Vampire in Paradise (6 page)

Then she was gone, and he berated himself for caring what trouble a dim-witted female would find herself in. He had enough trouble in his own sorry life.

Still, he couldn’t help but stare at said dim-witted female’s arse as she climbed the steps in front of the hotel. Up, down, up, down, the curvy buttocks went.

Karl came up to him then. “Ready?”

Bloody hell, yes, he was ready. But enough of that!

Sigurd waved a hand in front of his face. “Your breath smells like cigarettes.”

“So don’t kiss me.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” Sigurd continued to watch Marisa’s progress, and never once did she turn to give him a second look. He was unaccustomed to being dismissed so easily.

“What are you gaping at?” Karl asked.

“My mission,” he said. Where that thought came from, he had no idea.

Karl raised his brows as he focused in on Marisa, who was talking with a hotel doorman. “I thought our mission was to save sinners and wipe out Lucies.”

“This is my personal mission.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble to me.”

“Trouble, challenge . . . same thing to a Viking.”

Sigurd realized too late that Northmen throughout the ages had been getting into trouble by making similar lackwitted pronouncements.

Jasper and fifty of his favorite Lucipires were on their way to Grand Keys Island off the Florida Keys for what he jokingly called a “working vacation.” Unfortunately, demon vampires didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and none of them understood the joke.

Or mayhap they were just a grouchy lot today. That was probably the case. Demons didn’t consider the extreme heat of an island to be their idea of paradise, despite the legends about Satan rollicking in the fires of Hell. Hah! Satan relished air-conditioning as much as the next guy.

It didn’t help matters that his hired boat had stalled halfway between Miami and the island destination. Who knew that a hundred-foot yacht could stall? A mechanic was down in the engine room now fixing the problem. Luckily, the Lucipires had harvested a cruise ship’s captain and some of the crew on a mission last year, and they were now full-fledged demon vampires. Unluckily, a gaggle of imps and hordlings had tried to solve the problem first and created nothing but chaos.

Jasper was lying on a chaise longue in the glassed-in salon when his French hordling assistant, Beltane, came in.

“Master,” Beltane said, “I brought you some refreshments.” Beltane carried a tray of tall glasses of iced pink lemonade.

Jasper did so love the scent of lemons, and the pink color came from the generous dollops of human blood added for flavor. One of the Lucipires had drained a quart from a teenage prostitute last night, so it was especially fresh. There was also a small bowl of caviar sprinkled with hard-boiled egg crumbles with pita bread triangles for dipping. His favorite snack. Blood and caviar. Yum!

Beltane was thoughtful that way, mainly because the young Creole truly adored Jasper. Lots of Lucipires, from imps to haakai, pretended affection for Jasper, but he was not fooled. Ingratiating maggots, most of them. Unlike Beltane, who had been sorely abused growing up in antebellum New Orleans before the demon vampires took him into their fold. He appreciated his new life.

“Thank you, Beltane. Is the mechanic making any progress?”

Beltane rolled his red eyes. “The man curses every other word, in both Spanish and English, but I believe we will be under way within the hour.”

“Good, good! You look very nice today, Beltane.”

Beltane was dressed for island living, wearing a gaudily bright floral shirt over white shorts leading down to those rubber shoes known as flip-flops. And they did indeed flip and flop as he shuffled around the room tidying any objects left lying about. Jasper doubted that Beltane would ever leave the ship, though. His warrior skills left much to be desired. Plus, being only a hundred and fifty years old as a Lucipire and only twenty before that, he still had trouble controlling his fangs and demon tendencies in public places.

Like Jasper and all the other Lucipires on board, he was in humanoid form for the time being. Until they found a prime sinner. Only then did they morph into demonoid form.

“You look good, too, master,” Beltane said. “The hat is a nice touch.”

Jasper was dressed for island living as well, but his attire was more formal since he would be going into the hotel disguised as a potential investor in pornographic movies. Hell and damnation, but you had to give humans credit for inventing new kinds of sin. He wore a cream linen suit, with a chocolate-brown shirt and a white tie. On his feet were cream and brown “saddle” shoes, and he had a short-brimmed, straw planter’s hat hanging from the back of his chaise, ready to don. His humanoid persona today was a fortyish version of Clark Gable, right down to the trim black mustache. He looked dapper if he did say so himself.

Not so dapper was Zebulan, a high haakai and one of his four elite council members, who walked in, without knocking. One of these days Jasper had to get around to adding another haakai to high command status, to replace Dominique Fontaine, who had the misfortune of being vanquished by the vangel forces a few years ago. No great loss to Jasper, who had despised the woman.

