by Liz Schulte
I felt bad for Babe’s family. In the light of this revelation, Babe and Chavvah, along with their parents, decided to reassess what they thought they knew about werewolves. I glanced at Chavvah and smiled. I’d had a vision when Billy Bob came to check on the baby and me. She’d definitely be doing a lot of reassessing in the near future.
The rehearsal dinner incident hadn’t been food poisoning, much to Blondina’s relief. It had been hydrogen peroxide poisoning. The vision I’d had of Kyle with his dog, Pete, had helped me figure out that mystery. He’d given Pete hydrogen peroxide to get him to throw up the antifreeze. A quick call to Delbert Johnson confirmed that Kyle had purchased the last three bottles on his shelf.
Kyle was an angry teenager. He’d been stealing for Jeremiah Bowers and had been responsible for several of the area heists. He wasn’t completely a bad kid, though. After seeing me on the floor of the pawnshop, he’d thought his prank, and it had been meant as a prank, with the hydrogen peroxide in the punch had sent me into early labor. After he’d ran for Ruth, he’d turned himself into the sheriff. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t had the punch. His epiphany was a turning point for Kyle, and I didn’t want to give him an excuse to act out again. He had potential if he could keep his head on straight. Mommy guilt powers activate!
At four in the afternoon, the Trimmels finally arrived. Babe and I sat on the love seat with our little boy cradled close and swaddled in Judah’s pale green receiving blanket. He was such a good baby. Sleeping, eating, pooping, and very little crying.
Babe wrapped his arms around my shoulder. “We wanted to tell you all together that we’ve decided on a name for our son.”
I stood up, and walked across the room, still a little sore, but so happy. I handed Celia the baby, and she took him, happily cooing and tickling his chin.
“Celia. Daniel,” I said. “Meet your grandson. Judah Michael Trimmel.”
Celia’s hand went to her mouth. Her lips trembled as she held her breath, barely able to speak. “Oh, Sunny.” Her voice quivered. “Thank you.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said.
About the Author
Renee George is a USA Today Bestselling author of urban fantasy, paranormal romance, erotic romance, contemporary romance, and romantic comedies that highlight varying themes. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, man-child son, two sweet dogs, and a senile cat.
Also by Renee George
You’ve Got Tail (Peculiar Mysteries Book One)
www.peculiarmysteries.com
Midnight Shifters Series (Urban Fantasy)
www.midnightshifters.com
The Cull Series (Paranormal Romance)
www.ozarkshifters.com
The Lion King Series (Paranormal Romance)
www.lionkingshifters.com
CUPID’S VALENTINE
(Broken Heart Worlds #2)
Michele Bardsley
Cupid’s Valentine
(Broken Heart Worlds #2)
by Michele Bardsley
Copyright © 2016 Michele Bardsley
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Summary
For Valentine’s Day, love goddess Aphrodite and her sassy assistant Daphne take their love-matching sky high for two reporters investigating the newest trend in romance: couples joining the mile high club in the ultimate in decadence and luxury. Can two lonely hearts turn passion into love 30,000 feet in air?
Prologue
Aphrodite appeared in a shower of pink and gold sparks. She was dressed in head-to-toe white; from her Versace dress to her Manolo Blahnik beaded mules. All three graces ringed her, their heads bowed in the ceaseless show of loving submission they always gave to their goddess.
“Grace. Grace. And Grace,” said Daphne.
The lithe beauties smiled; their wide blue eyes both guileless and wise.
“All three, Di Di?”
“I’ve been summoned to Daddy’s house for lunch. Hera has taken her ‘goddess of hearth and home’ title way too far. She’s cooking. Thousands of years without a single interest other than poking her nose into other people’s marriages, not to mention following Zeus around like she’s in an episode of Columbo, and now she decides to take up the kitchen arts.” Aphrodite sat down behind her desk, her white silk scarf billowing behind her like a renegade cloud. “Okay. Tell me this grand idea of yours.”
“The Mile High Club.”
Aphrodite gave Daphne a blank look.
“You know, sex on a plane.” Daphne tapped two files on Aphrodite’s desk. “I think these two are meant for each other. Karee Lomen works as an associate editor for Love Magazine, the romance periodical run by heiress Veronica Martori. I think her true love is Bret Jernigan.”
“And he is?” asked Aphrodite.
“Bret is the managing editor for Max-Out Magazine. They both are due to report on a new luxury plane that caters to the romantically minded.” Daphne waved at the files. “We need a Tingle check.“
Aphrodite touched both folders and grinned. “The Tingle is extra tingly for these two. Good job, Daphne.”
“Learned from the best.”
A puff of white smoke appeared and within it stood Hera. Despite the rumpled and stained state of her simple T-shirt and jeans, her red hair shone as bright as a shiny apple. Her perfect complexion glowed with health and beauty, marred only by some sort of brown gooey substance clinging to one alabaster cheek.
