Dead End Dating (19 page)

Thankfully.

A stalker I did not need. Been there, done that. Which was why I tended to refrain from using my vamp abilities to wow anyone except in dire circumstances: war and famine and tanning emergencies.

I closed the door, peered past the blinds, and waited several seconds just to make sure he hadn’t tailed me. A couple strolled by, followed by a businessman in a suit, a group of giggling girls, and a woman being pulled along by several monstrous dogs. No seedy-looking guys carrying a stash of designer purses.

I let out a deep sigh and walked over to Evie’s desk. Sinking down into her chair, I fixed my attention on my new purchase. I heard a deep sigh coming from room A, followed by the squeak of a chair as my newest client readjusted her sitting position, and I remembered I’d forgotten the coffee and the scones.

Not good. At the same time, I was beyond the point of panic. I was riding a Prada high and feeling no pain.

It
was
a beautiful purse.

I trailed my fingertips over the mesh and smiled. I could see myself strutting down the street in matching shoes and something ultra slinky. Of course, I didn’t have matching shoes, which meant that I’d have to make time for a shopping trip ASAP. I had slinky in my closet at home, but I didn’t have
ultra
slinky. At least not anything from this season. I ran through the fantasy a few times with various things I already owned. No. Nah.
Never.

The phone rang while I was contemplating a black miniskirt and a leather halter I’d gotten for a steal six months ago. I pressed the blinking button.

“Dead End Dating,” I said. “Where we turn your dating disasters into blissful moments of exquisite bliss.” Ugh. Can you say American
and
Swiss? With a side order of Gouda?

“I’m calling for Lil Marchette,” said a familiar voice. “This is Esther Crutch. E-S-T-H-E-R Crutch. Spelled like Dutch, but with a C instead of a D. That’s C-R-U—”

“Es, it’s me,” I cut in. “Lil.”

“I thought it was your answering machine.”

I made a quick mental inventory of my greeting. Nope, no
please leave a message after the tone.
“It’s really me.”

“Well, I’ll be. It
is
you. Your enunciation is wonderful. I’ve been calling the psychic hotties line since we had our talk, and you’d be surprised at how garbled the operators can sound.”

“Don’t you mean psychic
hot
line?”

“That’s just to find out what’s going to happen in the future. The psychic
hotties
line hooks you up with someone who has a compatible sign so you’re not spending that future completely alone. I know you said I should try to get out more, but I really hate going places by myself. Social places, that is. So I thought I’d try some of the phone hook-up lines being advertised on the TV.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“It’s not. I’ve called the singles network, too. And Guys, Guys, Guys. You know, you really should think about doing phone work. You have the perfect voice.”

True, but I hadn’t invested a small fortune in cosmetics to hide behind a receiver. “I like a more personal approach. Speaking of which, I’m this close to finding someone for you.” Now why had I said that? Because she was calling the psychic hotties line. Talk about desperate. And pathetic.

I was a total sucker for both.

“Really?” Hope infused her voice. “I mean, I know you said you’d work on it, but I didn’t expect anything this soon. Is he, you know, like me?”

My thoughts shifted to Ty. In a purely professional sense this time. No whipped cream or neck biting or toe licking…

As if that would ever happen.

“He’s tall, dark, and handsome”—the words flowed out before I could stop them—“and one hundred percent made. And he wears a cowboy hat.”

“He’s a cowboy?”

“Once upon a time. Now he just wears the hat out of habit. And boots, too.”

“Do you think he’ll like me? Don’t answer that. I have to focus on my positive attributes.”

“You have taken our little talk to heart.”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I even bought a couple of books at the bookstore.
Love Yourself. You Got It, So Flaunt It.
Anyhow, I’ve got a good eye for detail. And brains. And I’ve scheduled one of those messotherapy sessions to work on the neck down. They smooth out your cellulite without any invasive treatment.”

“You mean the thigh wrap didn’t work?”
As if.

“For about twenty-four hours. Then it was back to square one. Story of my life. But a girl has to try. So do you think he’ll think I’m interesting? I was pretty popular back in my day, but in a nice, sweet, settled sort of way. Maybe he’s one of those cowboys who goes for the saloon-girl type.”

I remembered Ty’s comments about his past. “Trust me, if he sees another saloon girl, it’ll be too soon.”

“So he prefers a good girl?”

“Definitely.” All men wanted their women good at something. Didn’t they? Anxiety rushed through me and made my hands tremble. I fidgeted with the Prada nameplate on my new purse. “I’m sure he’ll be totally blown away by you.” If I managed to get them together. “It’s just a matter of laying the groundwork before the introduction.” I trailed my fingertip over the signature metal, and panic fled as I focused on my elite piece of handbag couture. A thrill raced up my spine. It felt so cool and slick and
loose
…Loose?

I fingered the edge. The plate popped off and flew over the desk. A soft
plink
echoed in my ears as it hit the floor somewhere to my right.

“Oh, no.” I blinked back a sudden swell of tears. My purse. My beautiful purse…

“So you really think he’ll find me interesting?”

“I do,” I said as I shoved back my chair and dropped to my hands and knees.

“Why?”

“Because you are.” I cradled the phone between my chin and shoulder and felt around. “You two have oodles in common. You’re a country girl, he’s a country boy.”

“True. So when can I meet him?”

“Soon. Listen, can I let you go? I’ve got an emergency.”

“But—”

“I’ll call you back ASAP.” I hit the off button, set the phone on the corner of the desk, and crawled toward the spot where I thought the plate might have landed.

I know, I know. Hot, happening vampires didn’t crawl around on the floor, but I was on edge. Sleep-deprived. Hormonally repressed.
Desperate.

