Vampire in Paradise (7 page)

“Don’t look at me like that,” she ordered, going over to get a towel and drying her long hair, then wrapping it turban-like around her head.

“Like what?” He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was imagining her naked.

“Like I am a snack being offered to you on a silver tray.”

“I am a Viking. We like to look. Among other things. Besides, looking is not a sin.”

Good thing it wasn’t because, if he wasn’t watching her so closely through crystal-blue eyes, she would like to devour this huge hunk of man candy with her own eyes. His long blond hair hung loose to his shoulders. He wore only a pair of black swimming trunks low on his hips, exposing wide shoulders, a narrow waist, really long legs, and the cutest belly button.

She cleared her throat and asked, “A Viking, huh? Are you from Norway?”

“Not anymore.”

She arched her brows in question.

He hesitated and his face flushed before he revealed, “Transylvania. I come from Transylvania.”

“Romania?” For some reason, that surprised her. “You were a doctor in Romania?”
I was right about the medical degree from some underdeveloped country.

Stop it, Marisa. Stop being so damn judgmental.

Medical degrees from Romania are probably just as good as those from the good ol’ USA.

She gave herself a mental snort of disbelief.

“Transylvania, Pennsylvania,” he elaborated, as if reading her mind. “And most recently I was a doctor at Johns Hopkins.”

That raised more than a few questions, which she was about to toss at him, like why would a doctor with the credentials to practice at that elite hospital be working at a porno conference, but he chose that moment to dive into the pool, creating a huge splash that doused her head to toe. Deliberately, she was sure. Good thing she’d already been wet, or she would have a thing or two to say to the jerk. She still would.

But later.

She could swear she heard laughter as she walked away. He was probably staring at her butt.

S
he paused at the doorway and waited for him to emerge from the pool, wanting to give him a piece of her mind, but he just ignored her, completing lap after lap of powerful strokes. Finally, she combed her fingers through her hair and went out to join Inga and Tiffany at the outdoor pool.

What she saw almost made her turn on her heels. She’d never seen so many Speedos in all her life. Or bikinis the size of Band-Aids.

Really, what were men thinking? Even the most physically fit guys looked ridiculous in those little bulge-revealing bits of fabric. As for the women, they might as well be naked.

She waved at Eleanor and Hedy, who were on the far side of the pool, half reclining on lounge chairs in the shade. They wore matching black Bermuda shorts and white blouses with some insignia on the one side. Probably hotel uniforms of some sort. Marisa had half expected the conference uniforms to be slutty, but maybe the hotel office staff, like Doris, or those in supervisory positions, like Hedy at the health spa, weren’t expected to follow the regular dress code. If there was one. Or maybe this was just the casual uniform. Marisa had run into Eleanor a short time ago, and Eleanor told her that she and Hedy would be rooming together inside the hotel, rather than one of the bungalows.

Marisa sat down in the limited shade of an umbrella-covered, poolside table next to Inga. Already perspiration popped out on her forehead and underarms. The temperature must be close to ninety. Inga’s blonde hair was brushed sleekly off her face, and her bikini was still wet from a recent swim. “The suit looks good on you,” Marisa commented.

“Yeah, I like it.”

She and Inga had raided Steve’s garage boxes yesterday, and Inga had discovered the vintage red-and-white polka dot number, a classic Chanel design from around 2000.

“Your brother has good taste,” Inga went on.

Marisa gave her friend a rueful shake of the head. “Too bad he didn’t use that good taste for a real job once in a while.”

“When’s he getting out?”

“Next year, if he’s lucky.” Marisa loved her brother, but with all the other stress in her life, she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of worrying about him. He was thirty-one years old, for heaven’s sake! Who was she kidding? Of course she worried about him. “He’s studying graphic design in prison.”

Inga rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord! He wouldn’t dare print counterfeit money when he gets out, would he?”

“What do you think?”

Marisa accepted a small beaded bottle of icy water from a passing waiter (the core hotel staff was still working), and drank deeply. Then she sat back in her chair and looked around at the several dozen people walking or sitting around the pool. “So what’s new?”

“Well, our friend Tiff is networkin’ her little Dixie ass off, dontcha know, darlin’,” Inga said in an exaggerated Southern drawl.

“That’s mean,” Marisa said, knowing she was equally guilty. “It’s like beating a cute little puppy dog.”

“She’s already met two film producers who want to give her an audition and Madeline something or other, who sells discreet sex toys through her mail order company, My Ladies Boudoir. Madeline will be giving out samples this afternoon at the employees’ meeting. She highly recommends The Bobber, according to Tiffany. Oh, and there’s the editor of some skin magazine who might consider doing a layout on Tiffany if—”

“Let me guess. If she auditions for him?”

