Dead End Dating - Sucker for Love Part 16

"Maybe you've seen him." I described the man I'd met at the meet and greet. "His name is Mordred Lucius."

He thought for a second before shaking his head. "There's n.o.body by that name around here." He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the Formica.

"I knew a Lucius fella once," came the old, scratchy voice from the corner.

My gaze swiveled to the two old men. Darwin Jenkins and Ben Richter. Darwin kept sipping his coffee, his gaze trained on the obituaries, while Ben folded his paper and eyed me. Ben was eighty-seven and he lived for dominoes. He'd been the state champion twice until his eyesight worsened and he started playing double sixes on the tail end of a three. Lost his t.i.tle and his wife (ovarian cancer) all in the same year. He 'd been spending his days at Abel's ever since.

"Knew him when I was a young gun. He used to live at the Bigby spread way back when. Don't know much about his family, but I'm thinking they had money, on account of he never worked. Just showed up one day and leased the house. Stuck-up fella, if I remember correctly. Waltzed around here like he owned the whole town. Even dated the Homecoming Queen. Caused a pretty big stink, too, on account of it was Pastor Hanover's daughter and n.o.body dated one of the pastor's girls. Caused a beauty of a scandal. Enough to run Lucius out of town. Moved out in the middle of the night and ain't been back since."

"So you haven't seen anyone who looks like him around here recently?"

He adjusted his bifocals. "Cain't see much anymore, but I don't think so."

"How about the pastor's daughter? You think she might have seen him?"

"I doubt it. She don't live around these parts anymore. Ran away a few months after Mordred. Heard tell she settled up in Dallas, but I don't know for sure."

"I heard she joined a cult out in L.A." Darwin glanced up from his paper. "A group of crazies who worship seash.e.l.ls and dance naked on the beach."

"That's just a lot of gossip," Ben told him. "I knew Tara Hanover and she was a good girl. She wouldn't dance naked on no beach. She wouldn't even put a bikini on for Spring Break up at the lake. Wore this blue cover-everything-up one-piece that hung to her ankles."

"That ain't the way I remember it," Darwin started in. "She wore a red one-piece ..." The back and forth continued and I turned my attention back to Ronnie.

"If you see anyone who fits the description, I would appreciate it if you could give me a call." I slipped him a DED card.

"Will do. And for the record, Tara Hanover ain't dancing naked on some beach. She's in a retirement home outside of Austin with her sister. Golden Acres, I think it is."

"Thanks." It wasn't the address I'd been hoping for, but at least it was a lead. Maybe.

I fought down a wave of disappointment, gathered my determination, downed my soda and bought a new L'Oreal lip plumping gloss on my way out.

I needed a pick-me-up in the worst way.

I hit three more places-the diner, the bakery and the hardware store-before the town closed up shop. I talked to a total of twelve people, but no one had ever heard of Mordred Lucius or seen anyone that fit his description.

I spent the next thirty minutes parked at the Dairy Freeze while I checked out listings for retirement homes in Austin. It seems that Golden Acres wasn't actually in the city. It was in a small suburb called Round Rock. They didn 't have a Tara Hanover registered but they did have a Tara McKenzie. I left a message asking her to call me -she was out bowling with the other retirees-and then polished off two diet sodas.

Hyped on caffeine, I decided to check out the old Bigby place and have a look around. I got directions from the clerk at the local Quick Pick-he hadn't seen or heard of Mordred, either, but he had bet twenty bucks that I was in town to hook up the new city councilman.

The Bigby place sat two miles (that would be a thirty second flight via the Batmobile) outside the city limits. I was hoping for a dark, abandoned sh.e.l.l out in the middle of nowhere. The perfect spot to slice and dice an innocent vampire. Hopelessness washed through me as I stared at the bright yellow house with ivory trim. A swing set sat in the front yard. The smell of cherry pie drifted from the open kitchen window, along with laughter and the latest episode of Survivor.

I walked the perimeter of the house. The yard was well kept and the barn had a fresh coat of paint. No signs of a cellar or torture chamber. Rather, the place looked warm and lived in and-s.h.i.t.

