Succubus in the City by Nina Harper Page A

doorbell rang. I looked out the eyehole. In the fish-eye lens it was hard to tell for sure, but he seemed awfully attractive. Pity to have to send him away. I opened the door a crack and kept it on the chain. Not because I was afraid of him—I did plan to invite him in or at least open the door more onto the hall—but because he would expect that. A woman who lives in the city alone does not just open her door to a stranger, not even in a building with a doorman on duty.
    “Yes?” I said through the inch-wide gap in the door. I made sure my voice dripped suspicion.
    “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I was hoping that you could help me,” he began.
    “I’m not buying anything and I’m already a member of the Sierra Club.” I cut him off.
    He held up a laminated picture of himself. And yes, he was indeed very handsome. I knew I would do so much worse if I went out. I had a sudden deep urge to throw open the door, throw off the bathrobe, and drag him inside.
    Instead I made myself study the card he displayed. It appeared to be a PI’s license, though I didn’t trust anything of the kind. There are plenty of novelty shops that will make up all kinds of realistic-looking credentials for fifty dollars.
    “Look, I’m really sorry to come by so late. I sent you an e-mail and I tried to come by earlier, but you weren’t home and you didn’t reply to my e-mail,” he pleaded. “This will only take a minute.”
    “Okay,” I said, keeping the door on the chain.
    He sighed and handed a paper through the crack. Then he blew his nose loudly and I was flooded with relief. A cold! He had a cold! He might not be entirely immune to my pheromones, but with me covered up as I was and with his cold he wouldn’t fling himself through the door and at my feet. I wasn’t entirely safe, but I was much more in control. No wonder he hadn’t battered the door down already. I had started to worry that I was losing my touch.
    I plucked the paper from his fingers. It was a picture of a fairly nondescript man. Cheap haircut, medium sandy hair, mustache, watery blue eyes.
    “Look, this won’t take long but it might be easier if you open the door. I’m not going to attack you.”
    “I’ll bet that’s what all the serial killers say,” I muttered back. Not because I was worried, but because worry was expected.
    He laughed. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “But could you look at this picture and tell me if you’ve seen this man in the past two weeks? He’s disappeared and I’m looking for him.”
    I looked at the picture carefully and really, truly, to the depths of my highly mortgaged nonexistent soul, I could not say if I’d ever seen this guy or not. He wasn’t Brad. He wasn’t any of the ones in the last week, I was pretty sure of that. But more? I didn’t remember. And he was so terribly ordinary.
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “At least not recently. Why would I have?”
    “Your name and address were in his Palm Pilot.”
    “What? Was he going to see me? Did it say why? Could you tell me his name? Because really, I don’t recognize him,” I answered perfectly truthfully. And, feeling utterly innocent and completely candid, I slipped the chain off the door and opened it more widely.
    This Nathan Coleman was much better-looking in person than in his laminated license picture. Though his nose was red and there were dark circles under his eyes that attested to his current viral state, his wide mouth turned up with wry humor and his eyes were a startling blue that I told myself probably came from colored contact lenses. The dark hair contrasted with his very pale skin, which made his long lashes and straight eyebrows look strong and direct. Dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes—I wondered if he might be black Irish, though his features didn’t look Irish at all.
    He blew his nose again, into a monogrammed linen handkerchief. My heart melted. He was wearing an Armani overcoat, but it was the monogrammed hankie that