Dead End Dating (33 page)

I sat in my office on a clear, star-studded, moonlit night and held the thick, glossy vellum embossed with gold lettering. My heart gave an excited thump.

“I’ve never seen a marriage invitation phrased quite that way before,” Evie said as she stared over my shoulder. “That is what this is, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Or rather the vamp equivalent. Complete with a lavish reception and the most hideous bridesmaid’s dresses I’d seen since my aunt Clarabella from Louisiana had exchanged commitment vials down in Shreveport just before the start of the Civil War. Picture
Gone with the Wind
meets
Prom Massacre Part IX.

Uh, yeah.

Not that I was complaining. I’d wear hoop skirts and double as a giant pitcher of Tang if it meant seeing Nina Two happily hooked up to the vamp of her dreams for all eternity.

Hey, what are friends for?

“I guess they’re going the cheap route. It says BYOB.”

I wasn’t explaining
that
one.

Evie still hadn’t figured out my little secret. As far as she knew, I was the eccentric—and obviously tasteful—boss with an impressive collection of bangle bracelets and designer belts.

And how goes it with everyone else?

Well, Nina One still had her shopping addiction, although Nina Two and I had persuaded her to tone it down a bit. Then again, maybe it was her father tightening the purse strings that did that. My brother Max was still a playa-playa. Jack and Rob were still trying to follow in his footsteps. Esther Crutch was still waiting for me to hook her up—in between Botox injections and cellulite massages. My father was still fighting over territorial rights to the hedges on the east side of his property. My mother was still trying to fix me up. And Ty was still haunting my fantasies.

And most of my reality, as well.

He’d helped out the locals with several unsolved cases, and they’d been so happy with his work that they’d asked him to stick around Manhattan for a little while.

I
know.
Am I in trouble, or what?

To my credit, I hadn’t sucked his blood—or any other part of his person—since that night at my apartment. And I sure as hell hadn’t kissed him.

Yet.

“This is so exciting,” Evie went on, effectively distracting me from the whole Ty issue, bless her human soul. “Our first official marriage. We’ll have to frame the invite and hang it on our Happily Hitched wall.”

“Since when do we have a Happily Hitched wall?”

She waved the invite. “Since right now.”

I smiled, despite the fact that things hadn’t turned out exactly as planned. Namely, Francis had chucked his newfound hotness, turned down the half-dozen born female vamps who’d fallen for him at the soiree three months ago, and was now living with Melissa.

Sure. They were happy. And sort of hitched. If you considered total monogamy and matching sweaters expressions of their undying devotion. But they weren’t planning a nursery or wearing each other’s blood around their necks. Which meant they were far from the perfect example of a vampiric happily ever after.

But while I hadn’t managed to find an eternity mate for the oldest, geekiest vampire in existence, I
had
managed to find one for the pickiest vamp. Aka Wilson Harvey.

I’m definitely da bomb.

The extra word-of-mouth I’d received because of the kidnappings/murders hadn’t hurt, either. While Ty had managed to put the Jersey incident to bed very quietly thanks to a few of his buddies in very high places—who woulda known the FBI had a real paranormal investigations unit headed by,
ta-da,
a vampire?—there had been quite a bit of speculation among the local authorities. My name had been tossed around by New York’s finest more than once. Needless to say, I’d gained somewhat of a reputation over the past few months and had taken on a rather impressive client load of born vamps
and
lonely cops.

Among other creatures.

I told Evie good-bye and waited for her to leave before I picked up the message she’d left on my desk.

Please call Viola Hamilton. It’s urgent…

Urgent? What could the queen of the werewolves want with me that was
that
urgent?

I ignored the sudden butterflies in my stomach, picked up the phone, and punched in the number. I’d faced off with a murderer, hooked up my best (and most boring) friend in the entire world, and managed to have a pair of Miu Miu boots cleaned
without
any spotting. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.

At least that’s what I told myself.

And there was only one way to find out.

