Vampire in Paradise (12 page)

Do not ask. It is none of your business. You are not a boyling sharing secrets.
He couldn’t help himself. He asked anyhow, “What did you do to land yourself in Jasper’s camp?”

Zeb remained silent for several minutes, and Sigurd could tell that it was a subject he rarely, if ever discussed. Finally, Zeb told him, “I lived in the Holy Land long, long ago with a wife and two children that I adored. My small vineyard was prosperous, but I wanted more. And so I joined the Roman army, intending it to be only a temporary assignment. I had been promised additional lands adjoining mine if I committed to serve for five years.” The sorrow in his voice was palpable and almost heartrending.

Sigurd wished he’d obeyed his initial inclination not to ask. He did not need to know of another’s pain and regret. He had enough of his own.

“One time, we—me and the soldiers under my command—were ordered to fire an entire village. Everyone—man, woman, and child—was to perish for some transgression or other. The Romans were easily offended. I did not want to do it, but my five years were almost up, and they were common folks, I was told, little more than beasts of burden. Only later did I realize that another Roman legion had raided the lands of my birth and herded those living there to this village. I killed my wife and children, among hundreds of others.”

There was nothing Sigurd could say to that, nothing that would appease the man’s sorrow. In the end, he shared his own secret, “I murdered my little brother.”

Silence followed.

Finally, Sigurd remarked, “I do not understand the ways of the Lord. I have always questioned, ‘Why me?’ when thinking on my sorry fate as a vangel. True, I have sinned, as have my brothers, in a most heinous way. But so have many others. Why not give us a chance to repent while we were still alive?”

“At least you were not condemned to be Lucipires.”

“There is that.”

“And I agree about the questioning. Why could I have not been given a second chance as a vangel?”

“Because you are not a Viking?” Sigurd offered. Thus far, all vangels were of Norse descent.

“I could become a Viking.”

“You can’t just
become
a Viking. Same as I could not just
become
a Jew.”

“Actually, you could convert to Judaism.”

“Well, you can’t convert to Viking-ism. There is no such thing.”

They were both chuckling when Sigurd concluded, “These are moot questions we raise. Beer conversation. We are what we are, for our sins, and ours is not to reason why.”

Enough of this male bonding, or whatever the hell it is.
Sigurd tossed his empty can into a nearby receptacle, a neat pitch if he did say so himself, and stood. “I need to get a few hours’ sleep. Mayhap I will find a sinner to repent on the way back to my room.”

“And mayhap I will find a sinner who does not want to repent.”

Thus the line was drawn back in place, the line that separated them both.

T
he Grand Keys Health and Beauty Oasis, located in the center of the hotel, was a first-rate facility, with all the accouterments, despite the hotel having been closed for the past year.

The Oasis included a cluster of facilities catering to all sorts of body enhancement. And, despite the expensive charges, not to mention the generous tips expected, all services were booked solid the first day. Beauty and self-indulgence apparently held no price tag with this crowd.

The Good Looks salon, where Tiffany worked, did hair and a whole lot more; it also provided facials, manicures, pedicures, waxing, exfoliation, and manscaping. Last night Tiffany had mentioned a sign in the waxing room, which not so subtly read, “We do cities. You want the suburbs, expect to pay extra.”

At first, Marisa hadn’t understood, though Inga and Doris chuckled.

“Darlin’,” Tiffany had explained, “y’all would be surprised where some women . . . and men . . . grow hair.”

“You mean toes?”

The three women had laughed.

“Ya need to get out more, Marisa, bless yer heart,” Tiffany had opined. “Yes, toe hair exfoliation is very popular t’day, as well as nose and ear hair removal, but the sign was directed more to back yonder.” Tiffany had giggled and patted her curvy butt in the sparkly dress she had just donned for the cocktail party.

Okaay!

Another popular attraction at the beauty salon was a procedure call vajazzling. Think vagina. Think dazzle, as in crystals and sequins,
down there
. The places some women would place jewelry!

Also in the Oasis complex was a massive exercise room, Hurts So Good, with all the most modern equipment. It promised, “We provide the pain, you get the gain.”

There wasn’t enough time in Marisa’s days on the island for her to test that promise. The most exercise she could hope for was the occasional swim.

The spa, Feels So Good, where Marisa worked the morning shift, starting at six a.m., offered nine different types of massages, all of which she had been trained to perform. But there were also salt scrubs, body wraps, saunas, and a steaming mineral Jacuzzi.

Marisa was taking a break at about ten-thirty when Hedy, the spa supervisor, joined her in the employees’ lounge.

Hedy eased her ample body down into the comfy leather chair, and sighed. Turned out Hedy was a competitive bodybuilder. Her burgundy hair was teased into an old-fashioned beehive, giving her further height.

Like the other spa employees, Hedy wore the revealing white, tank-top jumpsuit, but she’d disdained the red high heels for a pair of athletic shoes. “Executive privilege,” Hedy had explained to Marisa when she arrived at six that morning. “Or flat feet. Take your pick.”