“Bingo! From what I can tell, it’s a mixed bag of folks here . . . so far, anyway. There are the porno wannabes, like Tiffany, but not an overwhelming number. Mainly because it’s so expensive to attend. Five thou minimum. The industry biggies are here, of course. Company owners. Wealthy men and women who are either looking for action or new investments, probably both. Lobbyists . . . yeah, some of these companies know the power of having politicians on their side. PR experts to hype pornography as the ultimate freedom of expression. By the way, we’re going to be told in the employee meeting not to use the word
pornography
. It’s FOE now, baby. Freedom of Expression, not forwarding order expired. Art films, not skin flicks. Sensual literature, not erotica. Yada, yada.”

“What a crock!” Marisa said.

“Watch for the Internet types who are riding the electronic smut waves. You can easily identify them. They look nerdy. And mostly they’re young and full of themselves. In a way, these are the most dangerous. They’re smart. Really smart. And they know how to access millions of people at the click of a key, as in computer keyboard, and profit from that talent.”

“I’d like to meet some of them. All I need is one good guy, or girl, who knows code to help me set up an Internet campaign for Izzie.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Inga continued, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the working actors and actresses from the aspiring ones. Except the celebrity ones have fans trailing after them, including—you won’t believe this—a celebrity dog named Mr. Big after that
Sex and the City
stud.”

“Holy Toledo! A dog? I’m afraid to ask.”

“Don’t.”

They both burst out laughing.

“One guy asked me if I’d like to try out for his upcoming film,
Thor and His Really Big Sword
. Not because I’m built like a brick shithouse, his words, not mine, but because I look like a Norse goddess.” Inga smiled. “Shall I go on?”

“Enough said!”

“And then there’s a bunch of folks just like us, trying to earn some extra cash while holding our noses.”

“Uh-oh,” Marisa murmured.

“What?”

Marisa was staring over Inga’s shoulder. “Don’t turn around. It’s Mr. Goldman, that billionaire I met earlier today.”

Marisa had told Inga this morning on the way to their bungalow about the meeting with both the wealthy man and the Viking doctor. Inga had declared “no contest” over which one she’d choose.

“I still say you should prime this rich guy’s pump.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“I don’t know. It could be like that movie
Indecent Proposal
, where Robert Redford offers Demi Moore a million dollars to sleep with him for one night only, even though she’s married to Woody Harrelson. Sort of a devil’s bargain, but, hell, it’s a million freakin’ dollars.”

“Pfff! Believe me, this guy is no Robert Redford.”

Although I have to admit, if it means Izzie having the operation or not, I would probably do it.

No, I wouldn’t. No, no, no way! Disgust-ing!

And immoral. What kind of message is that for my daughter?

“He’s looking our way,” Marisa warned. “Behave yourself.”

Marisa studied the man, dressed more sedately this afternoon, compared to the rest of the crowd, anyway, in a polo shirt, neatly pressed khaki slacks, and loafers. The bling was still there, though, in the flashy gold chains and Rolex (no knockoffs here, Marisa noted). He seemed to be making excuses to his entourage, which included a couple of security-type fellows and Mr. Vanderfelt. Then he headed her way.

“Goldfinger, did you say?” Inga asked.

“Tsk, tsk. Not Goldfinger. Goldman. Jeesh, Inga, first you mention Robert Redford, now Sean Connery, who next? George Clooney? Okay, that’s getting too tempting.”

Marisa put a smile on her face as he approached. Really, she thought Sigurd’s warning about the old guy being evil was off-base. Mr. Goldman looked like a harmless, pudgy senior citizen, probably a grandfather. He was about the same age as her father.

“Mar-is-a,” he drawled out. “It is so nice to see you again. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Uh, no. I mean, sure, sit down. This is my friend Inga Johanssen. Inga, this is Henry Goldman.”

“Harry,” he corrected with annoyance, which he immediately masked by smiling, displaying an impressive set of porcelain veneers. At least thirty thousand dollars’ worth of dental work. “An easy mistake.”

“What do you do, Harry?” Inga asked. Blunt, as usual.

“Do?”

“For a living.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I like to say I flushed my first million down the toilet, ha, ha, ha. Before getting involved in other ventures. Gold and diamonds. The stock market. Cattle. A restaurant chain. Real estate development. And now, investing in films. Art films.”

Yeah, there’s a lot of art in “Oooh, oooh, oooh, you are so big, Bruce. Can you do it harder? Maybe up my butt, please?”

“Now I like to say that I deal in laying pipes, not cleaning them,” Harry continued, “ha, ha, ha.”

When they didn’t laugh, not getting the joke, he explained, “I started a company that made brass balls . . . ha, ha, ha . . . for toilets.”