Zebulan wore faded blue denim pants, a tight black T-shirt, ratty athletic shoes, and a Blue Devils baseball cap. Sometimes Jasper wondered why he favored the former Hebrew soldier so much.

“It’s hotter than Hades out there,” Zebulan remarked.

“You ought to know,” Jasper sniped. All Lucipires had visited Satan’s lair at one time or another.

Without invitation, Zebulan walked over and picked up one of the glasses, sniffed it, wrinkled his nose with distaste, then quaffed it down all in one long swallow. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sank down into a chair next to Jasper’s chaise, also without invitation. You had to admire the demon’s balls. Jasper had squashed others for less lack of deference. And, yes, he did mean squashed ballocks.

“News?” Jasper inquired with arched brows.

Zebulan nodded. “I took a dozen mungs and hordlings with me last night and this morning. We trolled every bit of the island along with several of the ships anchored off shore.”

“And?”

“It’s teeming with some of the most vile sinners I’ve encountered since the days of the Roman Colosseum.”

Jasper wrung his scaly hands with glee. Idly, he made note to himself to borrow some of Beltane’s hand cream before going ashore. “Tell me more.”

“Three hundred employees, more or less. Two thousand conference attendees. The event will last one week, but employees will stay an extra few days for cleanup.”

“And prospects . . . for us?”

Zebulan shrugged. “One hundred.”

“That is all?” Jasper’s shoulders sank with disappointment. “One hundred is nothing compared to some of our other missions.”

“Yes, but remember, we decided to lay low for a while. Not to call attention to ourselves with the more high-profile harvests. That was a close call in Vegas.”

“You are right, of course. I cannot be too greedy.”

“And there may be more. Rumors are that a boat or airplane will be bringing in young girls and boys, no more than fourteen, to cater to certain tastes.”

Jasper clapped his hands together with delight. “I love it. Child molesters are among my favorite victims . . . uh, converts.”

He could swear Zebulan cringed a little, but then, when Jasper studied him closer, he noticed nothing amiss. “You will come to my party tonight,” Jasper decided.

That was a definite cringe he saw now.

“Too much work to do,” Zebulan protested. “I will send some of my Lucipires.”

The Hebrew almost never socialized with Jasper and the other demon vampires, and, frankly, Jasper was a mite offended. “You will come,” he insisted. “And dress appropriately.”

“Yes, master.” Zebulan saluted him with obvious sarcasm.

“And bring a date. How about that new hordling? Wanda something or other?”

Zebulan’s eyes went wide. “The Witch of Wall Street?”

“That is the one! I hear she knows fifty ways to raise a man’s Dow. Ha, ha, ha.”

“My Dow is just fine, thank you very much.” Zebulan grinned then, and Jasper recalled why he liked the man so much. His sense of humor. And he wasn’t always fawning for his favors. Fawning could be just as annoying as lack of deference. “I will come to your frickin’ party, and I will wear appropriate attire, but I will be damned if I go willingly within fifty feet of Wanda the Bitch . . . Witch.”

“That is all I ever wanted,” Jasper said with satisfaction. “Oooh, oooh, oooh, I have a better idea. You could bring Becky Bliss. What a demon vampire that woman would make!”

Zebulan made a sound of impatience. “Number one, I cannot just ‘bring’ the woman.”

“Why not?”

“That is not the way civilized men act today.”

“Hmpfh! Men have become such wussies.”

“Do you mean pussies?”

“Wussies, pussies, same thing,” he said with irritation at Zebulan’s contrariness. “Ask her for a date then. Is that not how humans do it?”

“A man has to know a woman first before he can ask her for a date.”

“Oh.” Jasper tapped his chin with a forefinger, pretending to think on the subject. “Here is an idea. Get to know her first.”

“Second,” Zebulan went on, as if Jasper hadn’t even spoken. “The woman is not sinful enough to be turned Lucipire.”

“Really? A woman who bares her body and performs sex acts with numerous men before millions of people? That is not sinful enough?”

“She is more dumb than evil,” Zebulan contended.

“I can think of things she could do in her sex acts that would make her sin rankings go off the radar,” Jasper said. “For example, she could . . .” Jasper cited several particularly perverted ideas. “You could plant those ideas in her head. Mayhap even initiate her in some of them.”

“Enough!” Zebulan put his hands over both ears so he couldn’t hear any more of Jasper’s very vile suggestions. What kind of demon vampire was he that he didn’t enjoy vileness? “I will come to your party, but I come alone. I operate best that way.”