Somehow, Marisa couldn’t reconcile this image with the clown-sex husband. And she didn’t really want to know more.

Marisa was wearing the jumpsuit as well, with high heels (no executive privilege for her, or flat feet . . . not yet anyhow), but she’d donned a thin red sweater that covered her breasts, butt, and bare arms. “I’m allergic to air-conditioning” she’d lied. Thus far, no one had complained, but then she hadn’t run into Mr. Vanderfelt yet.

“How’s it going, sweetie?” Hedy asked.

“Great. I’ve done a Swedish massage on two customers—a movie producer’s wife and a boat captain. A deep tissue massage on a ditzy female porno star, who threw her back out during some anatomically impossible sexual position. And a relaxation massage on Mitzi Dolan, the PR director for this whole shebang. Talk about hyperactive.”

Hedy smiled, having heard worse, Marisa was sure, especially with two other massage therapists, Sonja Ingram and John Ferguson, both of whom weren’t as picky as Marisa about the type of massages they were willing to do.

“How are the tips, honey?”

“Good, actually. Hundred-dollar bills, except for Ms. Dolan, who seemed to think I work gratis.”

Hedy rolled her eyes. “Sonja got a five-hundred-dollar tip from one customer this morning.”

Marisa’s jaw dropped.

Before she had a chance to ask what Sonja had done to earn such a bonus, Hedy said, “Don’t ask.”

Marisa insisted that her clients’ private body parts be covered with a sheet, and she made it clear up front (pun intended) that she was a therapist, not a prostitute. Not even for “a little bit of touchy-feely,” as one man once coaxed her. That didn’t mean that the recipients of her massages didn’t get turned on occasionally, both male and female, but she just ignored their physical reactions and chatted away about everyday things to distract them. “How about them Marlins? Did you see what Miley Cyrus did on that MTV special? I hear the weather will be good all week.” It usually worked.

Not everyone liked to talk during a massage, and Marisa respected that. Usually, she played it by ear, and if she sensed they didn’t want to talk, she just put on some soothing music and did her work. She was versatile.

“Tell me about your little girl,” Hedy said. “Eleanor told me you’re here to earn extra money for her treatment.”

“Isobel . . . Izzie . . . has a terminal brain tumor. Except that there’s an experimental operation being tested with some success in Switzerland. Because it’s experimental and being done in a foreign country, my insurance won’t cover the cost.”

“How much?”

“One hundred and seventy thousand.”

“Phew!”

“Tell me about it. I’ve managed to raise a hundred thousand through various fund-raising drives and grants and such, but time is running out, and . . .” She let her words trail off.

“How much time does she . . . do you have?”

Marisa shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Less than a year. But the longer we wait, the less chance there is that the operation would succeed.”

“And you expect to earn that kind of money here, massaging and waitressing?” The look of pity on Hedy’s face pretty much said that Marisa was being hopelessly optimistic.

Marisa dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and laughed. “No, I don’t expect to earn seventy thousand dollars.”
Unless I do something really drastic.
“But I will earn a substantial sum to put toward that goal, lots more than I could earn at home. And I’m hoping to meet someone who could help me raise the cash. The Internet is where it’s at today, for everything. Millions of people can be reached with one tap of a computer key. The right person might be able to set up a website that could save Izzie’s life.”

Hedy cocked her head to the side, and her heavily lacquered hair went with her. “Haven’t you tried that yet?”

“I have, but only on a limited basis. I don’t really have the knowhow to do it in a big way, and, frankly, thousands of other people with equally needy medical situations are vying for the same dollars. I need a creative, Internet-savvy person to put a new angle on her case and create a buzz. Someone told me that some of these porno sites are among the most sophisticated and creative, and that’s why they’re so profitable. Makes sense that some of these Web designers would be here.”

“I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but the computer nerds I’ve met here so far are just self-centered young twits who care about nothing except lining their pockets, or hacking some super-secret government operation.”

“Guess I’m looking for a miracle.”

“Or a sugar daddy?” Hedy guessed, but there was no judgment in her voice.

“If all else fails . . . maybe,” Marisa admitted.

Hedy reached over and patted her forearm. “We’ll both pray for a miracle.”

Hedy urging prayer? She sounded a lot like Marisa’s mother. “Why are you here, Hedy?”

“Same as you. Money. I want to open my own women’s gym and spa in Jacksonville . . . that’s where I’m from . . . and even though I’ve always worked and earned a good salary, my louse of an ex-husband emptied our bank account when he took off for the circus.” She rolled her eyes and laughed heartily.

“You don’t seem angry or bitter.”

“I’m not. Oh, I was a little, at first, but I’d been trying to get rid of the runt for years. Good riddance to him!”

Before they got up to return to work, Hedy said, “I can put a donation jar for Izzie on the front counter, if you don’t mind.”

Marisa wanted to object. She hated being the object of pity, making herself and her problems so conspicuous. But where her little girl was concerned, she couldn’t afford foolish pride. And every dollar counted toward that seemingly impossible goal. “Thank you. Izzie and I would be grateful.”

