Vampire in Paradise (23 page)

No, no, no, she was not going to think about Sigurd now. The prick! The baby-killing prick! She had to put him out of her mind or she would never survive this night.

More important, as to Harry, the man had asked about Izzie, her condition, her prospects for getting better, what needed to be done. Without the words actually being spoken, he knew that Marisa was there because she needed money. A lot of money.

The whole time, his staff had been very discreet, almost invisible. As soon as they served a dish, they disappeared. Even now, as Harry led her down the teak-paneled hallways to what she presumed would be his stateroom, there wasn’t a person in sight. That she could see, anyway.

He released her hand to open the double doors of his stateroom, a large bedroom and sitting room suite, and stood back smiling at her as she entered. “What do you think, my dear?”

What she thought was that she’d landed in crazy land.

She had expected a large, Playboy-style bedroom, complete with satin sheets and overhead mirrors, and this enormous suite had that in spades. What she hadn’t expected was all the framed posters of Sophia Loren movies that covered all the walls. Arranged on chairs underneath some of them and hanging in the open closet were replicas of the costumes Sophia had worn in each of those flicks, everything from a sophisticated sheath to a sexy white sundress to a skimpy bathing suit to a transparent negligee that left nothing to the imagination. There were
El Cid
;
Houseboat
;
Desire
Under
the
Elms
;
Man
of
La
Mancha
;
Yesterday,
Today
and
Tomorrow
;
Two
Women
;
The
Black
Orchid
;
It
Started
in
Naples
;
Arabesque
;
Legend
of
the
Lost
. Each with its own ensemble, complete with shoes, hosiery, and jewelry. Even wigs on faceless heads sat on the closet shelf.

“What do I think?” she finally responded. “I think you have a thing for Sophia Loren.”

“I do. I told you that before, as I recall. In fact, you could even say it is an obsession of mine. My wife certainly thinks so.” His face, gentle and kind so far, turned hard. “Do you have a problem with that?”

She shook her head slowly. “I just . . . don’t understand.” She chugged down the last of her after-dinner drink and set the stemmed glass on a dresser.

He’d already put his martini on a bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. He patted the mattress next to him, indicating she should sit, too, which she did, with even more foreboding than she’d felt all evening.

His face softened then, but only a little. “Here’s the deal, and, yes, I know that you need a large amount of cash, so we must deal. I will pay for your daughter’s operation, and in return you . . .” He shrugged, glancing about the room.

I’m afraid to ask.
“And I . . . ?” she prodded.

“Will be my Sophia Loren.”

Oh boy! Nuttier than a fruitcake.

“Every night, you will wear a different outfit, and you will be my Anna Cabot, Cinzia Zaccardi, Filumena Marturano, Natascha, Cleopatra, Rose Bianco, Dulcinea . . .”

One flew over this cuckoo’s nest, for sure.
“But . . .” She stood and walked around the large bedroom and sitting area, quickly counting. “There are twenty posters from twenty different movies.”

He laughed, and it was not a nice laugh. “You thought I would pay seventy thousand dollars for one night with you? No offense, darling, but even Sophia Loren herself would not be worth that much.”

“Of course I didn’t think that, but I can’t be away from my daughter for twenty nights, especially during this time of her operation nine days from now.” In fact, once he gave her the money, she intended to leave the island, possibly as soon as tomorrow.

“Let your mother go with her. You want the money, those are the conditions.” He scooched himself up onto the bed so that his head was propped against the pillowed headboard and his short legs extended and crossed at the ankles.

Would he consider an IOU? Probably not.

She hated him in that moment for the power he held over her. And for the evil that seemed to ooze out of him along with the lemon scent. Frozen in place at the foot of the bed, she said, “I still don’t understand. This conference will be over in a few days.”

“You will travel with me until the terms of our contract are concluded.”

In public? Everyone would know? This is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.
“Contract?”

“Verbal. I would not sign anything that could be used against me in the future.”

Of course he wouldn’t.
“How long? How long would you expect me to stay with you?”

“One month.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that. Sorry. It’s just too long an absence from my daughter.”

“Two weeks then. Twenty-four/seven. Whatever I want, whenever I want.”

A trophy mistress on his arm in public, a trophy sex slave in his bed.

She couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat, but she nodded.

“However, I’m not doing anything until the money is in the hands of the clinic in Switzerland. I know that sounds crass, but I have to be hard for my daughter.”

His face went stone hard and downright mean. “You are in no position to dictate.”

