Dead and Dateless 2 by Raye Kimberly

Author:Raye, Kimberly [Raye, Kimberly]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance, Fantasy, General, Contemporary, Fiction
ISBN: 034549217X
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2007-01-30T08:00:00+00:00

“I forgot Dad’s balls,” I blurted when my mother opened the back door at a quarter past nine on Saturday night.

While I did have some backbone (I’d purposely bypassed Golftown on my way over), it went all soft and Jell-O-ey when faced with the prospect of breaking three hundred years of Marchette tradition.

“I meant to stop off and pick them up,” I rushed on, “but I couldn’t get away and—”

“It’s about time,” my mother declared.

Jacqueline Marchette wore a chocolate-colored silk wrap dress, a diamond Tiffany choker and matching bracelet, and a disapproving frown. Her long, dark brown hair had been slicked back into a chic ponytail that accented her high cheekbones and sculpted nose. Thick eyelashes fringed her rich brown eyes. Chanel’s Chocolate Mousse slicked her full lips. She smelled of French perfume, cherries jubilee, and lots of money (what born vampire didn’t?).

I’d been fortunate enough to snag my favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—black and white with cap sleeves—before fleeing from the cops and a fab pair of black leather Vivia’s, so I didn’t feel underdressed.

“Your brothers have been here for over an hour,” my mother informed me.

Geez, Mom, It’s great to hear you’re doing so well. Me? Well, I’m wanted for murder, which means every cop between here and Manhattan is looking for me. I’ve got an overprotective bounty hunter for a babysitter. And my hair—damn its traitorous soul—refused to cooperate. In a nutshell, I’m peachy. Just peachy.

“Your father and I count on these nights, Lilliana,” she went on, “and we fully expect our children to hold them in the same regard.”

“I do.” I smiled. It was that or bust into tears, and my mom isn’t really the type you can cry in front of. (Plunder small villages? Yes. Cry? No friggin’ way.) “The next time I resist arrest and go on the lam, I’ll be sure to ask for hunt nights off in advance.”

“It’s the very least you can do, dear.”

I know she gave birth to me and we share the same bloodline and I should be eternally thankful and all. I wouldn’t be here in all my vamp glory if it weren’t for the sixteen hours of extremely painful labor valiantly endured by the woman standing in front of me. I know (namely because she reminded me on all major holidays and my birthday) and I appreciate it. Really. It’s just that sometimes (i.e., now) I felt like smacking her.

“Don’t just stand there.” She motioned me inside. “Everyone is waiting.”

While she was as uptight and pretentious as ever, I knew something was off when, instead of gliding toward the living room in her totally fab pair of strappy leather Jimmy Choos, she reached for a bottle of Scotch that sat on a nearby counter and downed a swig.

It wasn’t the alcohol that clued me in, but the fact that she didn’t bother pouring it into a glass. My mom was the walking poster girl for born vampire decorum. She dressed her best, minded her manners, and never played with her food (except that time she’d played a few sets with Martina Navratilova).

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