Vampire in Paradise (5 page)

Guessing her question, her interviewer said, “Mostly it involves fake noses in unaccustomed places. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Holy crap!”

“You have no idea.”

“By the way, will you be working on the island at this conference, Ms. Allen?”

“Call me Eleanor,” she said. Then, “God help me, yes.”

They both laughed.

An hour later, Marisa had locked in jobs with both the Phoenix Restaurant and Grand Keys Oasis Spa, while Inga would be working at the Phoenix and Buster’s, both of them maxing out the numbers of hours to earn the most in salary and tips. They carried envelopes with the job descriptions, regulations, and tickets for ferry passage to the island a week from Monday. They would get their uniforms when they arrived. When she’d asked what the uniforms looked like, Eleanor had just rolled her eyes.

As they walked through the lobby, a group of suited men walked out of one of the conference rooms. The movers and shakers of this whole shebang, Marisa surmised.

She noticed the oddest thing then. The smell of lemons permeated the air. In the midst of them all was Dr. Grumpy, who gave her the oddest look. It said loud and clear:

Go away! Run as fast as you can. Danger!

She put her fingertips to her lips in seeming dismay. The middle finger might have been raised slightly higher.

His clear blue eyes widened in surprise. Then he scowled.

She did, too. It had been that kind of day.

W
hen Sigurd arrived on Grand Keys Island by seaplane a week later, he was well-tanned and ready for this new assignment. So was his medical assistant, Karl Mortensen, a young vangel who remained a perpetual twenty-two after dying in Vietnam more than forty years ago.

Five other vangels, already on the island, had been hired for various jobs at the conference, everything from snorkeling instructor to desk clerk. Among them was Armod, who fashioned himself a reincarnation of Michael Jackson. Yes, a moonwalking vampire angel. Enough on that subject! The boy from Iceland was only sixteen human years old, but he carried fake identification proclaiming him to be twenty-one, or he would not have been permitted to work on the island.

This would be Armod’s first mission, and his undercover job would be as a dancer in one of the nightclub acts. It better not be lewd dancing, Sigurd had warned, and Armod had pointed out that most modern dancing did cross the line at times. At least it would not be stripper-type dancing. That’s all Sigurd would need to explain to Mike. A Viking vampire angel shimmying his braies off!

Armod, nigh shivering with excitement when Sigurd had left him back at the hotel this morning, kept asking, “Are you sure I’m tan enough, Sig? I could drink more Fake-O.”

The boy had already drunk so much Fake-O, he’d be pissing buckets all day.

Sigurd had been out on a mission to the Rocky Mountains with his brothers and their troops for several days, saving sinners who were being hunted by Lucies at some wild orgy-like music festival. Thus, his skin sported a deep tan, allowing him to blend in with the sunbathing crowd. For some reason, modern folks considered leathery skin attractive.

When saving a human, even the small amount of blood taken was like heavenly vitamin C to a vangel. Same was true of destroying a Lucipire. Lack of a saved’s blood, or lack of celestial points for taking down a demon vampire, over time turned the skin white and then transparent. What better way to announce to humans they encountered,
Hey, I’m a vampire. Wanna get sucked?
Sigurd recalled a time, soon after being turned, that his skin became so light, all the veins in his body stood out, like a blinkin’ Etch A Sketch.

In an emergency, vangels used blood ceorls in their community or the unsatisfactory Fake-O. Or, as his married brothers had discovered recently, they could flourish off the occasional feeding on their life mates, or eternity mates in their society.

But the best way remained the drinking blood of a person they had saved from Satan’s vampires, or annihilating Lucipires. Sigurd expected to have numerous opportunities to do both on Grand Keys Island.

“Wow!” Karl said as they approached the island, and the pilot landed them neatly in the water, close to one of the docks. “This is paradise.”

“Yes, but remember Eden. There’s always a snake in the garden,” Sigurd reminded him.

“More than one in this case,” Karl agreed, rubbing a hand over the flat-top haircut that he maintained, though it had gone out of style many years ago.

The island
was
beautiful. A paradise of stately palm trees and lush flowers flourishing in the semi-tropical climate. The island itself was probably only eight square miles, big enough to handle the massive hotel that rose from its center and the private bungalows that were situated along the rungs of a half pinwheel stemming from the back and two sides. Several yachts, expensive sailboats, and more seaplanes dotted the clear blue water, most of them about a quarter mile out from shore. There were no deep water docks on either the ocean or gulf sides of the island, just wharves to cater to smaller craft.

