Jennifer Rardin - [Jaz Parks 1] - Once Bitten Twice Shy Read online

  I wrinkled my nose at the color. Something about pink makes my stomach churn. Maybe it's the resemblance to Pepto Bismol. Personally, my taste runs toward bolder colors. That's why I currently wore an emerald green silk shirt under my black jacket. Unlike Vayl's coat, which reached his knees and looked like it could comfortably hide a shotgun, or a sword, or possibly a small pony, mine stopped just below my waist and, because it had been tailored to mask my shoulder holster, fit superbly. My black slacks felt a little loose, probably because I'd missed lunch all month. And since the Weather Channel had warned of a cold spell hitting Florida at the same time we did, I'd worn my new boots. Hopefully they'd hold up longer than my last pair, which had fallen apart the first time I'd stepped in a puddle of blood.

  I tugged my trunk through a set of white French doors that opened into a sunken living room furnished with flowered couches and chairs, glass tables and Pepto-pink carpeting. On the opposite end of the room, next to ceiling-to-floor curtains in Elvis velvet, sat a bigger glass table surrounded by chairs. I noticed it mainly because the chairs had rollers, which keyed a memory from my childhood.

  My brother, sister and I were staying with our Granny May at her farm for the summer. Her kitchen chairs had wheels, so we spent part of each day either pushing each other around the room or having spinning contests to see who fell off first. Good times. I felt a throb of homesickness for those few golden moments when my sibs and I were friends, teammates and co-conspirators. Why couldn't it have lasted forever?

  "Never mind," I whispered, "it's over now. Move on. Move on. Move on." I caught myself in the litany and clamped my lips shut, imprisoning the words before they could betray me.

  Still carrying a suitcase, our laptop, his garment bag and cane, Vayl strolled into the room and took inventory. His eyes rested momentarily on a cut glass vase full of white orchids and moved on to a silver bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne.

  "Nice," he said, nodding with approval.

  "Yeah, it's uh," I struggled to put some of the expected enthusiasm into my voice, "grrreat!" I skirted the rim of the living room bowl, rolling my trunk after me. I liked it because it looked the way I felt most of the time, battered and old. Right now it appeared sorely out of place, and if the furniture could talk I was sure it would shame my low-class luggage right out of the building. The pack on my back wouldn't score any points either. Despite the fact that it dressed in basic black, it too had seen better days. But it worked, carrying my weapons in well-padded pockets along with my ammunition and cleaning cases. So rather than run to the nearest Motel 6, I just kept walking, taking my most treasured possessions toward another set of French doors to my left which no doubt led to a grossly sumptuous bedroom.

  "Come now, Jasmine," Vayl chided me. Already across the room, he set the laptop on the table, and moved to the curtains, which I expected him to stroke like a pet panther. Instead he flicked them back, peered out the window. Satisfied, he looked over his shoulder at me. "I bring you to the most exclusive hotel in Florida and the only reaction I get is your Tony the Tiger impression?"

  I felt like slumping against the wall, at which point I would bang my head repeatedly until I passed out. But no, the bell had dinged, forcing me back into the ring for Round 14 of the Never-Ending Battle. Nope, no blows traded, damn it all. Our struggle was just a continuous conversation during which Vayl tried to figure out how I'd grown to adulthood without acquiring the slightest refinement, and I continued to be baffled that a man old enough to remember when bathrooms were windowless shacks built above deep stinkin' holes could be fooled into thinking that ugly flowers and crappy-tasting liquor meant something.

  "Look, Vayl, we've got a really big night ahead of us. Can't we just agree that I'm a cretin and you're a snob and move on?"

  For a minute I thought he was having convulsions. Then I realized he was laughing. Depositing his stuff on an end table, he collapsed on the nearest couch and heaved with barely suppressed merriment. He looked… now why would the word 'yummy' come to mind? Under his coat he wore a dark blue sweater that hugged his torso as if they'd been reunited after a long separation. On the plane he'd mentioned his gray slacks had been tailored by a guy named Lawrence Clay who spoke with a lisp and sewed like a savant. His shiny black shoes had come straight off the shelf—in Italy. Since he'd assumed the identity of a high-end antiques dealer named Jeremy Bhane, his elegance was called for. It baffled me that such a thing could come so naturally. Or that I should find it so… delectable.