If you fell in love at first bite with
Dead End Dating,
read on for a sneak peek at

Dead and Dateless
by
KIMBERLY RAYE

the next delectable novel
in the Dead End Dating series!

“I
need a man.” The attractive woman sitting across the desk from me leaned forward.

Her name was Viola Hamilton, and she was the latest client to come walking into the small but well-furnished office that housed my latest business venture—Dead End Dating. Manhattan’s first and only hook-up service for vampires. And humans. And any other creature who could fork over my pricey (but well worth every red cent) fee.

I’m the Countess Lilliana Arabella Guinevere du Marchette. Lil for short. The latest and greatest when it comes to matchmakers, and a five-hundred-year-old born vampire with an ever-expanding wardrobe and a serious cosmetics addiction.

Okay,
okay.
I’m a five-hundred-year-old born vampire with an ever-expanding wardrobe, a serious cosmetics addiction,
and
enough outstanding Visa charges to fund a small third-world country.

But enough about the ever-fantabulous me.

“Actually,” Viola went on, “I need twenty-seven men to be exact. Tall, dark, handsome, smart. Preferably human. But with only two weeks until the full moon, I’m willing to negotiate on that last point.”

Viola had long, dark hair, jet black eyes, and lips slicked with Chanel’s Crimson Dream. She wore a black Gucci jacket and matching slacks. A Cartier watch with a diamond band glittered from her slender wrist. She was president of the Connecticut chapter of the Naked and Unashamed Nudist Sisterhood aka the NUNS aka a group of female werewolves who met weekly at her Fairfield estate.

She was also the reason my father had nearly decapitated himself with a pair of hedge clippers last weekend. My old man detested thick, overgrown bushes almost as much as female werewolves, and so he religiously trimmed the azaleas that separated the two estates. Viola, on the other hand, detested short, puny vegetation and snobby, pretentious born vampires, and so she religiously put up a fight.

I, on the other hand, welcomed any- and everyone with my arms wide, my mind open, and my deposit slip ready.

A smile spread across my face as I mentally calculated what twenty-seven men (preferably human) meant in terms of outstanding credit card payments.

“So can you help me?”

“That depends,” I heard myself say. Wait a second. I knew Viola could fork over the cash. I should be shouting
Yes!
After all, I’m a born vampire. The PC term for unconscionable, pompous, money-hungry, bloodsucking aristocrat.

“On what?”

“On what you’re going to do with twenty-seven men.” Okay, so I’m not exactly PC. Sure, I could be as pompous as any ancient-born
vampere.
I was most certainly money-hungry. I’d also recently fallen off the wagon on the bloodsucking part (I’d been going for the bottled stuff up until a few weeks ago when I’d been staked in the shoulder and nursed back to health by a megalicious made vampire named Ty Bonner).
And
I was also an aristocrat (French royalty and all that). It was the unconscionable part that I had trouble with. “I’m a matchmaker, not a personal chef.”

Viola smiled, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. “We’re not going to eat them, dear. We’re going to have sex with them.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the small crystal ashtray on the corner of my desk. “And procreate. Female werewolves only ovulate during a lunar eclipse, which means we get one, maybe two shots a year to actually conceive, if any at all. Last year, we got nada. Since we females carry the actual were gene, we can mate with any creature and still produce a were baby. We NUNS feel a social responsibility to keep our race as pure as possible, and so we prefer humans. That way we don’t have to worry about any otherworldly genes mixing in with our own.”

Okay, so I already knew this. Not firsthand, mind you. While I am now a hot, hip, happening vampire, I was raised in a very sheltered environment. Most of my friends were born vamps, and so I’d never actually talked to a real werewolf. Of course, I was as educated as the next born vamp, and so I’d learned all about sexuality and the various species early on. But hearing it told by a holier-than-thou
vampere
tutor whose lesson had been extremely brief (other creatures weren’t deemed worthy of our precious time) and hearing it straight from Viola (complete with details) were two very different things. She spoke from actual experience.

“Why not a male werewolf? Wouldn’t that be the ideal?”

