Dead and Dateless Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Also by Kimberly Raye

  Excerpt of an Dead and Dateless

  Preview of Your Coffin or Mine?

  Copyright

  For Sue Groff,

  my vampire-loving mother-in-law!

  You’re the best.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to say an extra-special thank-you to the following people who helped in the writing of this book: the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City, Dr. Charles S. Hirsch, for kindly answering all of my questions, no matter how ridiculous; the Fairfield Police Department, for answering even more ridiculous questions; friend and confidante Tammy Ramsey, for falling in love with Lil and boosting my confidence; fellow author Gerry Bartlett, for reading on a moment’s notice and giving me her honest opinion. Thanks, everyone!

  And many thanks to my readers who send notes and e-mails. Your encouragement means the world to me!

  “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 Arrabella 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 he did 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 can be as pompous as any ancient born vampere. I am 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 am 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 (for more than a few minutes) to a real werewolf. Until now. Of course, I am 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 named Jacques 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.

  “How can you keep the race pure if you mate with a human?”

  A get real look slid over her beautiful face. “Come now, dear. They’re humans. Our superior DNA obviously outranks their extremely weak genes, resulting in a pure were-child.”

  Obviously. “Why not a male werewolf? Wouldn’t that be the ideal? Surely a double shot of were DNA would really kick ass?”

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

  “Um, 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. One can’t kiss or touch or nibble a turkey baster, dear.”

  “I see your point.”

  “We have only one requirement for a human partner: He can’t be a wimp. Forget those sensitive, quiet, thoughtful, equal opportunity types that are all the rage these days. We need old-fashioned men who are blatantly physical and very domineering. W
erewolves are a very aggressive race and wimpy men simply don’t stimulate us sexually. The more turned on we are, the more likely we are to conceive.”

  “Alpha males only,” I told her. “Got it.”

  “Wonderful.” Viola smiled and opened her Christian Dior clutch. “I’ll write you a check for the first half of the fee. The second is payable once everyone is matched up?”

  “That’s the Dead End Dating policy.” As of this very moment, that is. I usually asked for a third up front, but if Viola wanted to dish out half, who was I to argue details?

  Accommodate. That was my motto.

  At least, it was right up there with Shop ’Til You Drop.

  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 was my devoted assistant. She had great taste in belts, lived for the latest 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,” she went on, “but could you come out here?”

  “Give me just a second.” My fingers closed around Viola’s check.

  “It’s really important.”

  “So is this.” I stared at the five-figure sum the female werewolf had scribbled in.

  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 equaled dreamo supremo), it was certainly a windfall to a struggling entrepreneur.

  “There are some, uh, men here to see you,” Evie said.

  “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 just 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.

  “Alpha matches,” Viola added. “They have to ooze testosterone. Otherwise, we might as well forget the whole thing.”

  “Twenty-seven testosterone-oozing alpha matches,” I corrected. “At the usual amount per match. Plus a bonus for our deluxe, ultra speedy service. Plus an additional alpha-only fee and—”

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

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

  “She’s not here,” Evie shouted from the doorway. She hung on to one side of the door frame with both hands to keep from being ripped away by the rush of suits. “She left early. This well-dressed woman is her assistant. Because if she wasn’t her assistant,”—she gave me a pointed, pleading stare—“she would be in big trouble.”

  “How big?” I asked, my gaze darting from one man to the next before swiveling back to my frantic assistant.

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

  “What’s going on here?” I shot to my feet.

  “We need you to come with us,” the man with the black and yellow tie said as he flashed a silver badge and motioned to two of his men. 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 another man (FYI, navy and red tie) 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 ma chine.”

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

  “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 cab driver said it was okay if I didn’t have enough cash for the entire fare—”

  “Guess again.” Silver flashed as black and yellow pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them open. 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.”

  I came up short. “Excuse me?”

  “Murder, Miss Marchette. You’re being arrested for murder.”

  The cop’s words settled in just as I found myself dragged across my new Persian rug (a present from The Ninas—my two best friends in the entire universe), toward the door.

  “But—”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” one of the suits recited somewhere to my left. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

  “Wait a second.”

