”

I remembered Thirsten and Theodore, and a sudden desperation gripped me. “More than ever.” A strange look fired in his eyes and my desperation quickly morphed into
Boyfriend, pu-lease.
I backed up a step. “But don’t go getting any funny ideas. I know I’m hot and totally irresistible”—particularly in tonight’s delish ensemble that consisted of a fitted gold strapless dress and a pair of gold Michael Kors sandals that had cost me three full client deposits—“but it’s not going to happen between us.”
And
I’d borrowed the Tiffany bracelet from Nina One. Add a pair of dangle hoops and a touch of my new bronzer and,
voilà,
ultra hotness. “You’re not my type.”

He shrugged. “Because I look like Garfield.”

“Because you’re a client.”
And you don’t wear black jeans and a cowboy hat and you aren’t packing a forty-caliber Sig.
There went the bad voice again. “The orange is just the icing on the cake.”

“While it
is
a mercy date,” I went on, “tonight will afford you the opportunity to mix and mingle and appear taken to a wealth of born female vamps. Which will make you more attractive despite the tan. Which should help me set you up on future dates.” I was keeping my fingers crossed on that one. “Just remember, you’re playing it cool and smooth and taken tonight. Act disinterested. And mysterious. And whatever you do, don’t blink.”

“I’m over the blinking thing.” He blinked. “Mostly.”

It turned out that the blinking had been the result of lack of sleep. I’d discovered the truth on Tuesday (thanks to yet another sleepless day) when I’d been snuggled in bed, watching the sun set in my mirror. My eyelids had gotten so busy that I’d missed the entire thing. So it seemed Francis—now fully recovered from his weekend with the NUNS—had lost the habit for the most part while I…

Blink. Blink.

Well, you get the picture.

“So what do you think?” He stepped back and held his arms out.

I studied the overall picture he made and smiled. And blinked. “I like.”

He ran a hand over the black silk material of his shirt. “I actually think I like it, too. Most of the clothes we picked out make me feel stiff and uncomfortable, but this is sort of nice.”

“It’s primo nice. It’s Gucci.”

He frowned and slipped into tight vampire mode. “How expensive?”

“Don’t be such a fuddy duddy. You can’t take it with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh, yeah.” I tucked the price tag into his cuff. “I’ll take it back tomorrow. Just make sure you don’t spill anything on it.”

“I said not to spill anything.” I stood in the main ballroom of the New Canaan Country Club and eyed the dark, gunky splotch on the front of Francis’s new shirt.

“I didn’t. I got spilled on. That’s what I get for braving the buffet line.” He shook his head, raked a hand through his hair, and further mussed the part I’d carefully mussed back at the apartment. “I should have eaten before I came.”