Vampire in Paradise (4 page)

It was hard to tell if she was here for a job, or was one of the “fans.”

Compared to Bimbo Barbie, Marisa and Inga looked like nuns. Well, not exactly nuns. Inga, her long blonde hair in a single braid down her back, wore a sheer tunic blouse over a darker blue tank top, with white capris, and a pair of Valentino “Rockstud” triple-ankle-strap pumps. Marisa was more subtle in a sleeveless, rose-colored Donna Karan dress that was nicely belted (thank you, Alexander McQueen) at the waist and came to just above the knees. The only thing that could be construed as sexy about her attire was her strappy, high-heeled, Prada gladiator sandals. Her hair was upswept and held to the top of her head with a tortoiseshell claw.

“Hi! Mah name is Tiffany.”

Sure it is.

“I’m Inga, and this is my friend Marisa. Have you been standing here long?” asked Inga, a regular Miss Congeniality today.

Unlike me, who is more Miss Grinchiality.

“Only an hour. Where are y’all from?”

The insane asylum. Or we will be if we actually go through with this insanity.

“Miami,” Inga replied. “We drove in this morning.”

“Ah came all the way from Georg-ah.”

No kidding.

“Ah took a bus yesdidday and stayed overnight at the Holiday Inn.” She tossed her blonde mane over one shoulder or tried to. The hair was so heavily lacquered it didn’t move. “Ah’m a hairstylist, y’know—”

Could have fooled me.

“—but Ah aim ta be a sensuality star like Becky Bliss. Ah prefer the word
sensuality
to
pornography
. Much more classy.”

That answered the question of job seeker versus fan. And, yes, Marisa noticed Tiffany’s distinction between “sensuality star” and “porno star.” She hadn’t yet learned that no matter if you called a fake Rolex a Rolex, it was still a Timex at heart.

“Truth ta tell, mah real name is Helen Biggers, but Ah cain’t see Helen Biggers on a movie marquee, kin you?” Tiffany sighed, and continued without waiting for a response, though what they could say to that, Marisa couldn’t imagine. “Did y’all know that Becky made a million dollars las’ year, an’ she has a mansion in Hollywood with a Jacuzzi and everythin’?”

Un-be-liev-able!
“I thought these jobs were supposed to be legitimate . . . I mean, regular jobs for regular people,” Marisa said, shooting Inga a dirty look.

Inga elbowed her. “Stop being so negative.”

“They
are
reg’lar jobs,” Tiffany insisted. “Ah’m applyin’ fer one of the hair salons, but Ah figure this will be mah opportunity ta get discovered. Becky Bliss got discovered in a Dairy Queen, y’know.”

“She probably practiced her twerking while making Blizzards. All that shivering,
y’know
,” Marisa commented.

“Huh?” Tiffany said.

Inga smacked Marisa lightly on the arm. “Keep frowning like that, and you’ll be able to plant rice in the furrows in your forehead.”

“Ah have the best wrinkle cream. Insta-Smooth by Luxor,” Tiffany announced. “It’s expensive, but Ah get a discount at the beauty shop where Ah work. Ah could get y’all some.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The sarcasm passed right over Tiffany’s head as she smiled at Marisa.

I’m getting way too cynical. And mean.

Having a sick child does that to a person. Living in a world where some bimbo twerking her ass earns big bucks, and a hardworking woman like me can’t afford a measly Swiss operation for a sick child just isn’t fair.

But it’s not this twit’s fault.

“Sorry,” Marisa murmured.

“Thass okay, sug-ah. Actually, Ah’m havin’ trouble with mah twerkin’,” she confessed. “Maybe you gals could help me practice while we’re on the island. We could be roomies and everythin’. Mr. Vanderfelt said four people are assigned to each bungalow, y’know.”

Roommates? What next?
“That is just great,” Marisa said before she had a chance to bite her loose tongue.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh! Lookee there! Betcha that’s Lance Rocket.”