Her next client, Yolanda Dupre, a sex toy entrepreneur, wanted a hot stone massage, one of Marisa’s specialties. While Marisa used the smooth, round stones that had been heated in hot water as extensions of her hands, she massaged the tension out of the woman’s neck, shoulders, arms, back, and thighs.

The whole time, Yolanda talked. All it took was a single question from Marisa: “How did you get started in your business?”

Yolanda was probably about fifty, but looked forty, thanks to some expert plastic surgery. (Marisa could recognize the signs at twenty paces and knew where to look for the hidden stitches.) Her neat cap of black and white waves bespoke an expensive hair salon. She wore diamond studs in her ears. Probably Cartier or Tiffany. When she’d first arrived, Marisa recognized a Chanel suit, and it wasn’t a knockoff, either. The real deal! Which had to cost at least a thousand dollars.

Speaking with a cultured British accent, Yolanda said, “I first got into the sex toy business on a small scale, just bits and bobs, vibrators and dildos for home parties, that kind of thing, when my twin sons were sophomores in high school, talking about going to college. We had moved to the States by then. I met my husband when he was a visiting prof at Oxford University; I divorced him when he was going for his fifth master’s degree in yet another liberal arts major at NYU. I tossed him to the dust bin and never looked back. I was never on the dole, but my sons had to pick Stanford, one of the most expensive schools, of course. Oh! Oh! That feels so good. Try to work that area a little more.”

Marisa had been massaging the woman’s nape. It was a stressed area for many women.

“Anyhow, I was in the right place at the right time when the sexual revolution broke out. Not the women’s lib revolution, but the one in the nineties with the Internet explosion. It started with that website that sold soft porn novels for women. In the past, women hesitated to buy such literature openly in their local bookstores, but the Internet allowed them to make purchases without anyone ever knowing. The bloke who started that erotica website became an instant millionaire. I saw my opportunity and jumped right in, or you could say, I vibrated right in.”

“How do you find new products? I mean, there can be only so many variations on a vibrator or . . . or . . .” She hated to say that D word. “. . . male appendages.”

Yolanda smiled at her seeming prudishness. She was on her back now, with her arms crossed under her nape, staring up at her. Marisa was working her feet and calves. A sheet covered her from breasts to upper thighs.

“You’d be gobsmacked. There’s always something new. Inventors come to my company with ideas, uninvited, or I attend trade shows.”

“Trade shows. You mean, like car shows?”

“Yep. Sexual electronics. I pick up most of my new products at these events. That’s where the Whirly-Girly was discovered.”

Marisa wasn’t about to ask what a Whirly-Girly was.

But Yolanda sensed her confusion and said, “I have one in my purse. I’ll leave it for you at the front desk.” She laughed at Marisa’s heated face.

Inga and Tiffany are right. I don’t get out enough.

“Right now, I’m looking for a good nipple product, something that simulates warm, moist male lips and tongue, with the proper suction, rhythm, and the feel of a real, semi-abrasive tongue. Thus far, all we have are these suction cup thingees that don’t do diddly, if you get my meaning.”

Okaaay!

Yolanda grinned impishly at Marisa, enjoying her discomfort.

“I don’t mean to be offensive, but you seem like a woman more accustomed to the country club than the porno club. Don’t you find this a bit . . . well, embarrassing?”

“Oh yeah. I blush all the way to the bank.”

Well, she told me!

“What one person finds grotty, another one finds perfectly normal.” She shrugged. “And I’ll tell you something that will surprise you. I feel as if I’m doing a service to women. Not every woman has a man to shag in her life, by choice or fate. They deserve pleasure and satisfaction, even if it’s at their own hands. I also feel as if I’m doing my bit to liberate women about sexuality. It’s all right for women to be randy, too. I’m so knackered of folks who still think it’s a man’s world.”

Now I’ve done it. Damn, damn, damn!
“Honestly, I didn’t mean to be insulting. I have a tendency to be sarcastic.”

“You weren’t snarky, at all. I don’t hesitate to tell people to sod off when they cross the line. That was just my usual podium spiel,” Yolanda said with a smile as she sat up lithely on the table. “What’s your story, Ms. Lopez? What brings you to a porno conference?”

“Don’t you mean FOE?”

“Bugger that!” Yolanda said with a grin.

Marisa gave the short answer, “Money.”

“There you go!”

Marisa wanted to ask Yolanda about her Internet website and how she’d found someone to help her. It was unprofessional of her to want to pursue her own interests with a customer, but then she once again set her pride and good sense aside. “How important is a good website to your business?”

“Essential. It’s everything.”

“Who does it for you?”

“White Cloud Designs from Los Angeles.”

“Are they expensive?”

“Unbelievably expensive. In fact, with this dodgy economy, I’m trying to talk at least one of my sons into an Internet design major so they can take over that aspect of the business when they graduate, but the idiots are more interested in becoming doctors or lawyers. Can you imagine?” She grinned at Marisa, then turned serious when she noticed the crushed expression on Marisa’s face. “What is it, dear?”