Dead End Dating - Dead And Dateless Part 2

You will forget me. As soon as I climb out of this cab, you'll forget I even exist. You'll think you drove all the way out here to get some fresh air and sightsee. End of story. No megalicious hot babe clutching a pillow in your backseat. No trying to pick her up. No enormous unpaid fare on your meter. Nada.

He blinked and the desire in his gaze faded into confusion.

As I scrambled out of the backseat, my gaze hooked on the worn paperback sitting on his dash. Love Smart. Guilt niggled at me and I heard myself say "Got a pen?"

He blinked, still dazed and confused, and retrieved a pencil from his glove box.

I grabbed an old receipt off his seat, scribbled the name and number for Dead End Dating and handed it to him. "Call Evie Dalton and she'll help you find that perfect someone."

Just call me sucker.

Not that I actually felt for the guy. Or knew what it was like to sit home all by my lonesome and wonder if there was someone-anyone-out there waiting for me (I'm talking opposite s.e.x, not creditors). A girl had to protect her livelihood and I needed all the clients I could get. 'Nuff said.

He stared at the number as if I'd handed him a Visa Gold card with unlimited spending and I smiled. And then I frowned because, hey, bad a.s.s vamps didn't get all mushy just because they'd made someone's day. Especially desperate bada.s.s vamps, which is exactly what I was at the moment.

Forget the undying grat.i.tude and the fact that I've just made your year, and scram.

I willed the thought as I climbed out, and then hustled down the road. I chanced one glance behind me to make sure he'd driven off-yeah, baby-and then I really hauled b.u.t.t. My boots were literally smoking by the time I sprinted across the carefully manicured lawn that surrounded my family's three-story house.

A soft, yellow light illuminated the front door and I had a sudden vision of myself curled up in my bed on the third floor. My parents still expected me to fail and so they'd yet to turn my s.p.a.ce into another guest room. I took a few steps up the front walk before I caught myself.

My parents' place would most likely be high on the list of my possible whereabouts. While I knew they would believe my innocence and have no qualms helping me hide, I wasn't about to put them in a position where they would have to lie. Even more, I wasn't about to put myself in a position where I would have to listen to yet another of my mother's endless lectures on why I should give up the matchmaking biz, settle down with a suitable eternity mate, and squeeze out a couple of baby vamps.

I know, right?

Anyhow, I needed to think, which I couldn't do while defending my career and/or social life and/or choice of outfit. I needed to figure out how I was going to get out of this mess. I needed to... plan.

This might come as a shock seeing as how I'm such a successful businesswoman, but I've never been much for planning. I'm more of the fun-loving, spontaneous type.

Translation: irresponsible.

At least as far as my folks are concerned.

While the very thought of coming up with a cold, hard, step-by-step actually makes me a little nauseated (which is saying a lot on account of the fact that an iron const.i.tution goes with the whole born vamp persona), I knew it was going to take as much to get me through the next few hours, or days, or weeks-or however long it took to find out what the h.e.l.l was going on and clear my name.

And that's what I had to do. While I didn't know any specifics about the murder, I was firmly convinced (an arrest warrant and a police chase will do that to you) that the authorities felt certain I had killed someone. I had to prove them wrong.

With my BlackBerry back at the office in my purse, I was going to have to rely on my gray matter to keep things straight.

Number one: Find a safe place to sleep and regroup.

My feet ached and my arms felt like cement (we're talking two suitcases and a jam-packed cosmetics bag) as I rounded the house and headed for the back veranda. I'd just pa.s.sed a potted palm when my heel snapped in two and I stumbled. My ankle twisted and I screamed and limped toward a nearby chaise loungue. Sinking onto the edge, I set my suitcases down and examined my ankle.

Okay, so I looked at the heel of my Rossi first, but with just a few zzzs my ankle would be back to normal. My boot wouldn't be so lucky.

I eased off the expensive leather and wiggled my toes. The pain slowed to a dull thud and my other senses (which had been completely focused on the loss of my cherished acquisition) tuned in to my surroundings. My nostrils flared and I caught the faint but familiar scent of cherries jubilee.