“You do as I say,” Jasper roared, rising up off the chaise to stand at his full seven-foot height, his demonoid features popping out like pimples as his fury simmered and boiled over.

“Sorry I am, master. I did not mean to give offense,” Zebulan said, recognizing that he’d pushed his superior too far. But it was too late for apologies. Lessons must be learned.

Pointing a clawed finger at the difficult demon, Jasper caused him to shoot up off his feet and out the open door, over the railing. Last he heard was a curse, followed by a loud splash. He smiled then at Beltane, who was cowering in the corner, fearful that he would be next.

“Damn but it is good to be me!”

M
arisa and Inga were settling into one of the two bedrooms in their assigned bungalow when their other two roommates arrived.

“Hi, y’all,” trilled Tiffany, aka Helen Biggers, from the communal living room separating the bedrooms. “Oooh, this heah cottage is so cute! Lak a dollhouse!”

Marisa wouldn’t go that far. Though it was small.

The hundred or so bungalows stemming out along paths from the back and sides of the hotel all the way to the ocean were designed to ensure privacy, with their heavy cloaks of tropical trees and bushes, but some were luxurious and bigger than others. She would have expected no more than this for employees. And it really was nice and sunny with white wicker furniture made comfy by bright floral cushions and overhead ceiling fans. There was a tiny kitchenette, just enough for a coffeemaker, a small mini fridge, and a counter with two stools. And one bathroom, though spacious, to be shared by four women! If it weren’t for this being serious business to earn money for her daughter, Marisa would have considered it a wonderful vacation spot.

Tiffany, wearing a pink halter top, white short-shorts, and high white wedgie sandals, fast-walked with mincing steps over to her and Inga, who stood in the bedroom doorway. She gave them both warm hugs, as if they were longtime friends.

Good heavens! Does she buy Shalimar by the gallon?

Marisa realized suddenly that despite the bimbo attire, Tiffany resembled no more than a girl trying to appear grown-up. Like one of those kids dolled up in a grotesque fashion in child beauty pageants. Really, Tiffany was to be pitied more than criticized. Marisa vowed to be more tolerant and to try to steer Tiffany on a different path.

“This is Doris Hunter,” Tiffany said as another woman, who’d been standing out on the small patio admiring the view, came inside. “Doris, these are mah friends, Marisa Lopez and Inga Johanssen. Marisa and Inga will be waitressin’ in the Phoenix Restaurant, Inga will also waitress in Buster's, and Marisa will work as a massage therapist in the health spa, too.” Marisa had to give Tiffany credit for remembering their names and jobs.
Maybe she isn’t as dumb as she appears to be.

Doris, a short, plain, thirtysomething woman in a tan T-shirt and cargo shorts with leather docksiders, stared at them for a long moment, as if taking mental notes, or something. “Hello.”

“Are you a hairstylist, too?” Marisa asked, without thinking. If she was, Doris, with her short butch haircut, clearly a barbershop creation, was a walking advertisement for why not to use her services.

“No, I’m going to be a maid. No, not the French maid kind.”

Marisa and Inga exchanged looks. That was the last thing they’d expect this woman to do. Marisa would wager her best Louis Vuitton knockoff that Doris was gay. Not that lesbians couldn’t be French maids, she self-corrected herself.

“I’ll be cleaning rooms,” Doris continued. “And that’s all.”

Okaaay. That’s emphatic enough. Tiffany must have given her the Becky Bliss pitch. Millions to be made just from lying down, legs to Manhattan and L.A., knees to the sun, dollar signs dancing in her head. Mansions, Jacuzzis, blah, blah.

“Hope you don’t mind my barging in. Tiff said you needed a foursome, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Inga spoke up now. “I might look like a tart at times, but I’m hardly past the twosome stage.”

Doris laughed, a deep, husky guffaw.

Tiffany’s brow furrowed for a moment before she giggled. “Oh you!” She playfully jabbed Inga in the upper arm with a fist. “That’s not what Doris meant. Besides, mah boyfriend Tee-Beau would have a fit.”

“Holy moly! Your boyfriend is Tebow? Tim Tebow?” Inga gasped out.

“You are such a kidder, Inga.” Tiffany pursed her crimson lips into a fake moue of chiding. “Beau is from Loo-zee-anna. To the Cajuns, Tee-Beau means Little Beau. Not that Beau is little now, but he was when he was a chile.”

Marisa homed in on something else. “Doesn’t your boyfriend mind you trying to break into adult films?”

Tiffany shook her head, causing the blonde curls to bob. “Thass jist bizness. Ah wouldn’t be enjoyin’ myself or anythin’. Ah’m good at fakin’ it. All women are at one time or another, right?”

