Just One Bite Read Free Page A

gave the satchel another once-over, folded the corner (in case I had an extra five hundred bucks laying around after I paid this month’s utilities), and turned to my computer.
    I’d just logged on to my database to work on a few existing clients when Vinnie slapped the clipboard down on my desk and declared, “Done. Now what?”
    “Well.” I reached for the clipboard. “Now you leave to do whatever snipers do on a Thursday night. I’ll input your data and run a search for possible matches. Once I have those, I set you up on a few dates and we see what happens.” I smiled. “The whole process takes about two to four weeks.”
    “You’ve got seventy-two hours.”
    My smile died. “That’s really fast.”
    “I’m in a hurry.” He pushed to his feet. “My mama’s birthday is next Tuesday. I figure if you find me a date in a couple of days, that gives me time to take her out a few times and get to know her before I bring her home on Tuesday. We can announce our engagement at Mama’s party. I’ve already got it all planned. My Aunt Cecille is making the pasta. We’re going to have lots of balloons and presents. And my Uncle Morty is going to play the guitar. I ordered a cake from Giovanni’s. Italian Crème. Mama’s favorite. She’s going to be the happiest woman in Jersey.”
    Okay, while I know Vinnie’s a killer and everything, there was just something really sweet (if you overlooked the whole creepy Oedipus factor) about a guy going to so much trouble to give his mom a great birthday.
    “I’ll do my best.”
    “You’ll do more than that,” he said. “Find me a woman”—the Ray-Bans zeroed in on me and I found myself staring at my own stark complexion—“or I’ll turn you into a popsicle.” The sweet quickly faded into the demented as he snatched up my letter opener and tossed it at the wall behind me.
    The blade sailed past my head, nailed the Sheetrock, and I flinched.
    “Seventy-two hours.” He bit out the words, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door.
    “I-I’m on it,” I called after him once I managed to find my voice. “Really. It’s no problem. No problem at all.”
    The door slammed and I contemplated using the letter opener on myself and beating Vinnie to the punch. For about an eighth of a second. I’d been around too long to give up that easily. Besides, if I did kick the bucket, I was doing it in something besides an outfit from last season (I hadn’t had a chance to make it to the cleaners yet and I so didn’t do laundry). No, I was going out in style. Chanel. Dolce & Gabbana. At the very least a pair of studded Rock & Republic jeans.
    I snatched the opener out of the wall and shoved it into the nearest drawer. Then I spent the next five minutes doing some deep breathing exercises I’d seen on Dr. Phil.
    Crazy, right? I’m a born vampire. Which meant the breathing wasn’t going to do anything but waste precious time I didn’t have. At the same time, it did help the cobwebs to clear.
    Work. That was the only thing that was going to get me out of this mess. That, and maybe a valium. But since I didn’t have any drugs on hand, I put my fingers on the keyboard and started to type in Vinnie’s information.
    After a few minutes, my anxiety slipped away. I mean, really. He was just a guy, and I’d hooked up dozens of them since opening my door six months ago.
    In fact, I preferred male clients because they were, for the most part, easier to please than women. Sure, they had their ideals, which they shared in great detail in the Ideal Woman section. But when it came down to the Absolute Must-Haves, the only real requirement was usually a vagina. The rest was negotiable.
    My gaze zeroed in on Vinnie’s Absolute section, which overflowed the allotted line and continued on the back.
     
Blond hair.
Blue eyes.
     
    I flipped the paper over and kept going.
     
Great ass.
Big tits.
Small waist.
Nice teeth.
No bunions.
No hammertoes.
Vagina (what’d I tell