Bernard Bliss stood up and with a deprecating smile, nodded to his high priestess wife. She began the applause that was quickly taken up enthusiastically throughout the room.
Andy stared. There was the sex guru, surrounded by forty half-naked studs, and the nerd with the sweaty forehead was giving her eternal orgasms. Hell. Life was sometimes stranger than the movies.
When the applause finally died down and Mr. Bliss had taken his seat, Dr. Bliss smiled between the two remaining women. “And these are my assistants, Jane Parsons and Carmen Gutierrez.”
The two women stood. Jane was a tall, svelte blonde; Carmen was dark and compact. They smiled at their mentor and glared at each other. Dr. Bliss sang their praises, carefully alternating their names as she spoke, meticulously showing no favoritism. Still, the icy looks they reserved for each other boded no good. No doubt about it, thought Andy. There was trouble in Goddess Land.
And now we present
MaryJanice Davidson’s latest,
DOING IT RIGHT.
Coming next month from Brava!
Tap-tap-tap.
“What the hell is that? Jared muttered, getting up and crossing the room. He had a flashback to one of his literature classes. “Who is that tapping, tapping at my chamber door?” he boomed, pulling back the curtain and expecting to see…he wasn’t sure. A branch, rasping across the glass? A pigeon? Instead, he found himself gazing into a face ten inches from his own. “Aaiiggh!”
It was her. Crouched on the ledge, perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet, she had one small fist raised, doubtless ready to knock again. When she saw him, she gestured patiently to the lock. He dimly noticed she was dressed like a normal person instead of a burglar—navy leggings and a matching turtleneck—and wondered why she wasn’t shivering with cold.
He groped for the latch, dry-mouthed with fear for her. They were three stories up! If she should lose her balance…if a gust of wind should come up…the latch finally yielded to his fumbling fingers and he wrenched the window open, grabbing for her. She leaned back, out of the reach of his arms and his heart stopped—actually stopped, ka-THUD!—in his chest. He backpedaled away from the window. “Okay, okay, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Now would you please get your ass in here?”
She raised her eyebrows at him and complied, swinging one leg over the ledge and stepping down into the room as lightly as a ballerina. He collapsed on the cot, clutching his chest. “Could you please not ever ever do that again?” he gasped. “Christ! My heart! What’s going on? How’d you get up there?”
“Quoth the raven, nevermore,” she said and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the pot set up next to the window. At his surprised gape, she smiled a little and tapped her ear. “Thin glass. I heard you through the window. ‘While I pondered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping, rapping at my chamber door.’ I think that’s how it goes. Poe was high most of the time, so it’s hard to tell. Also, the man you saw me bludgeon into unconsciousness dropped a dime on you today.”
“He what?”
“Dropped a dime. Rolled you over. Put you out. Phoned you in. Wants to clock you. Wants to drop you. Made arrangements to have you killed, pronto. Sugar?”
“No thanks,” he said numbly.
“I mean,” she said patiently, “is there sugar?”
He pointed to the last locker on the left and thought to warn her too late. When she opened it (first wrapping her sleeve around her hand, he noticed, as she had with the coffee pot handle), several hundred tea bags, salt packets and sugar cubes tumbled out, free of their overstuffed, poorly stacked boxes. She quickly stepped back; avoiding the rain of sweetener, then bent, picked a cube off the floor, blew on it and dropped it into her cup. She shoved the locker door with her knee until it grudgingly shut, trapping a dozen or so tea bags and sugar packets in the bottom with a grinding sound that set his teeth on edge.
She went to the door, thumbed the lock with her sleeve, then came back and sat down at the rickety table opposite the cot. She took a tentative sip of her coffee and then another, not so tentative. He was impressed—the hospital coffee tasted like primeval mud, as it boiled and re-boiled all day and night. “So that’s the scoop,” she said casually.
“You’re here to kill me?” he asked, trying to keep up with the twists and turns of the last forty seconds.
“You’re the hitman? Hitperson?” Who knocked for entry? he added silently.
“Me? Do wet work?” She threw her head back and pealed laughter at the ceiling. She had, he noticed admiringly, a great laugh. Her hair was plaited in a long blond braid, halfway down her back. He wondered what it would look like unbound and spread across his pillow.
“Oh, that’s very funny, Dr. Dean.”
“Thanks, I’ve got a million of ’em.” Pause. “How did you know my name?”
She smiled. It was a nice smile, warm, with no condescension. “It wasn’t hard to find out.”
“What’s your name?” he asked boldly. He should have been nervous about the locked door, about the threat to his life. He wasn’t. Instead, he was delighted at the chance to talk to her, after a day of thinking about her and wondering how she was…who she was.
“Kara.”
“That’s gorgeous,” he informed her, “and I, of course, am not surprised. You’re so pretty! And so deadly,” he added with relish. “You’re like one of those flowers that people can’t resist picking and then—bam! Big-time rash.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I think.” She blushed, which gave her high color and made her eyes bluer. He stared, besotted. He didn’t think women blushed anymore. He didn’t think women who beat up thugs blushed at all. He was very much afraid his mouth was hanging open and unable to do a thing about it. “Dr. Dean—”
“Umm?”
“—I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of the situation.”
“Long, tall, and ugly is out to get me,” he said, sitting down opposite her. He shoved a pile of charts aside; several clattered to the floor and she watched them fall, bemused. “But since you’re not the hitman, I’m not too worried.”
“Actually, I’m your self-appointed bodyguard.”
“Oh, well, then I’m not worried at all,” he said with feigned carelessness, while his brain chewed that one…bodyguard?…over.
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Apodaca
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Brava and the B logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN 9780758282163
The Sex On Beach Book Club Page 29