Marisa smiled, though she didn’t think it was that funny. “My father is a plumber. I’ll bet he uses your balls.”
Oh Lord! Did I really say something so crude? My mind is degenerating. Must be all the Speedos.

Harry thought that was hilarious and laughed heartily, wiping his eyes with a pure white handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket.

His laugh is starting to annoy me.

“So where is your fiancé?” he asked suddenly, glancing at her ringless fingers, as he’d done earlier today.

His too obvious interest is starting to annoy me.

She thought about telling him that she had no fiancé, but for some reason she said, “Swimming.”

Fiancé?
Inga mouthed to Marisa.

Marisa fluttered her fingertips to indicate she would explain later. In relating her meeting with Mr. Goldman and the doctor, Marisa might have forgotten to mention the fiancé part.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sophia Loren?” Harry asked suddenly. “When she was young.”

Now I am really annoyed.

“A few people.”

“I met her one time in Italy.”

Sure you did.

“Must have been thirty years ago.”

It would have to be.

“A gorgeous woman! What a body!”

I swear, if I’ve heard this line once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. Not original, Harry. Not at all.

“I always wanted . . .”

Here it comes.

“. . . are you by any chance Italian, Mar-is-a?” He licked his lips and stared at her breasts for a brief moment before he caught himself.
As in, Would you like to have sex with me,
mi amore
?

She shook her head. “Cuban.”

“I do love a good Cuban cigar.” He licked his lips.

Un-be-freakin’-lievable! The things men say and think they’re being cool! At least he didn’t ask if I’d ever been Lewinskied, like that idiot in Starbucks did last month.

“Did you ever meet that kid Elian Gonzalez?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked that question. It was like asking an Australian if he’d ever met Crocodile Dundee.

She shook her head. “I was born in Miami. Never been to Cuba. But both of my parents were born there.”

“Ah. I keep one of my yachts in Miami.”

One of his yachts!

Okay, so he’s rich, I already knew that.

Here’s my chance. Hook up with the rich guy. He pays for Izzie’s operation. I ride off into the sunset.

I probably wouldn’t even have to do anything.

Yeah, right.

Inga kept nudging Marisa under the table, encouraging her to do just that. Make some kind of connection with this guy. But Marisa just couldn’t take that step. Not yet. Probably never. Even though he wasn’t any more lascivious than the next guy, he annoyed her. She found the idea of being close to him repulsive. No Robert Redford, young or old, that was for sure.

“Listen, ladies, I’m holding a welcome party on my yacht tonight. I hope you’ll both come. Champagne, caviar, music, dancing. I promise you’ll have a good time.”

“I don’t know—” Marisa started to say.

“I’m in,” Inga said. This time her nudge was a full-fledged kick.

Both Goldman and Inga looked at her. Finally, she gave in with a nod. “Oh, sure, thanks for inviting us. We’ll have to leave early, though, because—”

“Wonderful!” Goldman didn’t even wait for her to finish. He smiled widely and squeezed her hand.

His hand felt damp and soft. She cringed, trying to imagine that hand . . . No, she was not going to imagine any such thing.

“Just come down to Dock B at seven, and there’ll be a boat to pick you up.” His attention was diverted for a moment by one of his security men who pulled him aside to talk to him about some supplies—caviar, to be specific—that hadn’t arrived.

“Oh. My. God!” Inga said. “Be still my heart!”

Marisa tilted her head in question, not understanding Inga’s exclamation. Was she referring to Harry’s offering a boat to pick them up? Or Harry having ordered caviar? But then Marisa realized that it was someone behind her that drew her friend’s comment.

She turned and said the same thing, but to herself.
Oh. My. God!

Coming out of the hotel onto the terrace were five men. Five big, tall men. All wearing black swimming trunks with unbuttoned black shirts and black, oddly archaic, cross-gartered sandals. All Nordic in appearance, with high cheekbones and sharply sculpted features. Mostly blond, although one of them had black hair arranged Michael Jackson–style, and one of them had an old-fashioned crew cut. Even though the men wore sunglasses, Marisa would bet they all had clear blue eyes. Like the leader of this outrageous pack. Sigurd.

Dr. Viking and his crew were headed her way, purpose in their wide strides, much like that movie clip for
Men in Black
. She almost giggled at the image. Marisa was pretty sure Sigurd was glaring at her, oblivious to the stares he was getting from practically everyone at the pool. Especially the women. Becky Bliss, for example, looked like she was having one of her famous Triple O’s.

For one blip of an insane moment, Marisa admitted that she would probably succumb if Sigurd was the one offering an indecent proposal. She felt a lurch of excitement down yonder that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

What did it mean?

Probably that I’m suffering from a bout of lust, and I need some special care from the love doctor. Oh, that was awful. Corny and crude.