A stretch limousine had just pulled up, and the line in front of them swarmed forward in a cluster, like bees. Four big, burly men in wraparound sunglasses jumped out of the limo—bodyguards, Marisa presumed—and held back the crowd as a tall man emerged, smiling at the screaming women. He wore a lavender silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist of his form-hugging pants. Tights, for heaven’s sake! And, yep, the guy had a rocket in his pocket, if that bulge was actually all him. He adjusted himself, causing more screams, and proceeded to sign autographs for his fans, on DVDs, grocery receipts, handbags, even on bare skin.

Inga and Tiffany moved closer to get a better look, but Marisa stayed behind, holding their place in line. She’d seen enough.

“What a bunch of lackwit women!” someone muttered behind Marisa. “And the men! If you can call them that! They have overstuffed their codpieces to compensate for their size. Clearly, none of them are Vikings. Remember the time Trond put an actual live cod in his codpiece? Convinced Dala the dairymaid that he had magic in his wand when it started to move.”

Marisa pretended to look over her shoulder at something in the distance to the right, but out of the corner of her eye she surreptitiously studied the tall man speaking on a cell phone. A very tall man. She was six feet tall today in her three-inch heels and upswept hairdo, and he was at least four inches taller than that. Dark blond hair was pulled off his face and tied in a low ponytail at his nape. He wore an unbuttoned, short-sleeved black silk shirt over a black T-shirt tucked into black straight-legged jeans with black athletic shoes, the latest Adidas that cost more than most people’s car payments. His face was a work of art with the high cheekbones and sculpted planes of the Nordic race.

He and Inga could be brother and sister, except Inga was an only child.

Marisa turned to see if Inga had got a gander at this dude, but Inga and Tiffany were both captivated by the scene unfolding before them. Apparently, Becky Bliss emerged from the limo, too. Becky resembled a young Dolly Parton. Enough said! Turning back, still looking at something at the end of the block, Marisa saw that the dude in black hadn’t even noticed her yet. He was staring off in the other direction while talking on the phone pressed to one ear.

“Harlots and whoresons, that is what I am surrounded by. No, Vikar, that is not a good thing. No, I am not tempted even a little bit. Can’t you intercede with Mike on my behalf and . . .” His words trailed off as he saw Marisa staring at him, arms folded under her breasts, tapping the toe of a Prada high-heeled sandal impatiently on the sidewalk. “Uh, I will talk with you later.” He pressed the off button and placed the phone in the clip on his belt, which had a strange gold buckle with an angel wing design on it.

Lowering his Ray-Bans down his nose, he peered at her through brown-lashed, startlingly clear blue eyes. “Do you have a problem, m’lady?” he inquired.

“I’m trying to figure if you’re going for a role as Zorro with Attitude in that all-black attire, or Rodeo Star, with the oversize belt buckle.”

“My belt buckle is not oversize,” he said, glancing downward, then glowering.

Cranky!

Which caused her to look even lower, and, yes, he had some junk in his trunk. Not huge, like the Rocket Man, but definitely impressive.

He noticed the direction of her glance and glowered even more. His disgust with the crowd obviously included her.

Marisa felt herself blushing, and she hardly ever blushed anymore.

“I repeat, do you have a problem? Other than ogling my body parts?” He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose.

The jerk! “I heard you talking on the cell phone. Just for your information, not every woman is a whore. Not here or anywhere else.”

“Is that a fact?” He couldn’t look more bored.

“Absolutely.”

“I believe the words I used were
harlots
and
whoresons
. Who else would be applying for a job with pornographers?” He shrugged. “People who eavesdrop rarely hear good things about themselves.”

“You self-important, condescending jackass! Guess that means you’re one of the, uh, what did you call the men . . . whoresons?”

“I have been called that on occasion,” he replied, apparently not at all offended by the insult.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m applying for a job as a waitress. Or maybe a massage therapist.” She shouldn’t have mentioned that second possibility, she realized immediately.

He arched a brow. The usual reaction.