My eyes burned and I blinked frantically. Crying would ruin fifteen minutes of eye makeup and I was already having a bad enough night. Besides, I was a born vampire. I didn't do tears.

Or fear.

An all-important BV fact that I tried my d.a.m.nedest to remember a half hour later when I returned to the hotel, to find my door wide open.

I had brains. I had b.a.l.l.s. I had fangs, for Damien's sake.

Unfortunately, so did the born vampire sitting on the edge of my bed.

The sweet telltale scent of apple cake filled my nostrils a split second before the deep voice slid into my ears.

"I've been waiting for you."

M y heart jumped into my throat and my stomach tied itself into a dozen different knots.

I know, right? I was a s.e.xy, irresistible BV with totally fab hair, an impeccable fashion sense and an unbelievably high o.r.g.a.s.m quotient. Finding a male BV on my bed shouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary.

It wasn't.

It was finding a fully clothed male BV on my bed that had me wigged out.

He wore a blue and tan western shirt, Wrangler jeans starched within an inch of their life and a pair of Tony Lama brown snakeskin cowboy boots. A dark brown felt cowboy hat sat next to him on the bed.

I caught another whiff of apples and sugar, reaffirming that he was, indeed, a born vampire. At the same time, there was something else in the air. Something sharp and potent that made my nose burn. My eyes watered and I blinked before giving him the once-over. He had blond hair and mesmerizing green eyes. He looked in his thirties, indicating that he 'd lost his virginity later than most.

Translation? Socially challenged.

Nix the I-want-to-have-wild-meaningless-monkey-s.e.x agenda that usually motivated most males of my species.

This vampire was here for an entirely different reason.

My survival instincts kicked into high gear and a growl worked its way up my throat.

"Easy." He held up his hands. "I only want to talk."

Talk?

A male vampire?

Now I was really freaked.

I growled again and flashed some serious fang.

He shot to his feet, but his gaze remained calm and steady. "Look, I'm not here to hurt you."

"As if."

"I heard there was a matchmaker in town," he added, his voice smooth and enchanting, "and I wanted to see for myself."

Not that I was enchanted, of course. That parlor trick only worked on humans. Socially challenged, all right. Any male BV worth his weight knew the way to a female's heart was to plop down some green.

He didn't pull out his wallet. Instead, he stared at me, his eyes brightening and glowing for a long moment before cooling back to their normal shade. "You're a vampire," he finally declared. "I never expected that."

"Yeah, well, the world is full of surprises. I never expected to find Wyatt Earp breaking and entering my room. " I planted my hands on my hips and eye-balled him. "What's the deal?" "My name is DeWalt Carrigan. I own the Circle C, about five miles outside of town," he said as if the words were supposed to mean something. When I didn't seem clued in, he added, "It's the biggest spread in Texas."

"And this impresses me how?" Every born vamp in existence had a successful something or other. My parents ran a printing and copy dynasty. Remy provided security to celebrities and politicians. Nina One's family did hotels. Nina Two? Feminine hygiene products.

You name it, there was a vamp out there raking in the moolah.

Except for the dating game and yours truly.

Not that I was failing miserably. Hardly. I just wasn't cultivating enough to warrant a full-sized rake. No, I was still using one of those handheld gardening babies.

"I've got over twenty thousand acres," DeWalt told me. "I run fifty thousand head of cattle and I'm the largest beef supplier in the country."

My gaze snagged on his boots and I noticed the worn toes and the mud clinging to the hem of his jeans. My nose wrinkled again and I knew it wasn't just mud. Shock bolted through me.

"You run cattle? You personally?"

"I've got several hired hands, but I do a fair share of the work myself. Branding. Roundup. Birthing calves."

"Get out of here." Not that I couldn't see a vampire owning a cattle ranch. But actually partic.i.p.ating? Sure, my dad ran the occasional copy for someone, but when it came to restocking the shelves or changing toner cartridges, he definitely outsourced.

"Born vampires don't do manual labor."

"We're not all self-centered, holier-than-thou sn.o.bs," he told me. I arched an eyebrow and he shrugged. "So we are, but I like working for a living. I know it seems crazy."

"Suicidal."