I wasn’t sure what I intended to do. It wasn’t like I was going to glue the plate back on and carry the darned thing around as if nothing had happened.

Okay, so maybe I was
thinking
about it. Other than the glob of glue where the plate had been, it was a brilliant knock-off. It looked like Prada. Even more, it
felt
like it. At least for the few moments I’d let myself forget about the guy in the alley and the fact that I’d paid zilch for it.

“Hello? I’m out of coffee here.” The statement followed the slow creak of the door as the client in room A ducked her head out and waved her cup. She made a visual search of the outer office before her gaze dropped to the spot where I crouched near a potted palm. “I need a refill.”

“I, um, was just on my way to get some more. We’ve had a busy day.” I forced myself to my feet and ignored the urge to shove my hand into the planter and feel around in the soil. I’d heard the plate hit the floor, which meant it had to be on the floor.

Unless it had bounced.

“Excuse me a second.” I shoved my fingers into the moist dirt and felt around while my newest client stared at me as if I’d grown a halo.

“What are you doing?”

“Plant massage.” I pulled my hands free and did my best to dust off the dirt. “It’s the latest thing in gardening. Makes the darned things double in size just like that.” I took her coffee cup. “Let me just get you a glass of ice water instead.”

“I don’t want a glass of ice water. I want a coffee. And another scone.”

I forced a smile. “I’ll just dash over to Starbucks.” Taking the long way, of course. I wasn’t in any hurry to run into my stalker again.

On the other hand, he’d had an armful of other knock-offs that had looked just as wonderful as the gold mesh. If I were extra careful around the nameplate, the thing would hold together and,
bam,
I’d be riding my Prada high once again.

“Mimi Moseley over at Match Me has donuts.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not the glazed either. We’re talking
filled.
Strawberry filled, with powdered sugar on top.”

“Meaning?”

“I think I’d be a lot more relaxed sitting next to an overflowing box of my favorite donuts instead of drinking ice water and
waiting
for scones. This thing’s too complicated anyway.” She waved her questionnaire at me. “Christ, it’s dating, not rocket science. I’m out of here.”

“Wait. I can get Krispy Kremes. I can get anything you want.” Desperation welled inside me. It was crazy. She was just
one
client. One itty, bitty, teeny, tiny single in a city over four million strong. At the same time, a good businesswoman valued every client, and I needed all the help I could get. “Don’t go.”

“This place is lame.”

“No, it’s not. It’s the latest and greatest. Hands on meets high tech. Guaranteed.”

“You can’t even guarantee coffee. How are you going to follow through with a soul mate?”

Good question. “But—” My words drowned in the tremble of the bell that shook as she pushed through the door.

I barely ignored the urge to rush through the door, tackle her on the sidewalk, and drag her back inside.
One
client would not make or break me. My business wasn’t down the drain. Okay, so technically it was, but I was unplugging things slowly, but surely. I’d be floating to the top in no time.

Besides, most clients weren’t after the freebies. If the woman was that picky with her donuts—strawberry filled with powdered sugar? pulease—I didn’t stand a chance in hell of hooking her up with a guy. Picky I didn’t need. I needed clients who were more desperate than picky. Lonely. With zero expectations.

They were out there, and any second one of them would waltz through my door. He or she would be drop-dead gorgeous, with an open pocketbook and zero expectations. He/she would whiz through the application, and I would match ’em up in no time. Score one for Lil, zero for the picky, donut-loving Antichrist.

Okay, so maybe drop-dead was setting the bar a little high, I decided a half hour later when the doorbell trembled and a man walked in. I had to settle for clean-cut. And bald. With lousy taste in clothes.

“Welcome to Dead End Dating. Scone?” I’d zoomed out and restocked while licking my wounds.

He shook his head, and I smiled. “I’m not really hungry. I just want a date,” he said.

“How are you with questionnaires?”

“If you’ve got a pencil, I’m good to go.”

My night was definitely looking up.

“Let’s see…” I stared at the carefully filled-out questionnaire a short fifteen minutes later—the guy was fast—and read some of the specifics. “You really want someone who enjoys long walks in Central Park and Italian food.”

“That’s right.”

“It says here that you like action-adventure flicks.”

He nodded. “This past Christmas my buddies at work got together and gave me a year’s worth of AMC movie passes as a present.”

But he wasn’t half as anxious to use his freebies as he was to whip out the new pair of handcuffs stashed in his briefcase.

The thought struck as I stared into his hazel eyes with my ultra-vamp vision. I stiffened as an image rushed at me. While I couldn’t see an overall picture—just an arm here, a leg there—I knew it was a woman by the way she gasped as the cold steel bit into the soft flesh of her small wrists.

My nose wrinkled against the sharp scent of oil.

Wait a second…Handcuffs. Oil. Cold steel and soft flesh and…
No way.
No friggin’
way.

The kidnapper?

Definitely.

Probably.

Maybe.

There was only one way to find out.

“You’ve come to the right matchmaker. I’ve got the perfect woman for you.”

“I
’ve got the perfect woman,” Evie declared the next evening.

It was barely eight o’clock, and we were sitting in my office on either side of my desk. Mocha latte steamed from a Starbucks cup near Evie and sent wisps of white curling through the air between us. Since I’d walked in an hour ago, we’d been searching our current list of clients for the perfect match for Hunka-hunka-handcuffs. In between fielding phone calls, setting up room A for the evening’s client appointments, and admiring each other’s accessories—rhinestone bangle for me and bohemian beads for Evie—that is.

I know. If I thought he was the kidnapper, what the hell was I doing?

The whole point was to prove his guilt. Which meant fixing him up, following him, and nailing him to the wall before he actually hurt anyone.

Evie didn’t know this, of course. To her, we were just setting up an eager client.