“Not that kind of a massage therapist. I’m a licensed . . . Oh, what’s the use!”

He smiled.

“Oh my God!”

“Please do not use the Lord’s name in vain. A simple ‘Oh fuck!’ will do.”

“Huh?” She was beginning to sound like Tiffany the Clueless. Then she noticed something interesting. “You have fangs,” she accused him.

A rosy blush filled his stark cheeks. “Not really,” he said, and ran his tongue underneath his upper teeth. He was right. They were more like pointy incisors.

“Are you with that erotic vampire movie that’s sweeping the cable networks? Are you Eric Northman?”

“Alexander Skarsgård? Hardly.”

“I heard rumors of a new porno flick series called
Sucked!
” She’d read about it in a
People
magazine article last month in the oncologist’s waiting room. “Are you part of that deal?”

“I am not an actor, nor do I aspire to be such. I am a physician.”

She could tell that he also immediately regretted his hasty words. He probably felt she was baiting him. More like he was baiting her.

“A physician, huh? Yeah, right. And I’m Joan of Arc.”

“I have met Joan of Arc, and you are not she.” He gave her a head-to-toe survey that was not complimentary.

Marisa was not used to such disdain from men. That’s probably why she said, “How many doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb?” When he didn’t react, she continued, “It all depends on their health plan.”

He didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, just muttered something about politics and lackwit women.

“Don’t take that attitude with me. You’re no different than all the other men in line. You aspire to be like that rooster up there.” She waved a hand toward Lance Rocket. “All cock and nothing between his ears.” Marisa had no idea why she was making such assumptions about a stranger. And sharing them! It was as bad as him making sweeping generalizations about women.

Behind his shades, she imagined his intense blue eyes widening with shock. “I do not,” he sputtered. “I am not.”

“A little penis envy,” she remarked, widening her own eyes back at him.

“Envy? Did you say envy? I swear, did Mike send you to plague me?”

“You’re a condescending jackass.”

“So turn around, and mind your own business. You’re starting to bore me.”

“Bite me!”

“Where?”

“What?”

He took off his sunglasses and slid them in a shirt pocket. Only then did he bare his little fangs at her. “I will gladly take a nip at you. Where shall I start? Your neck? Your belly? Your arse?”

“Just try and I’ll Mace your ass off. I’ve got a can in my purse.”

He eyed her Cartier envelope shoulder bag.

“It’s a small can.”

Marisa was having serious reservations about this whole bizarre job idea, not just because of the ick factor, but because she really should be home with her daughter.

On the other hand, her being with Izzie wouldn’t move her any closer to Switzerland and a life-saving operation.

Just then a dapper little man, all of five foot five, wearing a white plantation suit with a black shirt and red cravat—a cravat, for heaven’s sake—walked up to them. Although he was probably only in his mid-forties, his thick hair and mustache were a pristine white, neatly trimmed. His name tag identified him as Martin Vanderfelt. “Dr. Sigurdsson? Is that you? Why are you standing in line? Come along with me. We have drinks and goodies set up in the VIP lounge.”

The blue-eyed creep winked at her before he walked away, a clear in-your-face gesture of
I told you so!
She was surprised he hadn’t given her the finger, as well.

So he really was a doctor. He probably got his degree on the Internet. Whatever! It took all kinds, she supposed. Even educated men aspired to be porno studs.

S
igurd sat in the VIP lounge of the Purple Palm Hotel discussing his duties as Grand Keys physician for the next few weeks with Martin Vanderfelt, the CEO of this bizarre event. A short rooster of a man—he never sat still for more than a minute, always prancing about, pecking here and there—he wore a ridiculous white suit with white shoes. You’d think he was a virgin or something, an aberration much lacking in this gathering.

Sigurd had been offered a champagne breakfast, complete with fresh fruit, truffled eggs, and French croissants, hand-squeezed orange juice, and a long list of coffees, flavored lattes, or espressos, all of which he’d declined, graciously. He planned on stopping at McDonald’s for a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake later this morning. If it were later, he would opt for some red meat and beer, a man’s meal.

