Sucker for Love (13 page)

“Absolutely.”

“From one of the wealthiest families.”

“Definitely.”

“With one of the highest fertility ratings.”

“You’re off the charts.”

“So what’s his problem? Don’t tell me, he’s gay.”

“He’s not gay.”

“Then how could he possibly want to break up with
me
?”

“He was probably just blowing off steam, running his mouth, shirking his responsibility. You know how men are.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “Stop worrying about it. This is all for the best. You know it. Rob knows it. Let it go. Go out,
have fun.”
Realize how lost you are without him and come crawling back.

I know, I know. Nina is a heterosexual born vampire. Immune to my mojo. But cut me some slack. At the moment, my brother’s ass was making a permanent indentation in my couch.

“You’re right. There’s no need to dwell on it. I’m over him. It’s finished.”

“Exactly. Forget all about Rob.”

“Damn straight.”

“And his hideous foot massages and spur-of-the-moment gifts like that diamond bracelet from Tiffany’s and those cool earrings from BCBG. Talk about lame. And what vampire in her right mind wants a male who brings her breakfast in bed?”

“I kind of miss the breakfast in bed,” she said after a long, quiet moment. “And the way he stroked my hair after I finished feeding. And the way he held my hand when we fell asleep. And that cute little way he snores when he’s just falling asleep.”

My ears perked to the thunderstorm now vibrating the walls of my living room.
“Cute
isn’t exactly the adjective I’d use, but suit yourself.”

“Oh, it is cute. Sure, it’s a little loud, but that’s what makes it so endearing. It’s bold and powerful and, well, I get tingly all over just thinking about it—”

“Forget Rob,” I cut in before she started pinpointing tingle locations and
really
creeping me out. “This dwelling will only make you second-guess yourself
and your decision. You aren’t second-guessing, are you?”

Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

“Hardly. I’m just saying that it wasn’t all bad.”

The admission sent a burst of excitement through me and confirmed what I’d known all along—she’d fallen for Rob. What can I say? I had a sixth sense when it came to these things. I was an expert, after all. I made my living by finding and orchestrating love. This was my thing. My bread and butter.

Or, in my case, my AB+ and O
—
.

“We actually had some pretty good times,” she added.

My ears perked. This was it. She was going to admit the truth. Embrace it.
Say
it.

“And?” I gave her a little nudge.
And you were right, Lil. I love him. I
love
him. And thank you for helping me realize the truth. You’re the best. You’re a master matchmaker. A true professional who knows her business in and out and is destined for major success. A Park Avenue apartment. An overflowing bank account. And the assurance that you will never, ever have to file unemployment or wear a lime green polo shirt for a living.

“And nothing,” Nina said. “It was good. Then it was bad. Now it’s over. Time to go.”

“But—”

“No, really. I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Ernesto in five minutes. He’s the new bartender downstairs. He makes a mean Mexican Firing Squad.” A smile
touched her voice. “You wouldn’t believe what else he can do with a little lime juice and some tequila. Things should get really interesting.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little premature—”

Click.

Moe’s, here I come.

T
ime to spill my guts.

Figuratively, that is. Living with Rob isn’t that bad. Yet.

I’m talking confession. Laying it all out. Purging my conscience.

While I know being snotty and pretentious is as normal to a born vamp as having fangs and a severe allergy to the sun, I’ve never really considered myself one of
those
—the elitist, self-involved, I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-driving-the-same-Ferrari-two-days-in-a-row-or-shopping-at-Wal-Mart types like my ma and all her friends.

Come on. I live in the city. I don’t even have a driver’s license. As for Wal-Mart… All right, so I’ve never set foot in the big W (city, remember?), but I
have
thought about it (I’m a sap for
anything
retail).

Back to the point—I didn’t really think of myself as the normal BV and so flying coach wasn’t something that had ever bothered me.

Until I sat down next to Angela Darlene Connolly.