“Maybe not, but it’s my daughter’s life at stake here. I have to be firm on that, at least.”

His hands fisted and unfisted at his sides before he agreed. “The money will be transferred in the morning. In the meantime, take down your hair. And do not wear it up like that again. Style it like Sophia did in most of her movies.”

She nodded. “I can’t take my hair down tonight, though. I put it up wet. If I unpin it now, it will be just a flat mess.”

He was about to protest, then seemed to take her word for it. “At least show me the goods.”

No more Mr. Nice Guy, apparently.

But then, two could play that game. “Show you the goods, huh? How about, show me the money. Bottom line: No money, no sex.”

If he had been standing, he would have struck her, she could tell. This was becoming a more and more impossible situation.
How do I get myself in these messes? How can I get out? Do I want to get out? No, I want the money. I need the money. Oh Lord!

“Lose the dress, honey. Slowly. Give me something.”

She could do that.

Turning, she gave him a good look at the low back cleavage on her dress as she walked to the stereo system built into a wall unit and pressed play. Immediately, Frank Sinatra began crooning something about strangers in the night. For sure! This night was getting stranger by the minute.

She undid the side zipper on the dress and looked at him over her one shoulder, about to shrug out of the tight sheath, when the bedside phone rang shrilly. With a grunt of disgust, he grabbed for it and yelled into the receiver, “What? Didn’t I tell you not to disturb me? What? From Brazil? When? Where are they now? Oh shit!” He got up from the bed and told her, “Stay right here.”

“Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”

“No! I’ll be right back.”

“But—”

“This is an urgent matter. A . . . shipment . . . that arrived earlier than expected. Turn on the television, or take a little nap,” he suggested, coming over and giving her a short kiss on the lips, followed by a run of his palm over her rump. He grinned lasciviously. “Maybe masturbate a little to get yourself in the mood.”

What? No way!
“I told you, there will be no sex tonight.”

“There’s sex, and then there’s sex,” he said ominously, and was gone.

“Now what do I do?” she murmured to herself, turning.

“Get your sweet arse out of here as fast as possible,” said a blond-haired, blue-eyed man standing near the open door of the bathroom. It was Sigurd’s friend . . . fellow vangel . . . whatever. Svein.

“Oh my God! You scared me. How did you get in here?”

He arched his brows as if to say that she knew the answer to that question.

“
Why
are you here?”

“Sigurd ordered me to protect you.”

“He has no right—”

“Michael has forbidden him to go near you, forbidden fruit and all that,” he informed her with amusement, “so he sent me in his stead. He thinks you are in the restaurant, by the way. I think his head may very well explode once he finds out you are out on a boat alone with Goldman. You’re supposed to be under Sigurd’s shield.”

“I don’t need protection and I sure as hell don’t need Sigurd’s frickin’ shield.”

“Hah! I have ne’er seen a woman in more need of protection. Did you know that everything in this room is being filmed and recorded? Every lascivious act you engage in will no doubt be on the Internet one day, or for sale in some video venue.”

“I haven’t done anything lascivious.”
Yet.
She glanced around quickly to see if she could recognize a hiding place for a hidden camera. She couldn’t, of course.

“Not to worry. I have disengaged them. But you must be more careful of your virtue, m’lady.”

“This is the craziest night of my life.”

“And it is not yet over.”

She rezipped her dress and straightened the shoulders. “I have to leave a message for Harry.”

“Even knowing what a devious fellow he is?”

She didn’t bother to answer, just pulled out a drawer of the desk to get some stationery. She wrote a short note telling Harry that she’d gone home, knowing he was busy, and for him to call her in the morning. “I’m taking the Anna Cabot outfit with me for tomorrow night,” she told him.

Then she gave her full attention to Svein, who was waiting impatiently for her to finish. He glanced meaningfully at the dress and heels she carried with her, but she didn’t bother to explain.

“Well?” she snapped. “Protect away.”

He laughed and opened the door, looking this way and that before motioning for her to follow him. He put a forefinger to his lips, cautioning silence. “I have a boat waiting up ahead. Can you crawl down a ladder in those shoes?” he whispered.

“Needs must,” she replied, also in a whisper.

Just before they turned a corner, Svein put up a halting hand.

Harry was standing arguing with a man who looked Mexican and spoke with a Hispanic accent. Something about “blonde ones” and “more money” and “too much trouble.”

Svein grabbed her hand and led her back the way they’d come, then across the ship and along a circuitous route so that they were back on the original side of the vessel but on the other side of Harry and his still arguing companion.