Sigurd’s brothers and about a hundred vangel soldiers were on call to come to his aid if it was discovered that there was a large Lucie presence on the island. Last he heard, they were arguing about what kind of boat to purchase as an off-island headquarters for their operation. Vikings did love their boats!

Vikar was pushing for a longship.
Like that wouldn’t be conspicuous!

Cnut suggested a blimp that could sort of float over the island.
Really? Sort of float? Had none of them heard of the
Hindenburg
?

Ivak wanted a large speedboat, but was voted down when the size limitations were pointed out.
Not to mention, the Coast Guard would probably be on their tails for speeding or reckless boat driving.
Ivak already had a dozen traffic tickets for speeding down the Louisiana highways. Sigurd had no doubt Ivak’s behavior would be the same on the high seas.

Trond, a Navy SEAL, knew someone who knew someone in the military who could get them a used submarine.
I think I have a headache
, Sigurd had thought when that subject was brought up.
A big one!

In the end, they’d decided to let Harek investigate buying a yacht on the Internet. There was a listing for what Harek described as a “big-ass cruiser,” that once belonged to an Arab sheik.
What happened to the days when sheiks confined themselves to desert tents?
“It even has special suites for his harem.”

“That will go over big with Mike,” Sigurd had pointed out, to no avail. No one listened to reason when Vikings were on a roll discussing their favorite subjects. Ships and women. Well, beer, too, but that was a given, no matter what vessel they decided upon.

“And what are you going to do with a yacht once this mission is over?” Sigurd had asked.

“Sell it on eBay,” Harek said.

Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Or we could keep it out on Colyer Lake,” Vikar had suggested.

Sigurd doubted that the lake near the castle in Transylvania, Pennsylvania, was deep enough to hold a seagoing yacht, and how they would get the yacht there posed another problem. But the biggest problem was that Mike would never allow it. Too much fun!

In any case, he and Karl and the other six vangels were now on the island, and the others would come, when and if he summoned them.
How
was something his brothers could work out without his input.

Workers were emptying boxes of supplies off the more mundane-looking vessels and piling them onto wheeled carts, which they pushed up the inclined path toward the hotel. All-terrain vehicles were also used to transport goods. A ferry was offloading passengers, probably employees, like themselves. The conference wouldn’t officially start for another day.

That’s when Sigurd saw the woman he’d spoken to in line before the Purple Palm last week. Karl was off in the bushes sneaking a cigarette, a filthy habit he’d picked up while in Vietnam and which he claimed “can’t kill me now.” Though, come to think on it, Sigurd had rarely seen Karl smoke since his recent marriage. He was probably checking in with his wife.

Should he ignore her, as he was inclined to do? Do not get involved with anyone at this lackwit conference. Get his job done. Save a sinner or five. Destroy a legion of Lucies. Then maybe Mike would let him return to medicine . . . legitimate medicine. Something with prestige.

Hah! Not bloody likely. He would have to do a lot of groveling before that happened. Prove that he could be humble, lacking in envy, like the next guy.

So Sigurd rushed to catch up with the woman to apologize for his rudeness and perhaps offer a warning to her about that lecherous Goldman’s interest in her. That should earn him some points with the big guy.

“Greetings!” he said. “My name is Sigurd. We met before.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “You again!”

Not a promising start! “And your name is . . . ?”

She hesitated. “Marisa Lopez. Shouldn’t you be off doctoring or something in the VIP lounge?”

He gritted his teeth. If there was anything that annoyed him, it was a woman with an irksome attitude. “I do not start my doctoring, or something, until tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be off massaging something?”

Tipping her head at him in acknowledgment of his riposte, she replied, “I start tomorrow, too.”

She really was a gorgeous woman. Skin a natural olive. Full, unpainted mouth, which was a natural rose color. Hair black and shiny that spilled out in a thick straight swath onto the bare shoulders of her strapless, form-hugging top. The stretchy red material hugged her breasts and abdomen, leaving naught to the imagination . . . his imagination, leastways. Same for the tight white braies, which ended mid-calf, calling attention to her long legs and rounded buttocks. On her feet were white, high-wedged, backless shoes with big red flowers, the same color as her top. Peeking out of the shoes were oddly sexy, clear, glossy toenails.

Not that he was paying that much attention to her physical attributes. Who was he kidding? Sigurd felt a lurch low down on his body. He was not easily aroused these days, and it surprised him, for a moment.

“Wouldst care to share a drink with me later?” he found himself suggesting.

“Why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. She’d obviously noticed his appreciative perusal.