She was a thirty-four-year-old mother of three from Vermont who’d been married half her life. She was president of the Gramercy Elementary PTA, treasurer for the local Little League and she’d won an iPod by selling the most Snickers bars in last year’s Tumbling Tots fund-raiser. She didn’t drink, smoke or swear.

But man, could she talk.

“… so I told him, he isn’t the only one who needs time for himself. He goes to Colorado twice a year to ski with his fantasy football buddies. He spends every Fourth of July ice fishing in Alaska with his old fraternity brothers. He’s been kayaking through the Grand Canyon and hiking in the Appalachians with his softball team. And did I mention Friday night Poker?”

Not yet. But I had a feeling …

“Sure, it’s fun for him. All he does is deal the cards. I’m the one who spends all day making crab puffs and meatballs and these bite-sized pepperoni pizzas,” she rushed on. “And for what? So a bunch of overweight, spoiled men can sit around smoking cigars and stuffing their faces. I don’t even like cigars. Why, it takes days just to get the smell out. So I tell him, it’s my turn. I deserve a break from the world and a chance to kick up my heels. That’s why
I’m here. I’m grabbing my fun while I’m still young enough to enjoy it. My mother-in-law has the kids and Paul’s in charge of the house for the next two weeks while I head to Austin to see my sister.”

“That’s great.”

The comment popped out before I could stop it. Dread swam through me as she took the encouragement and launched into a detailed explanation of just how great it was going to be.

“We’ve got the whole thing planned. We’re going to do a little spring cleaning and have a yard sale and hit every flea market we can find. That is, once she’s up and around. She had a bladder lift last week and the doctor says she’ll have to stay off her feet for another seven days. Until then, I’ll be making her meals and cleaning the surgical site and doing bed pan duty.”

Party on.

“Do you know there are over fourteen different kinds of bed pans?”

Did I mention that she watches a lot of Discovery Health?

“I didn’t know that.” Correction, I didn’t want to know that.

“Neither did I, but it’s true.” She proceeded to give a very vivid description (color, size and model number) of the various bed pans—who knew they weren’t all round?—that lasted a full thirty minutes.

Yep, you heard me.

Thirty as in three-oh, as in half a freakin’
hour.

Meanwhile, I contemplated my options. I could a) do the vicious vamp thing and start slicing and dicing or b) stab myself with a fountain pen or c) get the hell outta there.

Forget a. I was wearing a totally cute Iro jacket (dry clean only) and a pair of Twenty8Twelve skinny leg pants in creamy vanilla. As for b, I’d never been much for violence, particularly if it was self-inflicted. I latched onto c and bolted to my feet.

“It was really great talking to you.” What? I’m nice. Get over it. “But I have to hit the john ASAP.” I crawled over the woman to my left and headed toward the back of the plane before Angela could tell me exactly how much the largest bed pan in existence could hold.

I
so
didn’t need that tidbit of info.

I spent ten minutes barricaded in the bathroom, primping and stalling and praying that Angela wasn’t a premonition that this trip was going to be one big disaster. Finally, the stewardess pounded on the door to tell me that I would have to return to my seat because we were having some turbulence.

I took one last look in the mirror and forced myself to get a grip. I couldn’t hide forever. Even more, maybe I was hiding needlessly. Maybe she’d decided to nap and was now snoring away. Or maybe the rest of the passengers had decided to lynch her and save me the trouble.

Either way, problem solved.

Hopeful, I slid open the door, apologized to the
stewardess for taking so long and marched back down the aisle.

“You’re back!” Angela slapped the magazine closed that she’d been looking at and turned her full attention to me. “I was starting to worry.”

“I’m fine.” I barely ignored the urge to turn and run. Instead, I climbed over the woman on the aisle, sank down in the middle, hands in my lap so that I didn’t knock elbows, and braced myself.

Angela shoved her
Good House keeping mag
into the front seat pocket and opened her mouth. Before she could get out another word, I whipped my head toward the woman on my left and blurted, “So where are you headed?”

