Dead End Dating (6 page)

A quick note about born vamps and mirrors—yes, we can see our reflections. Now whether or not we want to, that’s a different story altogether. Personally, I don’t glance into mine until I’ve had at least a full glass of O positive and a little lipstick.

An orange glow topped the building next to mine, and I watched for the next several minutes as it sank lower and lower. I’d seen the sun set like this many times (I
am
five hundred years old and mirrors have been around forever), and every time, I felt a strange sense of loss when the sunlight disappeared completely.

Not that I thought it was any big deal. Or felt slighted in any way. I was one of the special ones—
crème de la crème
breeding, eternal youth, and all that jazz—and daylight was nothing more than a pain in the ass as far as I was concerned.

No way did I actually wonder what it would be like to stand outside and feel the sun warm my face.

Okay, so maybe I’ve wondered. But I’ve also wondered what it would be like to play a duet with Mozart, pose for Botticelli, marry the president of the United States (before the whole Lewinsky thing), and sing the national anthem at a Super Bowl game. We’re talking brief, fleeting, it-ain’t-gonna-happen thoughts that are nice to have, but in no way do they reflect the real me.

I am totally happy and content.

The phone rang before I could give the subject any more thought—thankfully—and I snatched it up.

“Hey.”

“Lil?”

My mother’s voice carried over the line, and I mentally slapped myself for not glancing at the caller ID. But I’d been in a sort of serious moment, and I don’t really do serious all that well.

“It’s about time you answered the phone.”

“Just kidding,” I blurted. “I’m not really home right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back. Beeeeep!”

“Lil?”

I held my breath.

“This is your mother,” she finally said. “I forgot to remind you about Sunday. Don’t be late. Your father hates it when you’re late. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go now and wake him up. He tees off at sundown.”
Click.

Whew, that was close.

I let myself take a deep breath and punched the off button on my phone.

Ugh.

In my whole new apartment/new business euphoria, I’d totally forgotten about Sunday. While humans had the traditional dinner where they gathered once a week to drive each other crazy, we Marchettes had the
hunt.

Back in the old days—pre-Versace—families had hunted together in packs. But since we born vamps had come into a new enlightened era and now did dinner in a much more civilized way—bottled gourmet—we no longer risked discovery by going out and scouring the countryside for sustenance.

Even so, that didn’t mean we should let our survival instincts get soft. At least, as far as my dad was concerned. He felt it his duty to make sure that his children were fully capable of hunting should bottling factories fall off the face of the earth and chaos reign supreme. And so he kept up the Sunday hunt tradition.

Only now we hunted each other—the
it
person. The prize? Extra vacation days from Moe’s, which suited my brothers just fine. They hadn’t missed a hunt in ages. Since I wasn’t now nor had I ever been (at least not that I would admit) employed by Moe’s, I wasn’t nearly as revved about the weekly gathering. I’d rather wear a pair of jeans from Wal-Mart.

On top of making us hunt, my dad insisted on showing us his latest golf swing.

Forget Wal-Mart. Bring on the Goodwill.

I crawled from beneath the covers and walked over to the window. I was about to close the blinds when I felt the strange prickling sensation that I’d felt last night.

I stared at the alley below, my extraordinary eyesight pushing back the shadows to sweep up and down the narrow walkway. Empty except for a few garbage cans, a stray cat, and something soft and furry that I would rather not name.

Denizen of the darkness aside, I had sort of a phobia when it came to rodents.

I searched the area a few more seconds before shaking away the strange sensation. Punching the button on my CD player, I forwarded through the selections until Kanye West started warning the male population about gold-digging women. I hit the repeat button and set the remote control aside. The steady beat filled my small apartment and drowned out the evening news blaring from the TV next door. I danced into the kitchen, downed a full glass of blood, and then did a little ass-shaking toward the shower. Creepiness and nagging mothers aside, I was in a pretty good mood.

A half hour later, I was dressed and ready to start my evening. The sky was a rich velvet black studded with twinkling stars, and I opted to walk rather than catch a cab.

Along the way, I stopped off at a nearby newsstand for the latest issue of
Cosmo
and ducked into Starbucks. My hands were full by the time I rounded the corner and approached my office.

Thankfully.

Because the hunky guy who was waiting just outside the glass doorway made me want to reach out and think later.

Much,
much
later.

H
e was a vampire.

That was the first thought I had when I saw the man standing in the doorway of Dead End Dating.

Okay, so that wasn’t actually my
first
thought.

Numero uno
? My lace Victoria’s Secret thong had crawled into a really high place, and I was thinking I should have used my preternatural reflexes and gone after it a block back instead of opting to wait until I reached the office.

Thought number two?

He was a really hot vampire.

In a wild, primitive way. He had dark, shoulder-length hair, a strong, stubble-covered jaw, and blue eyes. Not just any old blue either. We’re talking neon blue, so bright and vivid that I could have sworn I heard them humming when they collided with mine.

Then again, the hum could have been my deprived vampiric hormones, which have been known to kick into overdrive in the face of so much testosterone.

This guy definitely had the whole badass cowboy thing working, from the black Stetson that sat low on his forehead and his long black leather duster, to his black jeans and faded black boots.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t just a drop-dead gorgeous bloodsucker. He was also a made one.

I knew that the minute my nostrils flared and the only thing I smelled was the faint hint of leather from his jacket. Nothing sweet or rich or edible, though he certainly looked all three.

I forced myself to swallow and focused on the thong. Ugh. Talk about uncomfortable. I should feel totally out of sync right now and not the least bit turned on. My heart shouldn’t pound and my hands shouldn’t tremble, and no friggin’ way should I feel like planting a big one on this guy’s firm, sensuous lips.

