“Yup. He's got money falling out of his butt.”
“Yum,” Marc said absently.
I tried to speak for a couple of seconds and finally choked out, “Why didn't you tell us?”
“Why would I? What difference does it make if he's got a seven figure trust fund?”
“Well, it certainly makes him a more attractive man,” Marc blurted before he could stop himself. “Also, money makes a guy's dick huge.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she said congenially enough.
“If only I could,” he mourned. “It'd be the only way I'd get any, that's for sure.”
The thing is, as exasperated as Marc and I were to be the last ones in on this incredibly juicy gossip (me more than him, probably, I mean, we were best friends), Jessica really meant what she said. She wouldn't know what difference it made, and wouldn't care.
It occurred to me that Sinclair had probably found this out ages ago and had also neglected to tell me. Must be a rich guy thing. Excuse me. Rich person. Not to mention, definitely the week for me to find out shit I should already have known.
“I'll get the door,” I said gloomily, because I knew neither of them could hear Nick coming up the walk, and also because I decided the quickest way to find out why he was here was to let him in. As I started to leave the kitchen I nearly ran into my husband.
“I'm getting the door,” I explained, trying to sidestep him.
He resisted, which made it like trying to sidestep a barn. “I'll accompany you.”
I stared up at him. He must have died clean shaven. At least, I never saw him shaving, and there weren't any shaving – what was the word? accoutrements? – in his bathroom. God, he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and distant, like the sunrise he could never see. There were times I looked into that perfect, impassive face and wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes I was truly mystified: Out of all the vampires in all the world, why'd he want me?
We were still sidestepping each other in the hallway. “Why d'you want to come with me?”
“I'm unable to be outside of the goddess-like presence that is you?”
I heard Marc making vomiting noises as the kitchen door swung shut behind us. “No, seriously.” Except with Sinclair, I never knew when he was serious.
“I miss you, and I want to be with you?”
“Come on.”
“I am coming,” he said, falling into step behind me.
“Yeah, this stopped being cute about five seconds ago.”
“If only,” my husband sighed.
“Sinclair, what the hell is up?”
“You have a meeting with Detective Berry, who has in the past threatened you with a firearm, and thus I will be in attendance as well. That is all.”
“That is all?”
“Oh. Also, if he points a firearm anywhere near you, I shall pull off his arms and stuff them down his throat.”
He said that just as I was swinging the front door open. “You will not! Jessica will be impossible to live with! (More impossible.)” Then: “Wait a damned minute! You knew about Nick coming to see me before I did, even if he tried to kill me?”
“Of course.”
“You prick.”
Nick, all annoying blond good looks and broad shoulders, smirked at us. For the first time, I noticed he dressed pretty damned well on a cop's salary. That was an Armani hanging off his swimmer's shoulders, if I wasn't mistaken.
“Did I come at a bad time?” he asked, grinning, and it took all I had not to slam the door in his stupid, rich, cop face.
Chapter 13
I should explain that before I died, Nick and I had been almost friends. When I'd been attacked by the Fiends outside Kahn's Mongolian Barbecue (the heavy garlic I'd used had saved my life; the Fiends had nibbled and fled instead of really going to town on my gizzard), he'd been the cop to take my report. We'd occasionally shared a candy bar and, if not friends, had at least been friendly.
Then I'd risen from the dead and, completely unaware of my undead sex appeal, left Nick panting after me. Sinclair had to mind-wipe him, including the part about me dying.
Trouble was, it wore off. Or my mind-wipe had been stronger than the king's. Either way, we found out a couple months ago that he knew what we were, knew what we did, knew what we had done to him, and pretty much hated us.
So out of guilt, I usually try to be super nice and accommodating whenever he came around.
Except, of course, right now.
“Nobody's having any meeting until you two jerks tell me when you set this up!”
Nick arched his brows at my husband. “You didn't tell her?”
“I was hoping,” he said stiffly, “she would be out shoe shopping.”
“Well, the joke's on you, asshat! Ha! I went shoe shopping last week! So there!” I jerked my pointing finger away from my husband and jabbed it at Nick, who flinched. “So talk! Are you here to kill me?” (Man, the number of times I had to ask this question in a month... )
“No, my captain said I couldn't, unless I could prove in court you were a vampire.”
I nearly fell down in the foyer. “What?” I gasped, barely hanging on to the doorknob.
“Kidding. Come sit down before you stroke out.” Nick pushed past us and, like robots, we followed him into one of the parlors.
Chapter 14
“So!” he said with faux brightness. “Set up a meeting with your wife, which you didn't share with your wife. I love open marriages, don't you?”
Since I'd been having some doubts in that area myself, all I could do was scowl at Sinclair while smiling at Nick, which gave me an instant migraine. “How can I help you, Nick? Did you want to see Jess? Oh, wait – ” I should offer him a drink. But what did he drink? Was it Sprite, or Coke? Wait. I drank Coke. I –
“Detective Berry,” Tina said demurely. She entered, eyes lowered, and offered him a tray on which were a tall glass full of Sprite, another glass full of ice, a silver ice picker-upper, a small bowl of sliced lemons and limes, and a big, thick, cloth napkin. Also, there was –
“My queen,” she said in a soft voice, gaze on the carpet. I took the iced Coke (with a wedge of lime, just the way I liked it), and Tina managed to somehow glide away while not looking at anyone, yet giving the impression of instant service, should anyone need a refill. This, I had since learned, was the height of vampiric etiquette. It's tough to do the vampire mojo and work your will on the poor human if you're not looking them in the eye.
I thirstily slurped my Coke, amazed all over again at Tina's unflagging efficiency. Super secretary, maid, waitress, Sinclair's right hand, and she'd been loyal to me from the moment the vampires threw me into Nostro's pit of despair. I couldn't help but admire her, but I never forgot the basic fact: her loyalty, always, was to Sinclair first. Her loyalty to me was because I was his wife.
The day I forgot that might be a short damn day.
“Good service around here,” Nick said, slurping his Sprite and chewing enthusiastically on his lemon wedge.
“Oh, like you're not used to it at the Deere family compound,” I snapped, chomping into my own lime slice. Yerrgh, sour! Even for a lime. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a Cherry Blo-Pop. Unwrapped it, dipped it in the Coke, then contentedly sucked the Coke off the Pop.
“How disgusting,” Sinclair commented.
“Which? That I'm slowly getting addicted to suckers, or that Nick comes from the Deeres?”
“Finally bothered to find out about someone besides yourself, huh?”
“Jam it up your ass!” I snarled, a not auspicious beginning to our meeting. And why were we meeting? He hated me, I was scared of him (but not for the reasons he thought), and Sinclair would just as soon he dropped dead (he took a dim view of cops shoving their service revolvers into his wife's face). “On the way out the door!”