“Back home,” the woman replied. She glanced up and her dark brown eyes collided with mine.

Her name was Wanda Wilder and she was a sixty-two-year-old retired nurse. She’d been in New York for her oldest granddaughter’s birthday. She’d been married for twenty-two years. Divorced for fourteen. And she’d recently signed herself up on an Internet dating site for seniors.

That’s what I’m talking about.

“I’m Lil.” I smiled. “I own Dead End Dating. It’s a matchmaking service in Manhattan.”

“I’m Wanda Wilder. I’m retired now, but I used to work in the ER at St. Mary’s Hospital in Austin. I live in Georgetown now. So what brings you to Texas?”

“Business retreat.”

“In Austin?”

“Actually, it’s a small town about an hour outside of Austin. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Lonely Fork?”

“Are you kidding?” She waved a hand at me. “My cousin lives there. You staying at The Grande?”

I smiled at the familiar name. “I made a reservation there just yesterday. Is it nice?”

“Nicest place in town. Got a five star rating the last I heard.”

Okay, maybe Angela hadn’t been a premonition, after all. The trip couldn’t be all that bad, not with a fully stocked mini-bar and turn-down service.

“Stayed there myself once when I went to my cousin Ronnie’s wedding. He owns the pharmacy in town. Knows everybody who’s anybody. If you stop in, be sure to tell him Wanda says hi.”

“I’ll do that.”

She turned and eyeballed the back of the plane. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s my turn to hit the little girls’ room. I think I had too much coffee.”

“I love coffee,” Angela declared as Wanda pushed to her feet and scooted into the aisle. “I grind my own beans. You wouldn’t believe what they use to fertilize some of those coffee beans.” She started talking again, barely pausing to take a breath. I seriously debated popping the nearest exit hatch and vamping it down to Texas.

Unfortunately, I’d checked my luggage and so I was stuck for the next two hours.

“Beverage service,” the stewardess announced several long minutes later. “Coffee? Tea?”

“… even heard they use mouse feces to lend flavor to some of the different cocoa beans …”

“I think I’m going to need something stronger,” I told the woman.

“How about an energy drink?”

“Only if it’s got a vodka chaser.”

“This can’t be right,” I told the cabdriver. I blinked my blurry eyes just in case I was having a liquor-induced hallucination. It had been over two hours since I’d crawled off the plane, but I was still feeling the aftereffects of coping with coach via cocktail.

Note: I am never,
ever
drinking another Red Bull and vodka. I mean it this time. Cross my heart.

“You said The Grande. This is The Grande.”

I eyed the two-story structure. A gravel parking lot butted up to the walkway that ran the length of the building. A bevy of cars and pickup trucks crammed the area, obliterating my view of the bottom floor. But I could see the doors lining the upper walkway. Small air-conditioning units perched in each window. My gaze shifted to the right and a single glass door. The word
Lobby
had been spelled out in vinyl letters on the glass. “But it’s supposed to be a five star hotel.”

“It is.” He pointed to the sign blazing near the side of the road. Underneath
The Grande,
spelled
out in pink neon, a caption read
“Rated 5 Stars by the
Lonely Fork Gazette.
”

“How many hotels are actually in this town?”

“Counting this one?”

“Yes.”

“That would be one.”

Which meant zero competition when it came to ratings.

He leaned over the back of the seat. “If you want, I could head back up the interstate. I think we passed a Motel 6 about forty-five minutes outside of town. They’re not the fanciest place, but they’re new. I think they even got those beds that you feed a quarter into so’s they’ll vibrate.”

I shook my head. If I intended to find Mordred, I needed to be right in the thick of things. He was here, which meant I was staying here. Besides, I’d maxed out my Visa to buy the plane ticket and book four nights at the masterpiece sitting in front of me. As queasy as I felt, I could barely stand the cab idling, much less a vibrating bed.