“What was that about?” she asked once they were in the motorboat, which Svein was rowing until they got far enough away not to be heard.

“You don’t want to know.”

It could have been no more than an hour later, but seemed like days, when Marisa was back in the bungalow. There was a big conference party tonight, and her roommates were absent. Thank God! She had a lot of thinking to do.

Although she hadn’t done the deed with Harry tonight, she still felt dirty. A good scalding shower and a loofa sponge would do the trick, but she was so exhausted physically and mentally that she just dropped down onto the bed, fully clothed, without removing her makeup, something she never did.

Oh well. Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett
, she told herself.
Too bad there is no Rhett on the horizon to come save me, or Izzie.

S
odom and Gomorrah had nothing on this. In fact, this
was
Sodom and Gomorrah. The Grand Keys Island S&G Party, to be more specific.

Despite the FOE organizers’ attempt to change the image of pornography, there was no subtlety in this event. Sigurd suspected that what had started out as a “cute” idea proposed by Vanderfelt and his cohorts had snowballed into “grotesque,” thanks in part to the influence of the Lucies. Of course, “grotesque” was in the eyes of the beholder, and his eyes, personally, were wide with shock. And it took a lot to shock a Viking.

Sigurd had witnessed decadence in all its formats throughout the centuries, including Caligua’s famed orgies, and this shindig ran a close second. The hotel fair reeked with sex, alcohol, drugs, and in some cases unspeakable perversions. After spending hours working to save sinners and destroy Lucies, discreetly so as not to alert Jasper to their presence, in the corridors and private rooms of the hotel, he and Vikar were now standing in a darkened corner of the large ballroom, taking a brief rest before the heavy business of the evening would commence.

They were both dressed in black denim pants and shirts, covered with long black cloaks to hide their weaponry. In this strange crowd, no one gave them a second look, not for their attire, anyway. They had been propositioned, however. By women
and
men. Multiple times.

It was almost one a.m., and a live band still performed, providing a loud, pounding beat of music with provocative lyrics. One particular song kept repeating a refrain about wanting to do bad things to a woman. Very appropriate to the scene before them.

Naked and half-naked men and women were dancing in lewd movements simulating copulation. Some of them were Lucies.

Vikar turned his head this way and that, trying to figure what one writhing female was doing in the name of dance.

“It’s called twerking,” Sigurd told him.

“Huh?” Vikar shook his head at Sigurd. “You have been hanging around with Armod too much.”

Three bars offered drinks and other illicit substances. On the sides of the ballroom, on extra-large pillows provided as decorative seating, actual copulation was taking place, sometimes with multiple partners.

“I did that one time in the midst of alehead madness,” Sigurd confessed.

Vikar glanced at him with surprise. “Really, Sigurd? You? Ivak, I would not be surprised at, but you?”

Sigurd shrugged. “As I recall, it was an unsatisfying experience. I do not see the pleasure to be gained in sharing the swiving.”

There was even a dungeon-like booth where people were whipping each other. Some women were so drunk or drugged out they had to be held up by their partners. Sex toys were offered for sale, along with every type of condom imaginable, at a booth in a far corner.
A man worth his testosterone would want a talking condom?
Skin piercings were being done in another booth, mostly in intimate places.

“Ouch! Did you see that?” Vikar was staring at a young man who was having an industrial-size bolt implanted through his balls. “Why would any man submit to such?”

“Ivak told me one time that it supposedly enhances the swiving, for the woman.”

“Ivak is a fool,” Vikar concluded. “Am I getting so old that I am shocked by this? Am I turning into an angelic prude?”

Sigurd laughed. “No chance of that. But, yes, you are old. All of us vangels are.”

Vikar jabbed him in the upper arm with a fist. “Vikings love a good party. Many an ale-flowing feast have we both attended where the bed furs shook, but I find this rather disgusting.”

“You said it!” Sigurd glanced at his watch. It was one-fifteen.

“Is it time?” Vikar asked.

“Almost. Wait here a minute. I have to do something.” He’d just noticed Tiffany, Marisa’s lackwit bungalow mate, struggling against a man who was attempting to tug her outside the room. It was a Lucie who was doing the tugging.

The woman was a Lucie target if there ever was one. He’d heard her proclaim her dreams of wanting to be an adult movie star. He’d seen some of the lowlife film producers she’d been associating with while here at the conference. He’d even seen her come out of one of their hotel rooms earlier this evening, disheveled and clearly having been compromised. If she was even capable of being compromised.