See, it's like this. Each born vamp emits a scent that is uniquely his or her own. It's distinguishable only to other born vamps and it's always warm and sugary sweet. Thankfully, I was sitting downwind and so my folks couldn't smell moi. At least I didn't think so.

We (born vamps) are also gifted with a special talent unique to each of us. Some vamps can mind link. Others have super extraordinary mind control abilities (think earth, wind, and fire-the elements, not the R & B group) that supersede the given dose of vamp whammy we all are dealt. My great uncle Martine could actually predict the near future. He'd made a fortune casino-hopping in Vegas and Atlantic City. As for me, I had a fantabulous nose for sniffing out designer pieces at department store prices. Hence my ultra fab Rossis.

My ears p.r.i.c.kled and my mother's voice carried from somewhere inside the house."Can you believe he's doing this to me?"

"It's just an invitation to tea, dear," I heard my father tell her. The rich scent of mint chocolate chip joined the cherries jubilee.

"We're vampires. We don't drink tea."

"Jack's intended doesn't know we're vampires. Neither do her parents. So tea makes sense."

"Don't call her that. She isn't his 'intended.' She's his flavor of the week. You know how Jack is. He changes his mind faster than Lilliana changes her clothes. And speaking of my darling daughter, I've called the office twice and she isn't answering."

Number two: Go back to office ASAP and turn on machine.

I wasn't sure how I was going to pull this off, but I knew it was of monumental importance. I'd sc.r.a.ped and clawed and killed myself over the past few months to make a name in the matchmaking business and I was right there. On the cusp of greatness.

Or at least making the rent.

I couldn't fall into poor business practices, i.e., not turning on the answering machine, just because I was wanted for murder.

That or I could contact Evie and make sure that she turned the answering machine on. I wasn't sure how to do this, either (no cell, no money, no dice), but I intended to figure something out.

"She never answers your calls," my father pointed out.

"True, but that receptionist of hers or the answering machine always pick up at the office. I'm not getting either. I think something is..." Her words trailed off.

"What is it?" my father asked her.

"I... nothing. It's just, for a second there, I could have sworn I smelled cotton candy."

So much for being downwind.

"You're worrying too much, dear."

"Of course I'm worrying. I'm her mother."

Aka the CEO of Guilt, Inc.

"I'm sure Lil is fine. And if she weren't, someone would have called us by now. The boys keep tabs on her."

"Jack doesn't. He's too busy committing us to social events with every human in New York."

"It's two, dear. Three counting the girl herself."

"Three too many. I swear," she huffed, "my children are going to be the death of me."

"You're immortal, dear."

"With a weakness for stakes and sunlight. Both of which seem preferable to having tea with that woman and her family. Are you sure she's not a witch?"

"Jack said she's a doctor.""There you go. A voodoo witch doctor. She's probably cast some sort of spell over him and that's why he's come to us with this silly request."

"Not that kind of a doctor, dear," my father said. "At least I don't think. Then again, that would explain why the boy came up with this c.o.c.kamamie plan. Jack would never cook up something like this by himself."

I have three older brothers. Jack, the youngest, is the do-no-wrong brother.

As for the other two... Max is the hunky one. Okay, so they are all three hunky (we're talking male vamps, here), but Max is the oldest and so he has hunk seniority. While Rob is the smart brother. Okay, okay, so they are all smart (another vamp given), but Rob is the only one who managed to fly below my parents' radar. He showed up for Sunday hunts, but otherwise he stayed in Hoboken where he managed the Jersey locations of Midnight Moe's. And-and this was the biggie-he kept his women to himself.

I was trying to do the same-fly below the radar, that is-but it wasn't working as well on account of my being female and the survival of my species-not to mention the family bloodline-depended completely on me and how quickly I could find a suitable vamp and procreate.

Or so my mother thought.

"I'm just going to call and tell them no. They're human."

In vamp terms, human meant dinner.

"Perhaps if we go," my father pointed out, "Jack will change his mind about this human. Especially when he sees us all together.

He can't ignore how different we are if it's right in front of him."

Vamp definition for different? Better.

"So you think we should cancel the Sunday hunt and go?" my mother wanted to know.

