Free Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book by Sandra Hill Page B

wafted around her. The epitome of smart middle-aged woman!
    Her father, an older version of Alain with pure white hair and blinking eyes, was not so reticent. He hugged her warmly and whispered against her ear, “I missed you, chaton .” Her father had been calling her his kitten as an endearment since she was a child, always clinging to him, like a . . . well, cat.
    “I missed you, too,” she said, kissing his cheek. She introduced both parents to Harek then. “Harek, this is my mother, Dr. Jeannette Dumaine, and my father, Dr. Emile Dumaine. Mother, Father, this is Harek Sigurdsson, a friend from Coronado. He’s in the security business.”
    Several pleasantries were exchanged then, mostly related to their trip there, but already her mother had dismissed Harek as unimportant, Camille could tell. The lack of a doctorate before his name, no doubt. And, although his assessment was not so blatant, her father’s attention was diverted by a call from some colleagues on the other side of the room, who said, “Come, Emile, come. We need your opinion.” It probably had something to do with General Robert E. Lee, her father’s special interest. There wasn’t anything her father didn’t know about the famous general, right down to his shoe size, no doubt. Her mother, on the other hand, was an expert on the role of Southern women during the Civil War.
    Her mother was about to leave, too. Some last-minute detail she needed to discuss with the mother of the bride. Before she left, she told Camille, “Dr. Solic from Tulane is here tonight. Make sure you discuss that new program with him, the one I wrote you about. Your father and I have discussed it, and we both agree that it would be perfect for you. It’s not too late to start over, darling.”
    Her mother was referring to that fast track to a doctorate in theoretic behavioral science. So much more appropriate than a grubby military career!
    She bristled.
    But did her mother notice, or care? No, she was adjusting the straps on Camille’s dress in a futile motherly attempt to raise the bodice.
    Camille was tempted to swat her mother’s hands away.
    “Be nice, Camille,” her mother said, patting her on the bare shoulder. “You will at least talk to him, won’t you? I’ve already told him you’re interested.”
    “I already told you—” Camille started to say, but her mother was giving a little wave to more late arrivals at the door. Before leaving, her mother flashed Camille a pointed look of warning related to the newcomers, Dr. Julian Breaux, brother of the bride, and his very pregnant wife, Justine.
    Her parents, and their friends, were academic snobs. They measured success not by wealth, but the number of degrees a person held. By their standards, she was an utter failure. Never mind that she was fighting to give them the freedom to pursue schooling to the nth degree. That was irrelevant.
    As for her ex-fiancé, what did her mother think she was going to do? Dump a glass of wine in Julian’s too-pretty face? She’d already done that. Besides, her wineglass was empty. She set it on the tray of a passing waiter and took another. As for her former best friend, did her mother think she was going to karate chop her baby bump? Justine was history to Camille. Still her BFF, but instead of Best Friend Forever, she was now Bitch of a Former Friend. In Camille’s mind.
    Taking a sip of the cool beverage for fortification, Camille sighed, then shrugged.
    “What?” Harek asked.
    “Huh?” She’d forgotten he was there. That’s how screwed up she was.
    “You just muttered something about, ‘It is what it is.’ ”
    “I did?”
    “You did.” He asked something odd then. Well, odd to her. “Are you wealthy?”
    “Me, personally? Hardly.”
    “Your family. This little affair has to be costing twenty thousand dollars, and I’ve never seen so many Rolexes or expensive jewelry in one place. I get high just smelling all the gold here.”
    It bothered her that