Still, she was a sinner, and he had to offer to save her.

In a darkened corridor marked “Employees Only,” the Lucie was attempting to back Tiffany up against a wall. “Ah don’t want to. Ah changed mah mind. Let me go,” she was protesting. Surprisingly agile, despite her very high heels, she ducked under his arm and danced away.

The Lucie went after her, doggedly pursuing his prey. “You can’t change your mind now, bitch,” said the young man dressed in surfer shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. His blond hair was spiked. His fangs barely showed, yet.

“Did you call me a bitch?” Her eyes were darting this way and that, looking for an exit.

“No. I said ‘witch.’ Like ‘sweet witch.’ Come here, witchie, witchie. Come here now.” The Lucie, whose eyes were turning red and his skin starting to scale, was beckoning Tiffany with a forefinger. Soon he would be in full demon form and unable to hold off pouncing.

“Uh, not today,” Sigurd said, already drawing a long-handled knife from an interior sheath of his cloak.

The Lucie was a low-level hordling, and not all that old. Only two hundred or so years. Thus not as strong as Sigurd, not even close. The demon spun on his heels and morphed into full demonoid form. As it raised a clawed hand, Sigurd thrust his specially treated knife into the beast’s heart. Before his eyes, and those of a stunned Tiffany, the demon dissolved into a puddle of stinksome sulfur.

“Give my regards to Lucifer,” Sigurd said, wiping his knife against his pant leg, “because you will no longer be answering to Jasper, my friend.”

Now that he’d dispensed with the Lucie, Sigurd turned his eyes to Tiffany, who was gazing at him with the same fear as she had for the Lucie. No wonder. His fangs were out and fully extended. And he’d just killed a monster, without hesitation. She probably thought she was next.

“Here’s the deal, Tiffany, and we don’t have much time. You are a sinner who has been bitten by a demon vampire. You can either change your ways by agreeing to a fanging by me to remove the sin taint, or you can go on your merry way. But this I guarantee, you will be a Lucipire by morning unless you change your ways.”

“Ah doan . . . Ah doan understand,” she stammered in a deep Southern accent, cowering against a vending machine in the hallway. “Who . . . what are you?”

“I am a vampire angel. One of the good guys.”

She was weeping silently, her eye cosmetics running rivulets in dark tracks down her face. Like a girling she appeared now, a girling in harlot attire. “What do you want?” she sobbed.

“’Tis not what I want, but what you need. Do you wish to continue on your sinful ways? Is this really the life you want?”

She shook her head. “Ah wanna go home.”

“Then you must agree to let me remove the sin taint from you by sucking a small amount of blood from your neck. It won’t hurt much, if at all, but it must be your choice.”

She nodded reluctantly.

He performed the ritual, quickly and painlessly, for the most part. When he was done, he told her, “Go and sin no more.”
Or at least try not to sin too much.

Smelling sweet and not at all lemony now, she swiped at her eyes with a handkerchief he handed her. “Thank you fer helpin’ me. Ah’m goin’ back ta mah room ta pack. Ah’m gonna call my boyfriend and tell him Ah’m comin’ home. Maybe Ah kin get mah job back at the hair salon.”

“Good,” he said. “You might want to try convincing Marisa to go with you.”

He knew from Svein’s call that Marisa was back at the bungalow, having ended her date with Goldman. He’d almost had a heart attack when he learned that her dinner date had been out on Goldman’s yacht. The woman was too stubborn by half. The hardheaded witch hadn’t ended her relationship with the evil man totally. Of course, she didn’t know just how evil he was. Still he shivered with distaste at what Svein had told him about Goldman’s perverted sexual tastes and what he had asked of Marisa, but that was not the old man’s most evil side. Turns out he was heavily involved in the sex trafficking, and that was what had called him away from his encounter with Marisa on the yacht. The boat carrying new “goods” had arrived earlier than expected and the procurer had wanted Goldman to take custody sooner than he had planned.

In any case, it was all moot now. Goldman was heading for the slammer, if all went according to plan.

The FBI was making arrests out on the boats right now. Helicopters and law enforcement boats had them surrounded. Sigurd had decided to relinquish any of the vangel targets on those boats so that the federal agents could take over. Yes, they lost some converts and Lucies in the bargain, much to Harek’s displeasure—he had wanted to take those particularly vile miscreants down himself—but this way the FBI’s attention would be diverted away from the vangel mission here on the island. Which was about to take place in full force any minute now.

