Part 2 (1/2)

You will forget me. As soon as I climb out of this cab, you'll forget I even exist. You'll think you drove all the way out here to get some fresh air and sightsee. End of story. No megalicious hot babe clutching a pillow in your backseat. No trying to pick her up. No enormous unpaid fare on your meter. Nada.

He blinked and the desire in his gaze faded into confusion.

As I scrambled out of the backseat, my gaze hooked on the worn paperback sitting on his dash. Love Smart. Guilt niggled at me and I heard myself say ”Got a pen?”

He blinked, still dazed and confused, and retrieved a pencil from his glove box.

I grabbed an old receipt off his seat, scribbled the name and number for Dead End Dating and handed it to him. ”Call Evie Dalton and she'll help you find that perfect someone.”

Just call me sucker.

Not that I actually felt for the guy. Or knew what it was like to sit home all by my lonesome and wonder if there was someone-anyone-out there waiting for me (I'm talking opposite s.e.x, not creditors). A girl had to protect her livelihood and I needed all the clients I could get. 'Nuff said.

He stared at the number as if I'd handed him a Visa Gold card with unlimited spending and I smiled. And then I frowned because, hey, bad a.s.s vamps didn't get all mushy just because they'd made someone's day. Especially desperate bada.s.s vamps, which is exactly what I was at the moment.

Forget the undying grat.i.tude and the fact that I've just made your year, and scram.

I willed the thought as I climbed out, and then hustled down the road. I chanced one glance behind me to make sure he'd driven off-yeah, baby-and then I really hauled b.u.t.t. My boots were literally smoking by the time I sprinted across the carefully manicured lawn that surrounded my family's three-story house.

A soft, yellow light illuminated the front door and I had a sudden vision of myself curled up in my bed on the third floor. My parents still expected me to fail and so they'd yet to turn my s.p.a.ce into another guest room. I took a few steps up the front walk before I caught myself.

My parents' place would most likely be high on the list of my possible whereabouts. While I knew they would believe my innocence and have no qualms helping me hide, I wasn't about to put them in a position where they would have to lie. Even more, I wasn't about to put myself in a position where I would have to listen to yet another of my mother's endless lectures on why I should give up the matchmaking biz, settle down with a suitable eternity mate, and squeeze out a couple of baby vamps.

I know, right?

Anyhow, I needed to think, which I couldn't do while defending my career and/or social life and/or choice of outfit. I needed to figure out how I was going to get out of this mess. I needed to... plan.

This might come as a shock seeing as how I'm such a successful businesswoman, but I've never been much for planning. I'm more of the fun-loving, spontaneous type.

Translation: irresponsible.

At least as far as my folks are concerned.

While the very thought of coming up with a cold, hard, step-by-step actually makes me a little nauseated (which is saying a lot on account of the fact that an iron const.i.tution goes with the whole born vamp persona), I knew it was going to take as much to get me through the next few hours, or days, or weeks-or however long it took to find out what the h.e.l.l was going on and clear my name.

And that's what I had to do. While I didn't know any specifics about the murder, I was firmly convinced (an arrest warrant and a police chase will do that to you) that the authorities felt certain I had killed someone. I had to prove them wrong.

With my BlackBerry back at the office in my purse, I was going to have to rely on my gray matter to keep things straight.

Number one: Find a safe place to sleep and regroup.

My feet ached and my arms felt like cement (we're talking two suitcases and a jam-packed cosmetics bag) as I rounded the house and headed for the back veranda. I'd just pa.s.sed a potted palm when my heel snapped in two and I stumbled. My ankle twisted and I screamed and limped toward a nearby chaise loungue. Sinking onto the edge, I set my suitcases down and examined my ankle.

Okay, so I looked at the heel of my Rossi first, but with just a few zzzs my ankle would be back to normal. My boot wouldn't be so lucky.

I eased off the expensive leather and wiggled my toes. The pain slowed to a dull thud and my other senses (which had been completely focused on the loss of my cherished acquisition) tuned in to my surroundings. My nostrils flared and I caught the faint but familiar scent of cherries jubilee.

See, it's like this. Each born vamp emits a scent that is uniquely his or her own. It's distinguishable only to other born vamps and it's always warm and sugary sweet. Thankfully, I was sitting downwind and so my folks couldn't smell moi. At least I didn't think so.

We (born vamps) are also gifted with a special talent unique to each of us. Some vamps can mind link. Others have super extraordinary mind control abilities (think earth, wind, and fire-the elements, not the R & B group) that supersede the given dose of vamp whammy we all are dealt. My great uncle Martine could actually predict the near future. He'd made a fortune casino-hopping in Vegas and Atlantic City. As for me, I had a fantabulous nose for sniffing out designer pieces at department store prices. Hence my ultra fab Rossis.

My ears p.r.i.c.kled and my mother's voice carried from somewhere inside the house.”Can you believe he's doing this to me?”

”It's just an invitation to tea, dear,” I heard my father tell her. The rich scent of mint chocolate chip joined the cherries jubilee.

”We're vampires. We don't drink tea.”

”Jack's intended doesn't know we're vampires. Neither do her parents. So tea makes sense.”

”Don't call her that. She isn't his 'intended.' She's his flavor of the week. You know how Jack is. He changes his mind faster than Lilliana changes her clothes. And speaking of my darling daughter, I've called the office twice and she isn't answering.”

Number two: Go back to office ASAP and turn on machine.

I wasn't sure how I was going to pull this off, but I knew it was of monumental importance. I'd sc.r.a.ped and clawed and killed myself over the past few months to make a name in the matchmaking business and I was right there. On the cusp of greatness.

Or at least making the rent.

I couldn't fall into poor business practices, i.e., not turning on the answering machine, just because I was wanted for murder.

That or I could contact Evie and make sure that she turned the answering machine on. I wasn't sure how to do this, either (no cell, no money, no dice), but I intended to figure something out.

”She never answers your calls,” my father pointed out.

”True, but that receptionist of hers or the answering machine always pick up at the office. I'm not getting either. I think something is...” Her words trailed off.

”What is it?” my father asked her.

”I... nothing. It's just, for a second there, I could have sworn I smelled cotton candy.”

So much for being downwind.

”You're worrying too much, dear.”

”Of course I'm worrying. I'm her mother.”

Aka the CEO of Guilt, Inc.

”I'm sure Lil is fine. And if she weren't, someone would have called us by now. The boys keep tabs on her.”

”Jack doesn't. He's too busy committing us to social events with every human in New York.”

”It's two, dear. Three counting the girl herself.”

”Three too many. I swear,” she huffed, ”my children are going to be the death of me.”

”You're immortal, dear.”