I sat up straight. Cancel the Sunday hunt? Would they? Could they?

"I don't see how we can do anything else. We have to let him see for himself how silly it is for him to be involved with someone like that."

Yessssssssss!

"It's done, then," Mom declared. "We'll cancel Sunday and move the hunt to Sat.u.r.day."

I glanced around the veranda for the nearest sharp object. Other than the heel from my Sergio Rossi, there wasn't even anything close.

Number three: Buy wooden stake.

I tuned out my parents and pushed to my feet. Moonlight reflected off the water as I rounded the pool and limped toward the pool house.

Remember, we're talking a vamp pool house. Nix the usual umbrellas or beach towels or anything to help shield a body from the glowing ball of fire scheduled to light up the sky in exactly six hours and thirty-six minutes. I did find a few floats, however, several lounge chairs and a mini fridge with two bottles of AB-positive leftover from my parents' last party.

The small clock on the fridge indicated that it was barely eleven o'clock. Eleven?Which meant I had an entire night and day to get through undetected.

No problemo. I could do this. I would hunker down and regroup. Come nightfall tomorrow, I would head back to the city and get to the bottom of the whole accused-of-murder business. And I would tend to my own Dead End Dating. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to accomplish the last part (I couldn't just waltz into the office), but I figured that something brilliant would strike while I slept.

First things first. I stacked several lounge chairs in front of the door (it didn't have a lock) and spent the next half hour blowing up four of the ma.s.sive floats and adding to my mental list of things to do tomorrow evening, like contacting Evie. I wasn't sure how, but I wasn't worried (see the brilliant comment above). I drank half a bottle of gourmet blood (chilled, but beggars couldn't be choosers) and changed into my favorite J Lo sweatsuit-pink with white stripes-and did my best not to feel sorry for myself.

Stacking three of the floats on top of one another, I stretched out and pulled the fourth full on top of me to act as a blanket/shield just in case someone opened the door and caught me cry- I shook away the thought before I could even finish, closed my eyes and gave in to the tears-er, sleep.

And that's how I stayed for the next few hours until the police showed up.

Chapter Four.

I almost peed my pants when I heard the wail of the siren.

Almost.

Except that I'm-you guessed it-a vampere. While I have the same equipment as your average human, it doesn't work exactly the same. Or, in this case, not at all (mucho thanks to the Big Vamp Upstairs for that).

Plus, the sound only lasted for a few blaring seconds, and so the J Lo suit stayed in mint condition. I was left to wonder if my imagination had shifted into maximum overdrive. Loud, obnoxious siren? Or crazy, well-dressed, lunatic vampire?

I went for number one (while I was well dressed, I wasn't ready to check myself into Bellevue just yet) and crept to the door.

My ears p.r.i.c.kled and my nostrils flared and I tuned in to the world on the other side. The buzz of the crickets. The soft lapping of the pool water. The hum of the pump. The footsteps- Uh-oh.

Man-made materials slapped up the walkway leading to my parents' front door and my heart jumped into my throat. The noise paused and I heard the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats.

Breathe, I told myself. I sucked in air and tried to focus on the positive aspects of the situation. No guns were being drawn. No handcuffs were clacking. No one was whispering "You take the back" or "On my count" or whatever cops said in situations like this. There were no men surrounding the house or helicopters lingering overhead.

I sucked more air and tried to calm my pounding heart.

"I'm really sorry, chief." The woman's apologetic voice slid past the thunder of my heart and echoed in my ears. "I thought the siren was standard procedure."

"In the apprehension of a criminal, Morris." The man's voice was deeper, more smooth and controlled. "This is a courtesy call on Previous Top Nexttwo valuable members of our community."

"Whose daughter is a murderer."

"Alleged murderer."

"But what if she's here?"

"She's not."

"But what if she is? That would mean they're aiding and abetting, which makes them criminals themselves, which means this isn't just a courtesy-"

"There's been a mistake."

"But how can you be so-"

"She's not here," the deep, smooth voice cut in again. "Now shut up and leave it alone."

Leave. It. Alone.

The words echoed so strong and sure and forceful and realization hit.