  “—have the right to an attorney—”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” I struggled as they hauled me through the outer office. “I’ve never harmed another creature in my entire life! I mean, sure, I put a world of hurt on Princess Annabelle that once, but she so deserved it on account of she’s a total slut and she’d been throwing herself at my boyfriend at the time. The Ninas pulled me off of her before I actually drew any of the red stuff!”

  “—cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you—”

  “Please.” I dug in my three-inch heels and they screeched across the hardwood floor of the outer office like nails on a chalkboard. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—I wouldn’t.”

  “—understand these rights as I’ve read them to you?”

  “No,” I blurted as we burst out onto the sidewalk.

  “No, you don’t understand?”

  “Yes, I understand, but—”

  “Good.”

  Good? Was this guy crazy? Oh, wait a sec. He was. Because no way did I off anyone. I have been known to get in-your-face with a jerk every now and then (see the above Princess Annabelle confession), but otherwise, I’m a model citizen. I pay my bills on time (sort of). And I give to the homeless. And I even let people cut in front of me at the Starbucks (sure, there was that one time that was totally self-motivated on account of the guy was wearing this totally to-die-for Gucci T-shirt and I wanted an up-close look, but cutting is cutting).

  Murder? Me?

  “This is so not good.” I shook my head frantically as I found myself pushed toward a waiting police car. “It’s bad.” I didn’t even want to think about what my heels looked like after all the dragging and pulling. “Terrible.”

  “Chopping someone up into hamburger usually is.”

  Yuck.

  “Now get moving,” another voice said. Hands reached out and shoved me forward.

  Okay, so I’ve always had mucho respect for New York’s finest. They faced down creeps on a daily basis without Super Vamp abilities (most of them, anyhow), and so I would never have dreamt of making their lives more difficult by dragging my feet, or screaming, or cursing, or crying, or, say, kneeing one of them in the balls.

  That is, the sane, well-bred, rational, low-key me would never have done such a thing.

  But this was the desperate, depraved, about-to-be-thrust-into-the-back-of-a-police-car-and-carted-off-to-jail-fo
r-chopping-some-poor-schmuck-into-hamburger-meat me. It was every vamp for herself.

  My knee bent and hit a bull’s-eye.

  “Oohmph!” The huge guy with the death grip on my right arm let loose and cupped his crotch. He doubled over and fell to his knees.

  In the blink of an eye (my own, because I really don’t do pain and suffering all that well), I kneed the next guy, and the next and the next.

  What can I say? I have serious issues with being locked up for something I didn’t do. Even worse, I have serious issues with bright orange jumpsuits (or whatever color they’re wearing on Riker’s Island this time of year) and those cheesy slippers.

  I flexed my arms, snapped the handcuffs in two, and whirled before anyone could draw another breath, much less realize what was happening. And then I ran as fast as my preternatural legs could carry me.

  I was six blocks away before I finally slowed down. I darted into an alley that ran between a Vietnamese grocery store and a Vinnie’s New York Style Pizza joint, and slumped against a brick wall.

  As the breath sawed past my lips, I wondered if born vamps could actually have heart attacks. There had never been any reported cases in the long, long history of my race (we’re talking pre-Napoleon) except my great aunt LaRue, who’d suffered chest pains a few years ago. But she’d been infatuated with Ricardo, her drop-dead gorgeous lawyer. It had turned out to be a bad case of angina. She’d been forced to lay off spicy food and so she’d fired Ricardo and hired a vegan named Scott. Problem solved. Which meant, however fast my heart was beating, I wasn’t likely to hit the ground unless the cops managed to catch up, flex some collective muscle, and tackle me.

  I ignored the stench of rotten vegetables and yesterday’s pizza sauce and forced myself deeper into the alley. I wasn’t going to think about the horrible condition of my shoes—a pair of Constança Basto sandals I’d picked up for a steal last week. Even more, I wasn’t going to mourn my Banana Republic wooden bangle with the dangling beads that had been ripped off prior to the cuffs being snapped on—sniffle. There would be plenty of time for that when the cops weren’t this close to dragging me off to the pokey.