Your Coffin or Mine? (19 page)

I turned, our gazes locked, and the facts ticked off in my head.

Mark Williams. Loaded. Liked looking in the mirror. Loaded. Liked looking at his hair. Loaded. Liked admiring his pecs. Loaded. Liked eating in five-star restaurants and admiring his butt. Loaded. Liked having his teeth bleached.
Loaded.

He smiled, obviously expecting me to fall all over him to make the next cut. But I hadn’t wanted to make this cut, so I narrowed my gaze and stared at his mouth. “Crowns or veneers?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve obviously had a lot of dental work. Did you cap what was there or go for a new set?”

He looked stunned for the space of three heartbeats before his expression eased into another smile. “You’re the funny one.”

“Excuse me?”

“I liked your tape.”

“You did?”

He shook his head and chuckled. “Pinto beans,” he snorted. “That was a good one.”

I
know.
Mr. Weather snorting, but there it was. Loud. Sincere. And in total contradiction to my raised-by-vamps theory.

“You have a wonderful sense of humor.”

“I do?”

He nodded, and when he smiled, his expression seemed softer and more genuine. “I’d love to talk to you some more, but I’ve got to spread myself around.”

“No, no. I completely understand.”

“Maybe we can hook up later? You know, catch a few minutes to really get to know each other. Just the two of us.”

“Definitely.” My hand closed around the rose he handed me and I actually felt a tiny thrill of excitement.

He liked me.

Not that I
wanted
him to like me.

That was the point. I was clearly sending out my
do not like me
vibe, yet here he was, slobbering all over me and begging me to meet him later. (
All right,
already. I know that’s not
exactly
what was happening, but I’m the one giving the recap and I say he was definitely slobbering.)

I
so
had it going on.

Too bad he wasn’t a certain made vampire who hunted tongue-eating criminals for a living.

The thought stirred visions of Ty, and I quickly went from feeling hyped up to feeling totally icky. Particularly when we all sat down to dinner and I was forced to push around a plateful of grilled salmon and wild rice.

I picked and forked and even pretended to eat a few bites that I quickly spit into my napkin using my ultrafast reflexes and the occasional, “Look! Mr. Weather just lost his pants!”

I watched John’s Adam’s apple bob and my own hunger stirred. I definitely should have had more than one glass of AB positive before I’d left the house.

Gathering my own control, I tamped down on the urge and sucked down yet another glass of wine. I’d made it through dinner and was drinking in the aroma of chocolate cake with raspberry sauce when John elbowed me.

“Lookee, lookee! She’s dancing.”

My attention shifted to the microscopic dance floor and the tall blonde swaying provocatively in the center. She wore high-heeled suede boots, an ultrashort black dress, and a seductive expression that stated very clearly what she was feeling at the moment, and—lemmetellya—it wasn’t pain.

Beside me, John was going nuts. He kept lifting his clutch and mumbling into the clasp.

“Indigestion,” I blurted when the other women at our table stared pointedly at him. “She takes pills, but nothing seems to work. Her doctor suggested she try meditation to help with the pain. The purse is her focal point. That’s it,” I rubbed his back. “Focus. Chant. There you go.”

Since John was competing with dessert for everyone’s attention, our tablemates quickly scarfed down the explanation and turned their attention back to scarfing down the chocolate cake.

Stop acting like an idiot.
I sent the mental thought, but he wasn’t looking at me and so I had to resort to another Super Vamp technique. I popped him upside the head.

“What?”

“You’re making a fool of yourself. Stop holding up the purse and mumbling.”

“I need a good shot, complete with commentary.” He grinned. “This is it. I’ll get my promotion, for sure.”

“Not before you get committed.” I motioned toward the dance floor. “Why don’t you stand up? Move around a little. Maybe you can get a better vantage point?”

“Good idea.” He bounced up from the seat. “Promotion, here I come.”

I watched him pick his way around the perimeter of the room. He hung back. He dipped behind an overgrown ficus. He planted himself behind a waiter holding a water pitcher. But no matter where he moved, he couldn’t seem to get a clear shot and so he kept moving, circling, until he stood on the opposite side of the room.

I saw the frustration play over his features as he tried to zoom in on his subject through the other dancers. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t get the shot.

Like hell.

Determination fired his eyes and he stiffened. He stuffed the purse under his arm, did a quick shift and fix on his boobs, and then took a wobbly step forward.

He inched his way out onto the dance floor, swaying and shimmying toward the center, the clutch firmly under his arm, the end aimed effectively at his target.

The song ended and a faster song took its place. Everyone on the dance floor picked up the tempo, including John. He started to shake. To wiggle. To bounce.

Now I don’t want to sound like a skeptic or anything because, obviously, if vamps exist (as well as a whole group of weres and Others), then anything’s possible. But I’ve never really believed in people who had premonitions or psychics or fortune tellers, or anyone else who claimed to predict the future.

Rather, I liked to think that the future depended, ultimately, on the choices one made, that there was no predestined path and that things could turn on a dime just like that. And, if so, then getting a glimpse of it ahead of time would be virtually impossible.

Right? Right.

At least that’s what I’d always thought.

Until I saw John do a twist and twirl. A sense of disaster swept over me. A frantic “Oh, shit” echoed through my head.

I braced myself and sure enough, he twirled again.

His body went left. His boobs went right.

And the whole evening went to hell via express delivery.

Twenty-two

T
hings happened really fast from that moment on, but to me it felt like a horror movie unfolding slowly, painfully. John, freaked that his breasts were now slipping and sliding across the dance floor in opposite directions, took a nosedive to catch one. His long red hair slapped at the air and then jumped ship, exposing a dark brown buzz cut.