“There are some things you need to know to protect yourself whilst on this island.”
And I want to touch your skin.

She laughed. “From you?”

He shrugged. “And others, who would not take no for an answer.”

“And you would . . . take no for an answer?”

“I would do a damn good job of convincing you to change your mind.” He smiled. But then he caught himself. What was he doing, engaging in senseless banter with a woman? He had no business suggesting that he would consider seduction, especially of a woman dim-witted enough to hire herself out at an event celebrating lewdness.

She fanned a hand in front of her face. “Good heavens! When you smile like that, I believe you could.”

Well, mayhap not so dim-witted after all. “Even with my little fangy teeth?” He recalled her remarking on his incisors that other day.

She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Especially with those cute little pointy teeth.” She frowned then. “Which don’t seem to be pointy at all today.”

Cute? That is a not a word a Viking likes to hear.
“The points come and go.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“Like magic?”

He shrugged. “I am a Viking. We are known for extraordinary . . . things.” He was the one waggling his eyebrows now.

“A doctor with a sense of humor. Amazing!”

He laughed. It had been a long time since he’d flirted with a woman. A looooong time. He concentrated on tamping down his pleasure, before someone else did it for him, someone
up there
. “What I was trying to say was, there are evil men on this island. You could be in danger.” Really, he was saying more than he should. He forced himself to scowl, instead of grinning like a loopy lackwit.

“Listen, Sigurd—” she started, pronouncing his name like
cigar
.

“Call me Sig,” he said.

“Listen, Sig. I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I don’t need your advice. Or whatever else you’re offering.”

He bristled. “I was not offering
that
.”
Yet. Or never. Or probably never.

They’d been walking while they talked, each with a carry bag in hand, his in his left hand, hers in her right, but just then a man stepped in front of them as they approached the crushed shell clearing in front of the hotel, a massive white, colonial island plantation–type structure with pillars and wide covered verandahs. “Dr. Sigurdsson! How nice to meet you again! And who is this lovely lady?”

Harry Goldman was wearing a pale green Palm Beach Golf Club shirt tucked into a pair of white shorts, leaving his hairy legs bare down to leather sandals. His clearly dyed, evenly brown hair was slicked wetly off his face, as if he’d just come from the pool. He sucked in his stomach, but the paunch was still prominent. When he smiled, his capped teeth gleamed against his ruddy complexion. He had either bathed in some citrusy cologne, or the man’s pores were oozing lemon scent. Sigurd was betting on the latter.

Without thinking, Sigurd yanked Marisa to his side with an arm over her shoulder and said, “Marisa, this is Harry Goldman, the man I told you about. He invests heavily in certain, uh, movies. Mr. Goldman, this is my betrothed, Marisa Lopez.”

“Mar-is-a. What a beautiful name!” Then understanding hit, and Mr. Goldman sputtered, “Be-betrothed?”

“Fiancée,” Sigurd elaborated.

“What?” Marisa squeaked.

Goldman gave Sigurd an evil look. “You didn’t mention she was your fiancée last week when I pointed her out.” He glanced at Marisa’s ringless left hand.

Marisa, still in his tight embrace, turned her head to Sigurd, her eyebrows arched. “You talked about me with another man? Last week?” The silent message was,
You didn’t even know me last week. Or hardly.

“We just made it official last night. Didn’t we, sweetling?” He kissed her lightly on the lips. Only lightly, for fear she might bite him. But even that little kiss sent a zing through his body so powerful he would be thinking about it later. A lot. “Won’t you congratulate us on our engagement, Mr. Goldman?”

“You’re overdoing it,” Marisa warned in a whisper that tickled his ear, deliciously. And more zinging.

Goldman said something under his breath that sounded like “Fuck you, Sigurdsson. Engagements can be broken.” Then the little guy spun on his small feet and turned to Martin Vanderfelt, who had just stepped up and had nervously witnessed the exchange. “In my suite, Vanderfelt. Now!”

“Was that necessary?” Marisa sniped at Sigurd then, shrugging out of his embrace.

That was all the thanks he got! “Only if you want to avoid lecherous old billionaires with evil intents.”

She cocked her head to the side and homed in on the most irrelevant thing he’d said, “Billionaire? As in ten-figures billionaire?”

He made a spectacle of counting on his fingers, then nodded. Something else caught his attention then. For just a flit of a second, Sigurd thought he smelled lemons. But maybe it was just the residual fog left by Goldman.

“Besides, I think you exaggerate his
evil
intentions. It’s more like
lustful
intentions. And all men have those.” She clearly included him in that lot.