  What is the deal with these food metaphors, girl? I asked myself. Miss too many entrees, did you? Or are you hungry for something a little more—no, no, no, don't you dare go there. For damn sure not with your badass vampire bossman. He could never replace Matt anyway. No one could.

  "Jasmine?"

  "Huh?"

  "Are you all right? You suddenly look… haunted."

  "Oh, yeah. I mean, no," short, fake laugh while I fished for something to say, "I was just wondering why you don't smile more. And I thought maybe it's because your fangs would show."

  "Would that bother you?" he asked sharply.

  "Not at all. We had two vamps on my Helsinger crew. Stellar people." Now dead, dead, dead… Feeling a guilty sort of pride that I'd been able to say that last bit without breaking down, I opened the bedroom door. Surprise, surprise, it had a huge round bed with a fuscia duvet and a mirrored headboard. I'd call the carpeting a nauseating mix of Pepto-pink and cherry-flavored Nyquil. I liked the whirlpool tub in the next room though, and the shower was big enough for me and the cutest six guys I could round up on short notice.

  "I suppose you find this room a bit over the top," said Vayl, making me jump and squeal.

  "What is the deal with you tonight?" And how come you keep showing up just when I'm trying not to think of how long it's been since I've had sex?

  He shrugged. "I am, how do you say, feeling my oats, perhaps?" He'd let a trace of his original accent creep into his voice. His left eyebrow moved upward a couple of notches. I forgot to breathe as I wondered just how many women had lost themselves in those emerald green eyes. Over nearly three hundred years? Don't make me laugh. And don't think about him that way anymore. You're his assistant. Period.

  I sighed, feeling a whole new level of bummed. "Well, I'm not. I was supposed to hang out with my sister tonight, not hop a flight to Miami. She's already mad that I missed Christmas, and if this trip triggers her labor I'm never forgiving myself. Or you. So can we just start the briefing? The quicker this is over the faster I can crawl home." And grovel. At the knees of my kid sister. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  He checked his pocket watch. "All right," he said, "the party is in two hours and, knowing women as I do, it will probably take you at least half that time just to get dressed."

  I knew Vayl wasn't complaining, but since I already felt vulnerable, the comment cut me. And when I bleed, I get pissed. It's like he's implying a tough girl like me needs a miracle to transform herself into a beautiful lady and, as we all know, miracles take time. What an ass!

  His touch, bare fingers on my cheek, startled me. I could tell by his feverish warmth that he'd eaten when he woke at sunset. The decent vamps, the ones who were trying to blend, all fed without killing. Many had willing donors. Others bought their blood from one of two government licensed suppliers. More would likely pop up as vamps like Vayl made obvious the advantages of integration.

  He said, "I have offended you."

  "Actually, yeah, you have." I shook my head to dislodge his hand. It felt a little too… nice. "It's okay, though," I said, my anger deflating somewhat in response to his stricken expression. "People ought to be able to point out the truth, or at least give it a nod on the way past without other people getting all freaked out about it."

  "I have no idea what you just said."

  "Good. Now," I took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the doors, "let me unpack and I'll meet you in the pit, um, living room in five minutes." r />
  He left me alone to empty my trunk. I didn't. I sat on the bed, fished a pack of cards out of my bag and began to shuffle them. Blend, bend, bridge, over and over I shuffled the dog-eared pack until Evie's tears, my ghosts, Vayl's unintended insult and the immense suckage of the holidays, which I'd spent equally blacking out and melting down, receded beneath the steady thrum of the cards.

  Vayl had draped himself across one of the couches when I came into the living room. All he needed was an ivy crown and some half-dressed bimbo fanning him with palm fronds between bites of grapes and he'd have been a dead ringer for a gorgeous Julius Caesar.