“Do you know twenty-seven available male werewolves?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Neither do we. There are a total of fifty-two members of our organization, nearly half of whom have mates and don’t need your services. I’m here on behalf of the single, uncommitted, aging NUNS. Unlike you vamps, we only have a small window for procreation. Fifty years to be exact. Desperation always makes one less choosy. Besides, male werewolves are bossy and overbearing and extremely territorial. You have their child, and bam, they’re ready to pee on every tree in your front yard. While I wouldn’t mind it if I found the right male werewolf, I haven’t, and I seriously doubt I’m going to in the next two weeks.”

“Why not just go to a sperm bank?”

“We only ovulate during an actual sexual encounter. Our reproductive system requires a barrage of stimuli. In other words, there’s no kissing or touching or nibbling a turkey baster, dear.”

“I see your point.”

“Wonderful.” Viola smiled and opened her Christian Dior clutch. “I’ll write you a check.”

I was just about to reach across the desk and kiss this month’s bills good-bye when the intercom buzzed.

“Lil?” Evie Dalton’s voice floated over the line. Evie is my devoted assistant. She had great taste in belts, lived for the lastest MAC lip gloss, and could spot a fake Fendi at twenty paces. Had I been a lesbian human instead of a heterosexual born vampire with a screaming biological clock, I would have married her on the spot. “I know you’re with a client, but could you come out here?”

“Give me just a second.” My fingers closed around the check.

“It’s really important.”

“So is this.” I stared at the five-figure sum. While it wasn’t my ultimate fantasy (me plus the megalicious Ty Bonner plus this cute little number I’d spotted over at La Perla), it was certainly a dream come true to a struggling entrepreneur.

“There are some men here to see you.”

“If Brad Pitt isn’t one of them, they can wait.” I smiled at Viola, slid her payment into my top drawer, and turned toward my laptop. “Let me get you a receipt and—”

“They’re not really into waiting.”

“They’ll have to make an exception.” I punched the off button. The light blinked and the intercom buzzed again, but I ignored it.

“That’s twenty-seven matches,” I said as my fingers flew across the keyboard. “At the usual amount per match, plus a bonus for our deluxe, ultra-speedy service—”

“You can’t go in,” Evie’s voice rose to a shriek a split second before the door crashed open and a half-dozen men clad in cheap suits burst into my office, none of whom looked even close to Brad Pitt.

“Lil Marchette?” The question came from the first man to reach my desk. He wore a navy blue suit, a haggard expression, and the worst tie I’d ever seen.

“She’s not here,” Evie shouted from the doorway. “She left early. This woman is her assistant. Because if she wasn’t her assistant, she would be in big trouble.”

“How big?” I asked, my gaze darting from one man to the next.

“Plead the fifth,” Evie blurted before two of the men managed to push her back into the outer office.

“What’s going on here?”

“We need you to come with us,” the man said as he flashed a silver badge and motioned to two of his underlings. They quickly pushed Viola out of the way and rounded the desk for me.

Detectives. Badges. Handcuffs.

The pieces started to fall into place, and panic bolted through me.

“But you can’t!” I wiggled away as he reached out. “I didn’t mean to put a dent in that soda machine. I was just trying to get my money back and—”

“I don’t know anything about a dented soda machine.”

“I meant to call about that jury summons,” I blurted, rushing down my mental list of offenses, “but my cell phone’s been out and I don’t like to use my business phone for anything but—”

“It’s not the jury summons.”

“I didn’t mean to take that towel from the gym. It just got mixed in with my change of clothes.”

“Nope.”

“That cabdriver said he didn’t mind if I didn’t have enough cash for the entire fare—”

“Guess again.” He pulled out a pair of handcuffs as two of his men fought to get a grip on my arms. Not easy considering I have preternatural strength and a severe allergy to polyester.

“Then what did I do?” The cuffs slid on, and I found myself pulled around the desk. “Because whatever it is, I won’t do again. Cross my heart and hope to—”

“—die?” the detective finished for me. “You just might.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re being arrested for murder.”

Dead End Dating
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.