Succubus in the City by Nina Harper Page B

made me go all weak in the knees. Real men do not use Kleenex. The very best use fine Irish linen with woven tone-on-tone stripes around the outer edge, just like Nathan Coleman’s. And the crème de la crème have thick, elegant monograms with all three initials, custom embroidered and not bought twelve to a package with just a cheaply stitched single letter for the last name. No, these had a big C in the middle with a stylized N and R on the sides.
    I wondered whether the R stood for Robert or Richard, or maybe something a touch less ubiquitous like Ryan or Roger. I almost asked, but that would be nosy and would keep him around too long.
    I pretended to study the picture more carefully. “I can’t say that I’ve ever met him,” I said honestly. “I have no idea who he is or why he might have my address. He doesn’t look like he’s in the fashion industry.”
    “No,” Nathan agreed immediately with a slight smile. “He’s certainly not in the fashion industry. His name is Craig Branford and he’s a pharmacist from Huntington, Long Island. He was last seen on February tenth boarding an LIRR train for the city. We’re checking out everyone he might have known to try to find him.”
    “I’ve never been to Huntington,” I said weakly. “I went out to the Hamptons for a couple of weekends last summer, and for a party in October.”
    The entire situation was ridiculous. Here I had been all concerned about someone tracking down a missing man because I’d possibly delivered him, and it turned out to be someone I truly couldn’t recognize. Not that I would have recognized all of the men I’d delivered to Satan, but this would have been in the past two weeks at most. That would include Brad, who had been clean-shaven and nothing like this guy, and someone named Derek, who’d had a shaved head and tattoos and had said that he was a DJ. There had been one more, chubby and balding but with a scraggly ponytail all the same, the week before. But he’d been some kind of computer guy, not a pharmacist. He’d offered to set up automatic wireless syncing between my Treo and my computer, but only after he’d had sex with me. Which meant it never got done and I could really use an automatic sync program. That was my total for the past ten days.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Nathan said. “He probably just took off. People do.”
    “But why would he have my name? My address?” I was feeling very put upon. “I didn’t know this guy. And it was my home address, not even my office.”
    “Where do you work?” Nathan asked, very businesslike. “If I need to contact you again, you might be more comfortable at the office.”
    I told him, and he whistled.
    “And what do you do there?” he asked, sounding impressed.
    “I’m the accessories editor,” I admitted.
    “Being any kind of an editor so young is an achievement,” he said. “I had some ambitions in writing once, but got sidetracked. A few people I went to school with did end up in publishing, though. Maybe you’ve heard of Stephanie Widenow?”
    I practically yipped. “Of course I know Stephanie. Everyone knows her. She’s the wunderkind of Condé Nast.” I thought for a moment and narrowed my eyes. “Stephanie went to…let me see, not Columbia…”
    “Yale,” he supplied. “We were in Trumbull together.”
    “Trumbull?” I was confused again but I didn’t expect to understand the intricacies of the modern American educational system.
    “It’s a residential college at Yale. A dorm. That’s what we call our dorms.”
    “Oh.” I guess I should have sounded more impressed. “I didn’t think that Yalies became PIs. And what has this got to do with the missing Mr. Branford?”
    “Not much,” he confessed gamely, and blew his nose again. I could feel the shimmering in my veins that told me that my powers were on, that I was completely and utterly irresistible to anyone who liked women. Except for this guy with the serious head cold. Thank