Sigurd was not surprised by the special treatment, and it wasn’t just because he was vain. All Vikings were. No, he knew sure as sin that Vanderfelt was falling over himself in an attempt to please because Sigurd was the only doctor dumb enough to apply for the job.

It was humiliating, really. All those years of studying the medical arts, all those years of perfecting his skills, and he was reduced to being a token doctor on an island of sleaze. Mike could just as well have assigned him to a brothel and it would be no less demeaning.

In his head, he heard the words,
Humility is next to godliness.

I thought that was cleanliness.

That, too.

Sigurd did a mental roll of the eyes.

As Vanderfelt tried to explain the conference and what would be expected of the physician-in-residence, they kept getting interrupted.

First, by Vanderfelt’s underlings. A big brawny fellow, probably a security guard, said, “Reporters from the
Miami Herald
and the
Key West Tribune
are trying to get in.”

And that is a surprise . . . why?

A second muscle-bound guy who accompanied him added, “And a local TV network is interviewing applicants still in line outside. They got one chick on tape saying that Satan sent her here to breed little demons on the island.”

He would if he could.

Between the two of them, these men were so pumped they could bench-press a longship, just like he’d seen the twins Egor and Egolf do one time ages ago, and they hadn’t even had the benefit of steroids.

“Was it the bimbo in the purple flowered minidress with chains hanging down between her legs?” Big and Brawny grinned before explaining to Sigurd and Vanderfelt, “Chains that are attached to her chastity belt. She says she ain’t unlockin’ her honey pot ’til a devil comes up with the key. Devils that she says are gonna be congregatin’ at our porno convention.”

Chastity belts do not work worth a Saxon damn. I know from experience that—

“We do not call it a porno convention,” Vanderfelt said through gritted teeth. “How many times do I have to remind people? It’s FOE, Freedom of Expression. Not pornography.”

Are they really so thickheaded? Must be. Obviously they have never heard of that old Norse saying: No matter how many times you call a pig a prince, it still stinks like shit.

“FOE, or smut, or whatever the hell you wanna call it, will be on the six o’clock news, guaranteed,” Muscle-Bound pronounced.

“Oh crap! Where’s our press secretary?”

“Takin’ a crap.” Big and Brawny must have been waiting for an opening to say that. “Jamison ate some bad fish last night, and he has the diarrhea real bad.”

Vanderfelt rolled his eyes.

I am actually beginning to enjoy myself
, Sigurd realized.
So sue me
, he said silently to that ever-present thorn in his backside before he got a heavenly reminder of why he was there, and it wasn’t to amuse himself.

“One more thing,” Muscle-Bound said, holding up a huge paw to get Vanderfelt’s attention. “One of the reporters mentioned that picketers were going to be here at noon. Apparently some women’s organization is busing them in.”

“Great! That is just great! I was hoping the ASLU would be here to counter any picketers, but apparently they couldn’t round up enough folks on short order.”

“Don’t you mean the ACLU?” Sigurd couldn’t help himself from asking.

Vanderfelt shook his head. “No. This is the American Sexual Liberties Union. I started the organization myself.” By the way Vanderfelt preened, you’d think he had invented something important, like beer.

“Tell the reporters that we’ll hold a press conference at noon. In the meantime, herd them into the pressroom and keep them satisfied with booze and food. We need to get control of our message.”

Good luck with that.

The two guards turned to leave, whispering to each other, before Big and Brawny asked, “Um, where’s the pressroom?”

“I don’t know,” Vanderfelt whined as if he were overburdened with questions. “Over by the atrium, I think. And tell Jamison to take an Imodium and get his ass in gear, or he’s fired.”

“Ass in gear. Ha, ha, ha,” Muscle-Bound said.

His partner laughed. Vanderfelt did not.

“Oh, I should have asked you, Doc. What do you recommend for diarrhea?”