A loud scream ripped through the ballroom. The music stopped. The producer went nuts. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled between the dance floor and yours truly and—

I quickly shut my mouth and the screaming stopped. What can I say? We’re talking a
buzz
cut.

The fraud suspect jumped back. Her heel smashed down on insert number two and solution squirted all over the wood floor.

The woman next to her slipped, grappling for the brunette next to her as she landed on her ass. The brunette went down, clutching at the blonde next to her, who reached for the redhead next to her, and so on, until the only person still upright was Mr. Weather. Uh-oh.

I caught a quick glimpse of the bachelor’s shocked face as a woman tumbled into him and he tried to catch her.

Before I could think, I shot to my feet. I crossed the room and hit the dance floor in two seconds flat (they don’t call it preternatural speed for nothing). My hands filled with all that cool, smooth Gucci. I caught Mr. Weather just as he was about to tumble backward and disappear into a sea of French manicures and strappy stilettos.

“What the hell?” he mumbled as I steadied him on his feet and smoothed the rumpled lapel of his jacket. He blinked and shook his head, as if trying to understand that the blur he’d just seen had been yours truly.

“I had a couple of energy drinks before I came,” I blurted. “It’s a wonder what taurine can do.”

“Uh, yeah.” He shook his head again and blinked a few more times. “You’re really strong.”

“I take vitamins, too. You can’t have too much B14.”

“That’s not a vitamin. It’s a bingo number. I think you mean B12.”

“B12, B14—I take the entire B family. And the rest of the alphabet, too.” I made a show of flexing my arms and sent the silent message.
I’m the most buff specimen of female perfection that you’ve ever seen and you’re appropriately wowed. You’re also anxious to get the hell out of here, find the nearest bathroom, and make sure none of these bitches messed up your hair during the collision.

“I really need to take a leak. Thanks again.”

“It was nothing. Just forget it.”

Yeah, right.

While I could make Mr. Weather forget if I wanted to, I couldn’t work my vamp magic on a room full of women. My gaze swept the surrounding faces. Most were too busy mourning ruined dresses or mussed hair to even notice me (yeah, baby). But there were a few who stared as if I’d just turned into a giant bobble head.

Or a vampire.

I ran my tongue over my teeth. Nope. No fangs. I smoothed my hands over my dress. No soft, pink bat fuzz.

My only slipup had been shooting across the room like a cannon in full view of everyone and, more important, the four video cameras currently recording everything on tape, all in the name of Gucci.

Mr. Weather walked toward the men’s room. The staff stylist followed him, flat iron in one hand and a bottle of Spritz It in the other.

I was just about to try to do some damage control with a nearby cameraman when two security guards, followed by several of the boat’s officers, stampeded past me. They headed straight for John, who was scrambling to his feet.

The guards nabbed him just as he made it upright and hauled him off the dance floor. Meanwhile, a half dozen production assistants started peeling women off one another.

“But I didn’t do anything…” I heard John plead as security dragged him from the room. “Wait,” he struggled and wiggled and tried to dig in his feet, but he’d lost his shoes in the chaos and he couldn’t seem to get a grip on the carpet. “Don’t.” He tugged and pulled and cast a frantic glance my way. “I can’t leave my hair!”

The 26th Precinct of the New York City Police Department wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Of course, I wasn’t one of the poor saps being paraded by in handcuffs. No, I had it parked on a metal chair near the busy information desk.

“Nice hair,” the woman sitting next to me said.

My hands tightened on the red wig that lay in my lap. “Thanks.” I slid a glance at the woman and smiled.

Debbie Ray Lawrence. Twenty-five. Born and raised in Trenton. She’d been in the city for two years. Part-time college student. Full-time escort. No current relationship. Her last boyfriend had been a shitbag named Sonny. He’d wiped out her three-hundred-dollar savings and eaten the last Rice Krispies bar before leaving her for a stripper named Lou. He’d claimed that Debbie didn’t have enough experience for him, which had led to her current occupation. No man would ever leave her again for being a schmuck in bed. But while she now knew what she was doing, she wasn’t so sure she liked it. She’d still never had an orgasm and, to be honest, she didn’t really understand what the fuss was all about.

There was a ton more stuff—her fav color, food, congressional candidate—but I was tired and Debbie was extremely long-winded. I smiled and cut the connection.

“Amateur or professional?” she asked me.

“Definitely professional.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. You’ve got the look perfected.”

“I do?” I hadn’t been aware that matchmakers had an actual
look.
I glanced down. Fab shoes. Great dress. I did have it going on in a major way.

“So how much do you charge?”

“For two or three?”

“I was thinking one.”

I shook my head. “I never just do one. It’s either two or more, otherwise it’s really not worth my time and effort. I mean, what are the odds of hitting pay dirt with just one?”

“That’s true, but two seems like an awful lot.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve done tons more. I did a full dozen just last month.”

“In one night?”

“Oh, no. That would be too tiring. I spaced them out over a few weeks.”

“Oh, okay. That makes much more sense. I’ve done that before.”

“You’re a matchmaker, too?”

“No, I have a pimp who sets up my dates. I just make sure the guy gets off. What about you? Do you have a pimp?”

I shook my head. “I’m not a hooker. I just hook up people.”

“So you’re a pimp?”

My thoughts went to Viola and the reproductive fest I’d been responsible for several months back. In the name of procreation, not pleasure. We’re talking survival of the species. “Sort of.”

She nodded. “Interested in taking on any new girls?”

“Only if you’re interested in giving up your current profession and finding the love of your life.”

“Love sucks most of the time. I’d rather have cold hard cash.”