  Aw, who was I kidding, he'd probably palled around with the man before Cleopatra showed up and ruined all their fun. I sank down on the couch opposite him, curling my feet underneath me. "Getting into character?"

  "We are going to a $5,000 a plate charity dinner/dance. Our target has only invited the crème de la crème of society. He will expect both of us to behave with a certain amount of savoir faire."

  "Let me see if I can translate your bullshit, um, I mean French. We're supposed to be a couple of big spenders?"

  "Yes," he replied, raising his eyebrow a disapproving tick at my language.

  "So who's the target?"

  "A plastic surgeon of Pakistani origin. His name is Mohammed Khad Abn-Assan and he has either lifted, tucked or liposuctioned half of Hollywood. I understand several of his celebrity clients will be there tonight."

  "And here I left my autograph book in my other purse. So what's the charity?"

  "It is called New Start. It brings in millions of dollars a year, supposedly to pay for reconstructive surgery for child victims of disfiguring accidents."

  "Cool. Only I'm guessing the kids will never see a dime."

  "Highly doubtful considering the fact that Assan is diverting most of those funds into the Sons of Paradise."

  "Whoa, hang on just a second. The Sons of Paradise? Are you telling me we're going to hit a financial bastion of the most extreme of the extremist terrorist groups?" Vayl nodded. "Awesome!" Those assholes will be dining on sand and pisswater by the time we're finished with Dr. Bankroller. "But you said they're only getting most of the money. Why not all of it?"

  Vayl's eyes hardened, black obsidian even the most penetrating stare couldn't break. "Sources say he uses the rest to perform surgery on members of the organization who cannot afford to look like their Most Wanted posters anymore."

  That got my motor running. "What a creep."

  "The world is full of them."

  "You're telling me. It's good there's people like us around to balance things out."

  "What is this optimistic talk I hear coming from your mouth?" Vayl asked. "Are you Jasmine's evil clone, come to lull me into fluffy white thoughts so you can stake me in my sleep?"

  "At best your thoughts are pink. Kind of like this carpet." Vayl's eyes lightened suddenly, a trait that will make you do a double-take if you're not used to it. The vamps I'd known before him didn't have that particular ability, but then it wasn't really fair to compare. Vamps have their individual gifts and weaknesses, just like humans. The one sitting across from me, for instance, wore his eighty-year string of successful missions like a mantle. He had infiltrated the most exclusive factions, beaten the highest tech security systems, faced the most powerful supernatural forces ever seen on earth and won. So why did he need me? After six months he still hadn't given me a plausible explanation.

  "Anything else you want to tell me?" I asked.

  "Assan has never before been more than a link in a chain. But as far as we can tell he has suddenly gained great power within the Sons of Paradise. We believe he has brought them a new partner, one with the money and clout to rock this country to its core. There is not much chatter about this person or persons, but when you listen to the whispers you hear scary things."

  "You mean scarier than usual things?"

  Vayl nodded.

  "I don't suppose this partner has any Raptor markings on him?" The Raptor was a rising star on our potential hit list. Both Vayl and I knew we'd have to go after him eventually. His lethal mix of charisma and savagery along with rumors that he'd accepted fealty oaths from a dozen large nests, two covens of black witches in Scotland and several packs of Spanish weres had made him the subject of several of Pete's bulletins.

  "Not so far." Vayl ran his fingers across the black cane that lay beside him on the couch. A museum piece, it had been hand-carved in India and was almost as famous around the office as its owner. A procession of intricately detailed tigers marched around the leg of the cane up to a gold band, which separated it from the multifaceted blue jewel that topped it. When you twisted the head, the tigers shot away from it, revealing a hand-hammered sword whose maker had been dust for centuries. I hadn't expected to see the cane until the party. It was unusual for Vayl to carry it with him here, where he should've felt safe. Where I'd felt pretty cozy myself. I sat up straighter and looked around the room.

  "What aren't you telling me?" I demanded.

  "We are going to have to be very careful. Assan has powerful friends. And…"

  "What?"

  Vayl shook his head. "Just keep your eyes and ears open. Something about this feels… wrong."