“Absolutely!” Doris piped in.

Something about Doris seemed off to Marisa, and it wasn’t her sexual orientation. Marisa wasn’t quite sure what it was. Maybe it was her eyes, behind rimless glasses that she kept pushing up her nose. Her hazel eyes seemed far too intelligent to be satisfied with cleaning services.
Not that being a hotel maid isn’t a noble profession. Well, maybe not noble, but satisfactory. Jeesh! Dig a hole lately, Marisa? Good thing I didn’t say all this out loud. The political correctness police would be on my tail faster than I could say Cher. Hole. Getting. Deeper.

Tiffany smiled brightly. “Ah’ll be workin’ in the beauty salon, Good Looks. It’s right next ta the spa, Risa. You don’t mind mah callin’ ya Risa, do ya? We’ll be seeing oodles of each other. Isn’t this fun?”

Marisa barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “A barrel of laughs,
Tiff
.”

“And, Inga, Ah’m dyin’ ta clip yer dead ends, sugah. Not that your blonde hair isn’t beautiful, but just a little layering would make you a knockout.”

Inga, who already considered herself a knockout, wasn’t so self-controlled. She said, “Just super!”

“And I could give you highlights,” she offered Doris, as well.

Doris was clearly taken aback. “Thanks, but I have my own beautician back home. Pierre would have a fit if I let anyone else touch my locks.” Doris patted her short hair and winked at Marisa and Inga. At least she had a sense of humor.

“Well, I’m going to finish unpacking,” Marisa said before Tiffany could start on her.

It was hard to be mean to Tiffany, though. She was so clearly clueless.

Tiffany raised her huge, wheeled, shocking-pink luggage and was about to go into the other bedroom. Marisa and Inga had brought only small Gucci carry-on bags, figuring they’d be wearing uniforms most of the time, and Doris had only a rolling duffel bag. Clearly, none of them was as prepared as Tiffany to be “discovered.”

“Ah’m gonna put on mah bikini and head fer the pool. Mebbe Ah’ll be discovered on my first day here, please God.”

God would want nothing to do with that kind of helping hand, Marisa was pretty sure.

“Will y’all join me?”

“Sure,” Inga said. In an aside to Marisa, she whispered, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Doris rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll just relax on the patio with a book.”

“I have to make a phone call, but I’ll be there in a half hour or so,” Marisa promised.

She put away her belongings and went into the kitchenette, where she poured herself a glass of iced tea. Tiffany claimed she couldn’t go anywhere without her sweet tea and therefore carried tea bags and diet sugar packets with her. Before she left, she had made the iced tea in a hotel ice bucket, there being no pitcher available.

Sitting down in one of the cushy chairs, Marisa picked up her cell phone and pressed home.

“Hi, Mommy,” her daughter answered immediately, then corrected herself, as she’d been taught. “I mean, hello, this is the Lopez rezdance.”

“Hello, sweetheart. How are you feeling today?” Izzie had been sleeping when Marisa had left the house at dawn.

“Buelita says this is one of my good days. We’re goin’ to the pool with PopPop this afternoon. He’s takin’ off work jist for me.”

“That’s nice. Don’t forget the sunscreen.”

“I won’t. Are you havin’ fun, Mommy?”

“Not yet.”

“You should relax and enjoy yourself,” her daughter advised, clearly parroting something she’d heard her grandmother or grandfather say.

“I’m going to be working hard most of the time, but I’m going to a pool now, too.”

“Will you swim?”

“If it’s not too crowded, sure.” Marisa loved to swim. Had been on the swim team in high school. In fact, had gone to college on a partial sports scholarship. But she hadn’t been swimming in ages, not with Izzie’s problems and Marisa’s workload. “Can I talk to Buelita?”

“Buelita!” Izzie yelled.

Marisa winced. Another lesson she would have to teach her daughter. Put your hand over the phone before yelling. Or, better yet, don’t yell at all. She hoped she would get the chance for these and all the other little-girl lessons.

Tears filled her eyes immediately, but she blinked them away.

“Love you bunches, Mommy,” Izzie said before handing over the phone.

“Love you more, peanut,” she countered.

After Marisa spoke with her mother and gave her all the instructions for Izzie’s care that she’d already given her a dozen times that week, her mother said, “Relax and enjoy yourself, Marisa.” The unspoken words were
While you can.

Marisa smiled. Like minds, and all that. “I will, and call me immediately if there’s a problem.”

