Part 3 (1/2)

Remy Tremaine aka the Fairfield police force's token vampire. His parents lived in a four-story colonial not too far away and were longtime friends of my folks. Our dads watched the Knicks together and golfed every Sat.u.r.day night. Our mothers were both members of the Connecticut Huntress Club. Remy's madre collected dues while mine served as vice president and my unofficial spokesperson.

Meaning, she furnished my stats (height, weight, o.r.g.a.s.m quotient) along with gla.s.ses of refreshment at every meeting.

Meaning, I'd been set up with every eligible son, cousin, nephew, uncle, father, grandfather, and great grandfather (don't ask).

All born vampires, of course, who met my mother's standard requirements for a son-in-law. Good looking. Fantastique fertility rating. And filthy rich. While police chiefs didn't rake in the mega bucks, Remy's private security service-which provided personal bodyguards to the wealthy, as well as an impressive list of celebrities and politicians-did.

I'd been paired up with Remy on at least a dozen occasions. Not that I'd fallen for him, mind you. Yummy looks aside, we're talking man-made soles.

On top of that, while Remy looked good enough to eat, he didn't smell good enough to eat. Because of his line of work, he took a special pill developed by a top-secret agency that provided tactical weapons for the armed forces. (I told you I'd spent many an evening with him.) The pill inhibited his natural scent and allowed him to mix, undetected, with the criminal element (some of them born vamps). Since the scent was a crucial mating element, I'd never been remotely attracted to him. Even if I sort of liked the fact that he didn't remind me of a walking coconut cream pie.

As far as I was concerned, Remy was... Well, Remy. I'd known him forever (translation-since we'd both been baby vamps back in the old country). I'd seen him wear knickers and he'd seen me in pantaloons and powdered wigs (uh, yeah), which equaled way too much history for me.

h.e.l.lo? Get over it. I could if I'd actually felt it. The chemistry. The heat. The bam!

Bam! was a must-have on my prospective eternity mate list and so I'd crossed Remy off a long time ago.

The doorbell rang and my mother's voice sounded somewhere in the house.”I told you I heard something,” she said to my father.

”Of course you heard something. The entire neighborhood heard it.”

The k.n.o.b clicked and the door creaked open.

”Remy? What's the meaning of this?”

”Sorry about the siren, Mrs. Marchette. Morris here is a rookie and was just following procedure. She hit the b.u.t.ton before I could stop her.” While I couldn't see what was going on, I knew Morris was no doubt standing there with a look of pure rapture on her face because Remy was sort of hot and he'd obviously vamped her to keep her silent.

”Since when is it procedure to stop by for a nightcap?” my mother asked.

”This isn't a social call.” He paused and my heart stopped beating. ”There's a warrant out for Lil.”

”I told you she can't handle her finances,” my mother blurted. ”Haven't I told you? Just tell us how much the parking tickets are and we'll take care of it.”

”She isn't wanted for outstanding traffic violations, Mrs. Marchette.”

”I'm afraid I don't understand.”

”She's wanted for murder.”

”I told you the constant bottled diet would eventually get to her,” she told my father with the same exasperation she'd used in reference to the traffic violations. ”Haven't I told you? A vampire has to hunt. End of story. Obviously we can control ourselves, but to deny the hunger completely... It's ridiculous.”

”That's our Lil,” my father added.

See, I wasn't much for hunting. Not that I couldn't, mind you. I just preferred drinking my dinner out of a martini gla.s.s and following it up with an appletini chaser. Or, my most recent discovery, a cactus margarita. Talk about delish. See, they use sugar instead of salt and this to-die-for cactus juice that's actually sweet...

Wait a second. Where was I? Oh, yeah. While my parents went for the bottled stuff for the most part, they did indulge in the real thing on occasion. To nurture their wilder side.

I know, I know. My wild side had most likely bitten the dust a few hundred years ago. Maybe. And maybe I'm just bottling it up in hopes of unleas.h.i.+ng it with a megalicious vampire who can't keep his hands off me.

Hey, it could happen!

”It's just like your cousin Brigitte,” my mother went on. ”Remember when she decided to become a nun and gave up men and blood? She lasted all of two weeks before she drained an encyclopedia salesman and even tried to sink her teeth into the free globe.”

”The globe?”

”Of course, she was out of her mind by then. If you ask me, she was out of her mind even before. Imagine, a nun. It's too frightening to even contemplate.”

”Lil didn't lose it and drain him. She chopped him into little pieces.””That's preposterous. Not that I wouldn't like to see our daughter do a little healthy hunting. But our kind don't kill. You know that, Remy. Besides, Lilliana cried for a week when her brother ripped the head off her favorite doll. You remember that, don't you, dear?” she asked my father.

”We had a h.e.l.l of a time calming her down,” my dad said. ”h.e.l.l of a time.”

”She would never do something so messy. She hates to get her hands dirty.”

Actually, it was my clothes that I hated to get dirty.

But Mom got kudos for standing up for me, so I wasn't going to argue semantics.

”There's obviously been a mistake,” my mother added. ”A ridiculous mistake.”

”I agree,” Remy sighed. ”But the evidence says otherwise. The victim was Kevin Gillespie, aka Keith Gillman.”

The name drew an immediate image. I closed my eyes and saw the geeky twenty-something who'd come to my office desperate to find the girl of his dreams less than two weeks ago. He'd been a little pudgy and much too pale, but I'd agreed to help him anyway. What can I say? I love a challenge. Even more, I love a client who can pay a bonus for express service.

”He was a reporter for The New York Times,” Remy went on. ”He was...”

Whoa, back it up. A reporter?

”... a story on the local dating scene. Posing as a secret dater, he would sign himself up for the various services, go on a few dates, and write a review. He'd been about to leave his apartment for a date arranged by Dead End Dating when Lil arrived.

She gave the doorman her name and her card.”

Uh-yeah. Keith had shown up at Dead End Dating wearing sandals and socks, for Damien's sake. We're talking the walking poster guy for What Not to Wear on a First Date. Which meant I'd shown up at his apartment prior to date number one to make sure he wore something decent so he didn't remain a pale, geeky, lonely subway attendant for the rest of his life.

He'd had on Reeboks and jeans and a new blue Banana Republic T-s.h.i.+rt I'd talked him into during our predate shopping spree.

Perfectly acceptable attire for a casual night of pizza and beer and conversation with his possible soul mate.

”I knew that dating service would get her into trouble. Dating, of all things.”

Here we go again.

”Born vampires don't date. And they certainly don't arrange dates for humans.”

Or made vampires. Or werewolves. Or any of the Others who'd signed up since I'd opened up shop. Yada, yada.

”First she's the laughingstock, and now she's a wanted criminal. She might as well stand on the street corner with a sign around her neck: Vampires exist and I'm one of them.”