  And that was really saying something, coming from the C.I.A.'s number one assassin.

  Chapter Two

  Half an hour later I'd rediscovered my femininity. It's fun occasionally, sort of like an archaeological dig without the sweating. I stood before the bathroom mirror resembling the pale, regal daughter my mother would've preferred, wondering how I was supposed to hide my modified Walther PPK, which I called Grief, underneath material that clung like an obsessive ex-boyfriend.

  I'd gone for an oriental look and discovered the red mandarin collar and short, half-moon sleeves suited me fine, especially with my hair pinned up and swirled around the way I'd seen it done in Cosmo. Fake diamonds dangled from my ears, and though no one could see, they matched my belly button ring perfectly. The hilarious bit was that Pete had been the one to give it to me.

  His face had slowly flooded with color as he'd handed me the case. "I understand this is an appropriate item for your, uh, I mean that since you've got that, uh, piercing—"

  "What's it do?" I'd asked as I'd taken the case and pulled out a faux diamond stud.

  "It's a homing device," he'd said, obviously relieved that I hadn't made him stutter through the whole setup. "You activate it by breaking the gem off the post. If you don't have a way to keep the gem on you once it's signaling, it has been tested safe on the digestive system, so you can swallow it."

  Oh goody. "What happens after it's triggered?" I asked.

  "We have a team standing by in Miami. Once they receive the signal, their orders are to try to contact you and, failing that, to coordinate a massive search and rescue."

  So, with my jewelry firmly in place, I gave myself one last critical look. I'd been careful with the eyeliner, so my eyes looked larger, greener, more soulful than usual. I had fine, fragile features that fooled almost everyone I met, a real advantage in my line of work. And the fact that my body leaned harder towards bony than athletic didn't hurt either. My legs were by far my best feature. They occasionally peaked through the side slits of my calf-length, red satin skirt. I wore red, low-heeled sandals I could actually run in, and I'd chosen a sequined handbag to match, so that's where I finally stowed my weapon.

  When I came out, Vayl's bedroom doors were still shut. I rapped on one.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm going scouting. Back in thirty."

  "All right." I took off to find the address on our cleverly faked invitation.

  Diamond Suites was situated about fifteen minutes from Assan's location. The Lexus purred under me like a snoozing lioness as I drove there, but I resisted the urge to wake her up on the Interstate. Pete's blood pressure tended to spike when he thought I'd done any excessive spending, and I figured he'd stroke out if I showed up with a speeding tick
et on the way to a location.

  I took a leisurely tour of Assan's digs, trying not to gape too much at the enormous, brilliantly lit mansions fronted by country club style landscaping. The lawns were so well manicured you could've used them for putting greens. What a hoot if Dave and his buddies had lived here, because they actually would have. I could imagine them all, full of that eighteen-year-old cockiness you wish guys would never lose, drinking Albert's beer and calling their shots like it was a game of 8-ball.

  I spared my twin one more minute, wondering what part of the world held him tonight, hoping he was okay. Like me, Dave's pretty high up the hush-hush ladder. Like me, he'd started in a different part of the Agency, but now he's a Special Ops stud, so he spends the majority of his time overseas. It's an excellent excuse not to keep in touch and we use it like a dust rag. If we were careful we'd never have to speak to each other again. A hell of an accomplishment for people who used to complete each other's sentences.

  "Enough," I told myself, "enough, enough, enough—" I bit my lip, stopping the loop with pain. You're working Jasmine, so work. Focus on the work. The work will keep you sane. At least in everybody else's eyes.

  I took a deep breath and let it out with a laugh when I saw the fancy, scrolled metal sign on the gate in front of Assan's house. Anything with an entrance right out of Jurassic Park and enough fencing to contain a herd of brachiosaurus demands a name, and Assan had chosen Alpine Meadows. Without a mountain in sight. Nor were there any cute Austrian kids running around singing "Do, Re, Mi." Who was this guy really kidding? The name might trigger thoughts of "Sound of Music," but it looked like "The Haunting of Hill House."