It horrified Sigurd to realize that Marisa might have been out on the yacht in the midst of all this. He’d given Svein orders to take any steps necessary to keep her in the bungalow for the rest of the night.

Coming back to the ballroom entrance, he gave a nod to Vikar and the two of them began to stroll slowly and openly across the vast space, deliberately attracting attention, something they normally avoided. Along the way, he could see heads shoot up, male and female Lucies sniffing the air, getting the scent of not just vangels in the room, but members of the VIK. Any Lucie who caught one of them would be rewarded greatly by Jasper.

By the time they left the building and were on the grounds, several dozen Lucies were on their tails. Not to worry. Cnut and Harek and a troop of vangels were spread like a net. If any of these Lucies escaped tonight, it wouldn’t be for the vangels’ lack of trying.

A half-dozen vangels were stationed at the various exits of the hotel, as well, to prevent any humans from coming out and witnessing the battle to ensue, especially with the Lucies in full, frightening demonoid form. If even one human pulled out a phone camera, all the news media in the world would pounce on the story. Secrecy was important.

And it
was
a battle that ensued. There were imps and hordlings galore, who were dispensed quickly, those being the weaker of the Lucies. But the huge mungs and the much stronger haakai stood their ground with swords and knives flashing. Screams of death. Roars of outrage. Shouts of triumph. Grunts of defeat.

Near the end, Sigurd recognized Reynaldo, one of Jasper’s haakai du jour, a new favorite that was being considered for promotion to the Lucipire council of commanders, according to Zeb. Reynaldo recognized Sigurd, too. “Ah, the VIK who stole the woman from me.”

Woman? What woman? Oh.
Sigurd realized that this must be the Lucie who’d fanged Marisa, the one who’d stood with Jasper in Marisa’s bedroom “dream.”

He pulled his switchblade sword from its special scabbard at his back. By pressing a button, the weapon doubled in length. In his other hand, he held the long knife he’d used earlier on the Lucie attacking Tiffany. Guns were to be avoided, whenever possible, because of the noise. “Where is Jasper?” he bellowed.

“Nowhere you VIK can find him,” Reynaldo said with a grunt when he lunged with his long sword and just missed Sigurd’s thigh.

“We will. Eventually,” Sigurd countered, feinting with his sword but then swiping his knife in a wide arc.

Reynaldo, who was a formidable opponent, ducked and swiveled, coming back at Sigurd with another lunge, which hit home, slicing across his upper arm. Luckily, it was his left arm. The demon beast smiled. Not a pretty sight with its four-inch fangs, drooling mouth, and red eyes. “Hah! You assume good will conquer evil.”

“Of course.”

“I will have great fun toasting you in Horror tonight, and I do not mean with an alcoholic beverage,” Reynaldo boasted.

Enough of this baiting! Sigurd pitched his knife directly at the Lucie’s heart, and his aim would have been true, except that two things happened at once. He heard his brother Vikar yell, “Sig! Watch your back!” At the same time, there was the most piercing pain in his right shoulder.

Then, the blackness came over him. Total, all-encompassing oblivion.

“Marisa! Wake up. How can you sleep through all of this? Wake up, for heaven’s sake!”

Through bleary, half-slitted eyes, Marisa saw Inga standing in their bedroom, next to the queen-size bed they shared. It was still dark outside, but a bedside lamp provided enough soft light for her to see. Her alarm clock said three a.m.

“What?” she asked, sitting up. Her head felt like an axe was embedded in it. Too much alcohol on top of stress equaled one pounding headache.

“All hell is breaking loose on the island and out on the boats. Didn’t you hear the sirens? Doris is away on her FBI work. All her stuff is gone. She left, without a word, even. And Tiffany is packing up to go home. We should probably be doing the same. I can’t imagine that this conference will continue after tonight.”

Whoa! She must have slept through something momentous. “Make some coffee while I get dressed. Or undressed,” she said, looking down at the black sheath she still wore. She staggered off to the bathroom, where she took three aspirins and then let out a shriek of fright when she saw herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her hair and smeared makeup were a sight to behold, and not a pretty sight, either.

It took her ten minutes just to get a comb through the tangles, and she had to soap and rinse her face three times before she got all the foundation and mascara off.

“Where were you so late, Inga? Partying?” she asked first thing, after taking a long sip of the black coffee.

“No partying, thank God! Oh, Marisa! I met a man. I think I’m in love. I think I’ve finally met ‘The One.’”