He nodded. "But it makes me feel good. I feel like I 'm actually doing something with my afterlife. Besides, we 're not all descended from royalty. There are a few of us so far removed from the family tree that we didn't grow up wealthy and privileged."

Another eyebrow arch and he shrugged again. "All right, so we all grew up wealthy and privileged. My family ran sheep in the Naples countryside and I used to sneak off and help the shepherds every night. Now I 've got my own cattle to take care of.

Purebred Texas Longhorns. They're a h.e.l.l of a lot bigger, but the principle is the same. It's very lucrative," he added defensively.

"Hey, more power to you. I'm not exactly main-streaming myself when it comes to vamp careers."

"You're really a matchmaker?"

"Vampires need love, too." It was his turn to arch an eyebrow. "Okay, so they need money, a good blood slave and a banging o.r.g.a.s.m quotient/fertility rating more than they need love. But I help them find that, too. I 'm also an equal opportunity matchmaker.

Humans, born vampires, made vampires, weres, demons-you name it. I haven't actually matched up a fairy yet, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed."

"Do you have references?"

"No. My father would bust a nut if I handed out anything that could double as a kill sheet for one of the SOBs. But I do have a bada.s.s Flash website complete with testimonials."

He seemed to think. "Success rate?"

"Ninety-eight percent." Give or take ten or twenty. "Do you think you could match me up?"

No. That's what I should have said because I was already on an all-important mission to find Esther. The clock was ticking.

Then again, I'd done all I could do at this point and I was stuck waiting around for Tara Hanover to call me back.

I certainly had the time to help DeWalt.

"Do you want a date for a specific occasion, a companion or a bona fide commitment mate?" I asked him.

"A commitment mate. Five, to be exact."

"The last I heard, polygamy was a human thing."

"I'm not a polygamist." He averted his gaze and I had the strange feeling that he was suddenly embarra.s.sed.

I know, I know. BVs didn't do embarra.s.sment. But BVs didn't do roping and branding either, yet DeWalt Carrigan had just blown that theory wide open.

He mumbled something that even my preternatural hearing had difficulty picking up.

I blinked and tried to process the info. "Did you just say you have mad ducks with green tails?"

He cleared his throat and stiffened. After a few uncomfortable moments, his gaze finally met mine. "I said I have bad luck with females."

My geek-o-meter kicked into high gear. I'd helped a geeky vampire once before. His name was Francis and he was the oldest BV in existence.

While this guy didn't look as hopeless as Francis (he did have the whole rugged cowboy thing going on), I 'd learned that it wasn't just looks that made a man lame. Francis had been a die-hard sc.r.a.pbooker.

Nuff said.

"Crochet? Crossword puzzles? Ceramics? Whatever you're into, it can't be that bad."

He bristled. "I don't do any of that candy-a.s.s stuff."

"Of course not. There's nothing candy-a.s.s about putting together an afghan or making a cookie jar. It's therapeutic."

"I'm not a dork."

"Of course you're not."

"No, really. I'm not. I face down bulls and steers every day." He shook his head. "I'm not talking bad luck as in they don't like me. I'm talking bad luck as in they bite the dust. I've buried eight commitment mates already. The first staked herself with a riding staff in a carriage accident about three hundred years ago. Number two had a knock-down drag-out with a shepherd's staff back in the old country. Numbers three through seven all had similar freak accidents. This last one stabbed herself with a pitchfork while cleaning out the barn."

"That's terrible."

"You're telling me." He shrugged. "n.o.body could handle a pitchfork like Luella. That's what I liked about her. She could give me a run for my money when it came to working the ranch." "Children?"

He shook his head and seemed to gather his courage.

I know, right? BVs usually had the biggest b.a.l.l.s on the planet. I fought to keep the surprise from showing on my face and kept my sympathetic come-on-and-spill expression firmly in place.

It worked, because he finally muttered, "My fertility rating isn't what it should be. Not that I can't shoot a bull's-eye. No sirree.

I've got great aim. It's just that my boys are a little slow to get there and I haven't been with any female long enough for them to make the trip. I figure if I have several mates lined up waiting to jump right in when one kicks the bucket, I won 't waste any time climbing back into the saddle. I think five should be enough."

Can you say Uh-uh, not gonna happen? Not in this eternity or any other?