“Imodium would be fine.”
Now I am reduced to diagnosing running bowels.

Sigurd was beginning to think he’d fallen into some garden hole like that Alice in Wonderland that Vikar’s children enjoyed reading about. He was pretty sure he was the Mad Hatter in this scenario.

No sooner had the two security guards left than a group of three well-dressed men walked in. Their suits, chains, and Rolex watches bespoke wealth and bad taste. Vanderfelt introduced them one at a time. Vincent Lampano, the producer of the Becky Bliss and Lance Rocket videos, was about forty years old, but the lines of dissipation on his face made him look twenty years older. Harry Goldman, a sixtysomething billionaire investor, had apparently made his early fortune in brass toilet fittings but his latest millions in pornographic movies. And Seth Williams, a young man no more than twenty-five, was a computer genius and the owner of a dozen websites catering to the most perverted sexual tastes.

The one thing all three had in common? They reeked to high heaven of lemons. Whether they had been bitten by Lucies wasn’t immediately apparent, but they were evil to the bone, Sigurd concluded. If they got within a mile of Jasper’s horde, they would be demon vampire bait. And Sigurd was fairly certain he’d detected the scent of sulfur—the Lucipire parfum du jour—amongst the applicants outside vying for jobs on the island.

In the midst of talking about the upcoming convention, which caused all four of the men, aside from Sigurd, to salivate with anticipation, Goldman mentioned a woman he was interested in having for a love interest while on the island. In truth, his words were, “I plan to fuck her ass off.”

Vanderfelt frowned at first, uncertain which woman Goldman referred to.

“She was standing in line outside to apply for a job just now when we walked through the hotel.” Goldman licked his thick lips. “Pink dress, screw-me-silly high heels, black hair on top of her head. I think she’s Italian or Spanish or something. She looks like a young Sophia Loren. Uhm-um!”

Sigurd almost burst out laughing. The woman he’d been talking to earlier was a head taller and thirty years younger than this old fart. Money or not, she would cut him off at the knees if he tried to approach her. On the other hand, wealth was known to be a great thigh opener. You never could predict what a woman would do.

Actually, he could see why the codger would be interested. She was a gorgeous woman, but she had a tongue sharp as a serpent. Not to Sigurd’s taste at all.

Besides, she wasn’t his problem.

Inga and Tiffany came back, and the line began to move quickly now that the doors had opened. Into the large conference room off the lobby with its enormous banner, “International Conference on Freedom of Expression,” they saw clearly marked tables with interviewers seated behind them, each identifying particular job opportunities.

The fans in the crowd were soon culled out by the security guards, and the rest of them went to designated tables. Housekeeping. Restaurant and bar staff. Lifeguards. Medical. Hospitality. Retail clerks. Cooks. Health spa. Electronic technicians. Photographers. Computer programmers. And so on. There was also a table for private individuals who wanted to pay the huge fee just to attend the conference and schmooze with the porno elite. Dr. Snide was nowhere in sight. Still in the VIP lounge, Marisa presumed.

Tiffany toddled off to the beauty salon table, blowing an air kiss their way. Marisa and Inga headed for the restaurant and bar staff line. Marisa went first.

A chic, middle-aged woman in a pearl-gray Chanel business suit over a white silk Dior blouse motioned for her to sit in the chair across the folding table from her. She wore minimal makeup, but tastefully done. Erno Laszlo, by the tone of her skin, Marisa guessed. Her short salt-and-pepper hair was expertly cut. Her name tag said: “Eleanor Allen, Human Resources.” Pecking away at a small laptop, she said, “Name?”

“Marisa Lopez.”

“Your application form?”

Marisa removed the completed paperwork from her purse and handed it over. The forms had been available on the conference’s website.

Ms. Allen scanned the document. “And you’re applying for a job as a waitress?’”

“Yes.”

“We have five restaurants on site. Buster’s, Steak Alley, The Hub, Calloways, and the Phoenix.”

