Guilty Pleasures

I shook my head. “Uh-huh.” I stared at the flickering floor numbers.

“Is Jean-Claude all right?”

I glanced at him and didn’t know what to say. The elevator stopped. We got out. “You didn’t answer me,” he said softly.

I sighed. It was too long a story. “It’s almost noon. I’ll tell you what I can over lunch.”

He gri

I smiled before I could stop myself. “You wish.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Flirtatious little thing, aren’t you?”

“Most women like it.”

“I would like it better if I didn’t think you’d flirt with my ninety-year-old grandmother the same way you’re flirting with me now.”

He coughed back a laugh. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.”

“I am a very judgmental person. It’s one of my faults.”

He laughed again, a nice sound. “Maybe I can hear about the rest of your faults after you’ve told me where Jean-Claude is.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

I stopped just in front of the glass doors that led out into the street. “Because I saw you last night. I know what you are, and I know how you get your kicks.”

His hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. “I get my kicks a lot of different ways.”

I frowned at his hand, and it moved away. “Save it, Phillip. I’m not buying.”

“Maybe by the end of lunch you will be.”

I sighed. I had met men like Phillip before, handsome men who are accustomed to women drooling over them. He wasn’t trying to seduce me; he just wanted me to admit that I found him attractive. If I didn’t admit it, he would keep pestering me. “I give up; you win.”

“What do I win?” he asked.

“You’re wonderful, you’re gorgeous. You are one of the best looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the length of your skin-tight jeans, to the flat, rippling plains of your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful. Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?”

He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised the glasses back in place. “You pick the restaurant.” He said it flat, no teasing.

I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.

Chapter 19

The heat outside the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that melded to your skin like plastic wrap. “You’re going to melt wearing that jacket,” I said.

“Most people object to the scars.”

I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other skin. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn’t read his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those big brown eyes. His voice was soft. “Is that your only bite scar?”

“No,” I said.

His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he’d had a jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders, along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch of smooth, ta

“I can put the jacket back on,” he said.

I had been staring at him. “No, it’s just…”

“What?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Ask anyway.”

“Why do you do what you do?”

He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. “That is a very personal question.”

“You did say ask anyway.” I glanced across the street. “I usually go to Mabel’s, but we might be seen.”

“Ashamed of me?” His voice held a harsh edge to it, like sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were clenched.

“It isn’t that,” I said. “You are the one who came into the office, pretending to be my ‘friend’. If we go some place I’m known, we’ll have to continue the charade.”

“There are women who would pay to have me escort them.”

“I know, I saw them last night at the club.”

“True, but the point is still that you’re ashamed to be seen with me. Because of this.” His hand touched his neck, tentatively, delicate as a bird.

I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That didn’t bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn’t Phillip’s feelings but the principle of the thing. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“To Mabel’s.”

“Thank you,” he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy. That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.

It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had seen Phillip’s idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.

Mabel’s is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders. On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.

Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform didn’t fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.

“Hi, Beatrice.” And without waiting to be asked, “This is Phillip.”

“Hi, Phillip,” she said.

He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I hadn’t known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did it matter to her?

It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major accomplishment.

“What has happened to Jean-Claude?” he asked.

“One more minute.” I said grace over my food. He was staring at me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and the punishment.

He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring over my head, at nothing that I could see. “Phillip?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked at me. “She could kill him.”

“I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you know what that would be?”

He nodded, voice soft, saying, “She traps them in coffins and uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy.”

I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind. What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke didn’t help much.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders. The first victim, one Maurice no last name, had lived with a woman named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. “Cohabited” sounded better than “shacked up.” “I’ll talk to friends and lovers of the dead vampires.”