After donning a white, one-piece, structured maillot swim suit, a 2005 Hermès knockoff, which was cut high on the hips, with detachable straps, and an oversize Garfield T-shirt as a cover up (Izzie had a matching one, no knockoffs with these Wal-Mart specials), she grabbed her Dior sunglasses and shuffled into a pair of flip-flops. When Marisa went out onto the patio, she saw Doris tapping away on an iPad, which she immediately tucked into a canvas bag at her side and took out a hardback book, John Grisham’s latest mystery,
Sycamore Row
.

More contradictions. A maid who was fluent on an expensive iPad? And while John Grisham’s books hardly qualified as literary fiction, they were not the usual choice for women of a lower education level. Assuming this woman was of a lower education level.

Marisa mentally chastised herself for once again judging someone by appearances. Hadn’t people been doing that to her all her life? She should know better.

“Is the book any good?”

Doris shrugged. “I liked the prequel better.
A Time to Kill
.”

“What’s not to like about Jake Brigance, aka Matthew McConaughey?”

“Or Ashley Judd, aka Carla Brigance.”

Well, that certainly laid the question of Doris’s sexual preference to rest. They both laughed.

“No second thoughts about the pool?” Marisa asked.

“Nah. I’ll read a little bit, then maybe take a nap. I didn’t sleep much last night, and I had to get to Dulles by five a.m.”

“Don’t forget the employee meeting at four o’clock.”

Everyone would be starting work tomorrow, even though the conference didn’t officially start until the next day. Last-minute instructions would be doled out today. On-site training tomorrow.

“See you later then.”

Bypassing the outdoor pool, which was as crowded as Marisa had expected, mostly with sunbathers, not swimmers, she headed toward the more functional indoor pool. Her hunch had been right. There were only a few people here, and they appeared to be done, if their wet suits were any indication. Nodding a greeting to two men and a woman, she took off her shirt, placing it, her sunglasses, and her flip-flops on a poolside chair. No worry about leaving her oversize Dior sunglasses. Anyone who stole them would be disappointed to learn they weren’t worth their weight in plastic.

Without any toe testing, she dived off one end of the pool, pleased to find the temperature cool, but not too cold. She began to do laps, starting with a slow crawl, arm over arm, face half lying in the water, one side, then the other, as she moved smoothly toward the other side. She’d done four laps before she started breaststrokes, alternated with underwater swimming and backstrokes, ending on the eighth lap with a crawl once again. Swimming tended to energize, rather than tire her. It always had. The endorphin rush that some joggers got. When she emerged at the end of the pool, tossing her hair back off her face, she saw a pair of lightly furred legs. Following the mile-long, muscled legs upward, she immediately recognized the man standing there watching her.

Oh great!
“Dr. Cigar,” she said.

“Sigurd,” he corrected. “Or, as I told you before, you can call me Sig.”

“For some reason, I don’t see you as a Sig. Gurd maybe.”

He scowled at her. He did that a lot, she noticed. Dr. McGrumpy, for sure.

For some immature reason, she delighted in annoying the man. So, of course, she asked, “Why aren’t you off at some hoity-toity VIP pool, complete with pool boys and scantily clad girls to cater to your every whim?”

“Whore-tee tart-tee?”

“You know very well I said hoy-tee toy-tee. It means exclusive. For snooty folks only.”

He shook his head at her teasing. And scowled some more. “I could not find a VIP pool, and I hear all the pool boys and scantily clad girls are on strike. What thorn do you have up your arse over my being of some VIP status?”

Not just grumpy. Rude, too. But then, I haven’t been Miss Pleasing Personality, either.
“No thorns, and that
was
rude of me. Sorry. It’s been a long day, and it’s only one o’clock.”

He nodded his head in acceptance of her apology. “Likewise. A word of advice, though. Envy is not an attractive feature, as I well know.”

“Huh?”
He well knows . . . what? Is he saying that he is an envious person? Of what? And wait a minute. Is he accusing me of being envious of him?
She’d like to pull the lout down into the pool and dunk him a time or twenty. Whatever! He was twice her size. She knew who would be licking the bottom of the pool, and it wouldn’t be him.

When she raised herself on straightened arms, he held out a hand to assist her out of the pool. She hesitated, but not because she was actually considering yanking him into the water. Well, considering . . . maybe. Doing? She didn’t really have the nerve. She would have liked to, though.

No, it was the idea of her alone in this pool area, both of them wearing nothing but swimming attire. It seemed rather intimate. But then she figured that her bathing suit was modest by many standards today. So she let him help her up out of the water and to her feet on the tiled surround. Where she soon discovered that her bathing suit, when wet, left little to the imagination. And by Sigurd’s quick survey, she could tell that the man was doing a lot of imagining.