“I prefer the Phoenix.” It was an upscale bar/restaurant where Marisa believed the tips would be best. Not too rowdy, like Buster’s, but not too luxurious, like Calloways. Sometimes the wealthiest diners were the worst tippers.

“Your background experience is more than satisfactory. I don’t see any reason for you not to be hired or to get your pick of restaurants.”

Marisa didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed by that news.

The lady discussed the pay and potential for tips. Rules for employment, including no photographs or tweeting of news from the conference.

Marisa hadn’t even thought about that. She probably could have made a bundle sneaking cell phone shots of Lance or Becky and selling them to the
Star
or some Internet pseudo-news site.

“Salary will be withheld for any infraction,” Ms. Allen emphasized. “Employees are required to sign a confidentiality agreement not to disclose private information about individuals at this affair, prominent or otherwise.”

Marisa couldn’t imagine how they would enforce such a rule. And, yes, she tucked that idea for raising extra cash away in a folder called “Only If I’m Desperate.” As if she weren’t already desperate, as evidenced by her being here to begin with.

“What happens on Grand Keys Island stays on Grand Keys Island,” Marisa joked.

Ms. Allen’s thin lips didn’t even twitch with a smile. “That goes without saying.”

Okaaay! I lost a point with that one.

“I notice that you have a child. We have a strict rule of no children under twelve being allowed on the island.”

Marisa wondered about those children aged thirteen or fourteen, but brushed the lurid speculation aside. “My daughter will be cared for at home by my parents.”

Ms. Allen nodded. Tenting her fingertips against her chin, she stared at Marisa for a long moment. “I’m curious, Ms. Lopez. You already have a job, two jobs in fact. You’re a very attractive woman. You could probably get other jobs on the mainland, if you are dissatisfied with your current employment. I don’t see any evidence of interest in the pornography industry on your part. Your clothing bespeaks couture. Why are you here?”

Marisa could have made a snide remark, her MO of late, but Ms. Allen’s face had softened, almost maternal now. She arched a brow at Ms. Allen’s smart suit. “I could ask you the same thing. That’s a Chanel suit, I believe.”

“Touché!” she replied. “But five years old.”

Marisa glanced down at her own designer attire and admitted, “Knockoff.”

They grinned at each other, conspirators in the silly game of designer importance.

Then Ms. Allen revealed, “My husband of thirty years, a stockbroker, emptied our bank account . . .”

Marisa almost rolled her eyes, expecting the same old/same old story. Older man runs off with young bimbo, probably his secretary, blah, blah, blah.

But, instead, Ms. Allen said, “The idiot donated it all to a wacky religious order that is opposed to government, the pope, George Clooney, and bathing. He’s living in a hut in some commune in the Himalayas, hiding from the IRS, last I heard. For all I know, or care, the fleas have eaten him alive. I’ve been taking any work I can get to stay off welfare.”

Ms. Allen gave her explanation in such a matter-of-fact manner that Marisa couldn’t help but smile.

“I have a sick child,” she said.

“Ah,” Ms. Allen replied. “Let me make a few suggestions then, my dear. Be very careful. Don’t turn your back on that island. Don’t trust anyone. These are not nice people. They will . . .” She let her words trail off. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You could get me fired.”

Marisa shook her head and patted Ms. Allen’s folded hands that rested on the table. “Just between us.”

“Now, let me make another suggestion. If you are really in need of money, why don’t you go over to the health spa table and see if you can get additional work as a massage therapist. I noticed in your application that you’re a licensed therapist.”

In need of money? More like desperate.

“I understand why you would be hesitant, but if you spell out your conditions ahead of time, you should be able to bring in a significant amount of tips there. They are understaffed and not getting the number of applications they need. Besides, I know the lady who is running the spa. Hedwig Meyer. Hedy is a good, no-nonsense German woman.” She grinned and added, “Her husband fell in love with a clown. Apparently clown sex is the new politically correct perversion.”

Marisa was beyond being shocked. So she wasn’t about to ask what clown sex involved, other than appearance.