Dead and Dateless (3 page)

Like, I knew I was a badass vamp and all. But I was a spoiled, pampered, badass vamp, and I wasn’t really used to leaping into dark alleys while running for my life. Besides, we’re talking three-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on the Rossis. Not exactly ideal for leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

“Do it.” A deep voice slid into my ears a split second before something big crashed into my apartment door. Wood cracked. The hinges gave.

I gathered my stuff, closed my eyes, and leapt.

I landed with a loud
squish
that echoed in my ears and filled me with as much dread as the “I see her!” that thundered overhead.

Almost.

Glancing toward the open alleyway, I turned and headed for the ten-foot fence at the opposite end. An other impressive leap later, I’d cleared the fence and shifted into
getting the hell out of here
mode.

A few frantic seconds and several blocks later, I shoved my stuff into the back of a cab and climbed in.

The driver spared me a glance in the rearview mirror. He was in his twenties, with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a floral print shirt and a bored expression. “Where to?”

I clutched my pillow tighter as if it were a life pre server. “Connecticut. And I’m in a really big hurry.”

He grinned and eyed the pillow. “Hot date?”

If only.

“Business meeting.” When he glanced at the pillow again and flashed me a knowing look, I frowned. “Could you just get us out of here?” Sirens wailed several streets over and my heart beat faster. “Like,
now.
”

My gaze collided with his in the mirror and I saw something spark in the brown depths of his eyes. Recognition. Attraction. Desire.

Bingo.

“No problem, lady,” he told me, suddenly eager to please. He shifted the car into drive and pulled out into traffic. “You just sit back and chill. They don’t call me Fast Freddie for nothing.”

I was willing to bet the reason they called him Fast Freddie had nothing to do with his driving. And I soon discovered, as we crawled over the Hudson, that I was right.

I concentrated on willing him faster. Mind control was another vamp plus, as long as it was used on the opposite sex.

Go, go, go!

His smile widened and he glanced more frequently into his rearview mirror, but otherwise, we didn’t so much as increase a single RPM.

Dread washed over me, along with a rush of fear that I was losing my touch with the opposite sex. (A hundred years, remember?) Sure, I’d shared a major hot kiss with vampilicious Ty and it had seemed like I still had it going on. But we’re talking a
kiss.
One measly kiss that hadn’t even led to a second kiss, much less wild, hot, frantic sex. Much less the satisfaction that I was totally and undeniably irresistible.

I fought against the sudden tears that burned the backs of my eyes.

I was a born vampire.

Powerful. Smart. Superior. Invincible.
Attractive.
Even if I did have major gunk on my boots.

I was not going to break down in the back of a New York cab, in front of a totally clueless and only minimally cute driver.

Of course, once I reached Connecticut, and solitude, I fully intended to let loose with the water works and wallow in some major self-pity.

That is, if the cops didn’t catch me first.

“A
re you a parking ticket, because you have
fine
written all over you,” the cabbie said as we rolled to a stop on the well-manicured road that connected a handful of pricey estates, my parents’ among them.

It was the cabbie’s thirtieth cheesy pickup line in as many minutes—the torture had started after we’d left the city and hit I-95 headed toward Connecticut.

The first and classic
“Do you have a Band-Aid? ’Cause I scraped my knees when I fell for you”
had snapped me out of self-pity mode and started me rethinking my nonviolence stance.

“Come on,” he went on. “Talk to me.”

“I really don’t feel like talking. Here,” I told him, motioning to the side of the road. “Just drop mehere.”

“But the house is way up there.” He motioned to the massive white colonial that sat in the far distance. “There’s no reason to wear yourself out walking.” He grinned and winked. “You should save your strength. We could go out. Maybe get something to drink. Or a lube job.”

“Excuse me?”

“With all those curves you’ve got, I need to make sure my brakes are in working order.”

Pu-
lease.

While the
go, go, go
hadn’t worked, the old vamp magnetism was, unfortunately, alive and well.

Thankfully.
In my rush to escape, I’d left my purse back at the office, along with my bank card and my Visa. Not that I could have used either without alerting the police to my whereabouts.

I know, I know. I was turning out to be sort of good at this whole on-the-run criminal business (I had my clothes and I was free). What can I say? I had a brain to go with my ultra fab body. I also had a receptionist/ personal assistant who never missed
CSI,
and who never failed to give me the lowdown after each episode.

For now I was broke and destined to stay that way unless I stumbled over a stash of cash hidden in my folks’ azalea bushes.

So
not happening. My dad, like all other born vampires, was extremely careful and frugal (that’s cheap to you and me), and so the only thing hidden in the bushes was a bear trap he’d bought last week to put a damper on Viola’s next NUNS meeting.

“I know milk does a body good, but baby, how much have you been drinking?”

I drew a deep breath, forced myself not to smack the smiling cabbie and turned on the charm. “That’s a good one.”

“I’ve got more.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Now pull over.”
Now.

The minute the thought registered, his hands tightened on the wheel and he eased onto the side of the road. The cab rolled to a stop.

“Thanks so much for the ride.” I reached for the doorknob as he twisted around in the seat and eye balled me.

“My pleasure. That’ll be eighty-five dollars and—”

“And thanks for forgetting all about me.”

“What…” His voice faded as I caught and held his gaze.

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 sex, 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 ass vamps didn’t get all mushy just because they’d made someone’s day. Especially desperate badass vamps, which is exactly what I was at the moment.

Forget the undying gratitude 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 butt. 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 space 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 constitution 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 hell 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 passed 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
zzz
s 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 prickled 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 scraped 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.