Think thong.

Think irritating thong.

Think totally irritating thong chafing the hell out of my ass beneath last season’s DKNY jeans which I’d pulled on for lack of anything else (did I mention I hate to do laundry?) with a pink vintage Metallica T-shirt that did absolutely nothing for my complexion.

I couldn’t have done a thing about the jeans. But I would have been much better off if I’d worn the cream-colored pullover mini tee with the rhinestones and cap sleeves that I’d bought last weekend. At least that played up what was left of my airbrushed tan and made me look marginally sexy…

Wait a sec.

At the moment, sexy wasn’t my top priority. Mr. Hot
Made
Vampire was out of the realm of prospective vamps. Which meant no feeling his vibe. No wondering what his lips felt like or fantasizing about the rough feel of his hands on my…
No.

It’s not like he was all that and a Bloody Mary chaser. Vintage, at least when it came to an entire outfit, was so
not
in. The trick was to pair key pieces with trendy styles. This guy obviously had zero fashion sense on top of the whole being made issue. A double whammy as far as I was concerned.

Even so, I still wished I’d worn the other shirt. Just because he was clueless didn’t mean I had to join the party. Not to mention—vampire classifications aside—he was totally, massively H-O-T. While I had no intention of hooking up with him, I still wanted him to want to hook up with me.

It was the principle of the thing, after all.

I reached him in three strides. “Hi.”

“Hey there, sugar.”

Sugar? There you go. Talk about superior, condescending macho bullshit. He might as well have snatched my voter registration card and my free will along with it. I absolutely
detested
guys who did that.

My heart kicked up a notch, and my nerves tingled. “Can I, um, help you with something?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t budge. He simply stood there blocking my doorway, his gaze fixed on me. A funny feeling wiggled up my spine. A familiar feeling.

Realization slammed into me like a bus with bad brakes. “You’re the one who’s been following me,” I blurted. “It was you.”

He didn’t so much as flinch at the accusation. No sheepish look of apology to soften the badass image. Instead, he grinned, which lifted the corners of his mouth and revealed a row of straight white teeth. My heart pitter-pattered shamelessly.

“Guilty.” His voice went from deep and seductive to cold and businesslike. “My name is Ty Bonner. I’m an independent fugitive apprehension agent. I’d like to talk to you about a string of kidnappings.”

My mind rushed back to the news spiel I’d heard coming from my neighbor’s apartment about the missing Chicago woman.

Before I could speculate, Ty said, “Why don’t we have this discussion inside? Your coffee’s getting cold.” He motioned to the Starbucks container in my hand.

“What? Oh, this isn’t for me. It’s for my receptionist.” He stepped back and I walked past him.

I meant to saunter, but I was too busy wondering why he would want to talk to me about a bunch of kidnappings and, okay, so I was also wondering why I had such rotten luck when it came to men. The first really good-looking guy I meet and he’s
made,
for Damien’s sake.

What was I? Cursed or something?

“Well, well. You have been busy,” Evie said the moment we walked into the office. “Way to go, boss. If you keep pulling them in like this, we’ll be up and running in no time.”

“He’s not a client. He’s a fugitive administrative agent.”

“That’s fugitive apprehension agent,” Ty corrected.

“A bounty hunter.” Evie gleamed at Ty as I set the coffee on her desk. “Sounds terribly dangerous.”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you carry a gun?” Her gaze traveled the length of him, pausing at several spots in between. “A Beretta? Glock? Ruger? Magnum revolver?”

“Evie’s a huge
CSI
fan,” I chimed in when Ty raised an eyebrow.

“Actually, I carry a forty-caliber Sig,” he told her. “
When
I carry. Which isn’t too often. I don’t really need a gun.” Not with the forces of darkness on his side.

“Stupid me. You’re probably a black belt. Highly trained in hand-to-hand combat,” Evie said. I could practically see her shiver with excitement. “I bet you kick ass royally with your bare hands.”

“I can hold my own.”

“You can go ahead and take off,” I told Evie, who simply sat there, staring at Ty as if he were a Tootsie Pop and she had a sudden hankering for the chocolate center. “I bet you’re tired.”

“Not at all.” She took a huge gulp of her mocha latte. “This is my sixth one of these today.” She set the cup down. “I’d be glad to hang around to take calls while you guys have your, er, talk.”

“That’s okay. I’ll answer the phone. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

“Really, I wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not. It would be my pleasure.”

“Go.” I directed my
mucho
psychic vamp abilities and willed her to her feet, but she didn’t so much as budge. It wasn’t until Ty gave her the Look that she pushed back from her desk and stood. She handed me a small stack of messages before reaching for her purse.

“Don’t forget your coffee,” Ty said, and she smiled.

“Thanks,” she said as if he’d been the one to stand in line for twenty minutes for it.

“You’re welcome,” I said, willing her to leave again with my eyes. I felt a niggle of guilt. After all, Evie was my friend, and I made it a rule never to use any vamp mojo on my friends. Then again, most of my friends were fellow vamps and the mojo didn’t work on them.

Besides, this was an emergency. And in her best interest. I didn’t know Ty Bonner. He could be sizing her up for dinner for all I knew. From the way Evie was gushing, she’d be a more than willing entree.

“Take off,” I said, and she made a beeline for the door as fast as her leather Jimmy Choo wedges could carry her.

Oooh, I hadn’t really noticed those before. Nice.

“…do it?”

“What?” My head swiveled back to Ty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“Where do you want to do it?”

A dozen yummy possibilities raced through my mind, and my tongue was suddenly too thick to talk. I pointed to a doorway and motioned him in.