The “smoke” was not magical at all, but rather rolling puffs of flour.
Daphne breathed it in, tasting the salty powder as she waved it away from her face. She heard sounds of coughing and hacking from the Graces as well as the belabored inhalations of Aphrodite. The air took on the thick scent of uncooked dough.
“Aphrodite,” said Hera in a soft, but commanding tone. “You’ve been invited to lunch with me and your father.”
Hera inclined her regal, flour-sprinkled head to Daphne. “How you are you, my dear?”
“I’m awesome. You?”
“Also awesome.” Hera looked at Aphrodite. “I need help in the kitchen.”
Horrified was too tame a term for the goddess’s expression. Di Di looked as if Hera had said, “You must throw all your Manolo Blahniks into a bonfire.”
“The Graces….” Aphrodite gestured weakly toward the three women gazing at Hera in perplexed awe.
“No. They are hassled enough by your selfish whims. You will help me.” The tone was imperious, though Hera’s face showed no trace of her famous temper. “You are finished with your meeting,” she said to Daphne—not a polite question, but a firm command.
Hera protected marriage and family with a ferocity that sometimes bordered on manic. She was kind, particularly to suffering women, but her love for Zeus was her only true weakness. She took no sass from mortals or from inferior gods, and that pretty much covered everyone in the entire universe.
“We’re done,” said Daphne. “She’s all yours.”
“Come along, Aphrodite.”
Not even the Goddess of Love dared to defy Hera, wife to Zeus and queen of the Gods. Resigned to her fate, Aphrodite stood up and waved good-bye to Daphne. She gave Di Di a thumbs-up, and then everyone else disappeared.
It was never boring on Mount Olympus.
Chapter One
She sat in the first-class section of the airplane with no idea why she was on a plane, much less where she was going. The weirdest thing, though, was the fact she was bare-assed naked.
She rose and stepped into the tiny aisle then walked through the curtain separating First Class from Economy. Searching for something … a
nd it wasn’t a robe. Nudity schmudity. She liked being nekkid.
Her need to find whatever-it-was drew her toward the back of the aircraft.
Every seat was empty, yet she knew someone else was on this plane. She reached what should have been the galley, but only saw shadowy darkness. She took a single step forward…
The next thing she knew, she was in the plane’s lavatory, sitting on the edge of the tiny sink, her arms and legs wrapped around a strong, male body. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the hard length of him pressed against her…
KERPLUNK!
Karee Lomen jolted awake and found herself sprawled on the floor, her hip throbbing and her arm bent at an odd angle. Shit. Sitting up, she rubbed the sore spot near her thigh and looked reproachfully at her crappy old couch. “One of these days,” she muttered, “I’m going to finish that dream.”
* * *
It was the second week of December, one of the few times of the year Las Vegas hotel-casinos were desperate for visitors. The holidays were primo time for tourists to visit Sin City because hotels offered outrageous deals including discounted room rates, free food, gambling coupons, and other kinds of goodies. Valentine’s day was no exception. But right now, Karee cared less about the hotels’ misappropriation of the Valentine’s Day decorations and more about getting to the offices of Love Magazine.
Working her way through the crowd of people in the lobby of the Palms Resort & Casino, she managed to get to the elevators with only three “Move it, people!” and one purposeful elbow jab.
Upstairs, she stopped by her office long enough to drop off her purse and to sneak a truffle from the Ethel M’s box she kept stashed in her desk. Then she was hurrying to Veronica’s office. Vee was boss, mentor, and friend—a lucky combination for Karee, who had little time for forming and maintaining friendships.
Ten minutes later, Karee sat with a whoosh on one of the office’s expensive white leather chairs and sighed in delight. Her story about the new L.A.-based dessert-and-coffee café, Apples, had gotten a thumbs-up from Veronica. Her boss was on the phone, chatting up yet another celebrity while scribbling notes in a huge black day planner.
Next on the to-do list was to figure out which dress—the black backless sheath or the red beaded mini—to wear to the party hosted by the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Arts. Tonight, a just acquired collection of Monet paintings would be unveiled to media and to Las Vegas’s glitterati.
Karee stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sumptuous, yet über hip, headquarters of Love Magazine was located on the 28th floor, best known as the former setting for MTV’s Real World: Las Vegas. Less than a mile away was Las Vegas Boulevard, also referred to as the Strip. In the daylight, it was just a bunch of gaudy buildings, tourist-cluttered streets, and snaking traffic. But at night, when Lady Luck put on her jewels, the Strip turned into shimmering palaces filled with awestruck worshippers.
“Mel, darling, I haven’t seen you since the birthday party for Night,” cooed Veronica. “Would do I have to do to get an exclusive about the film version of Macbeth?”
Karee grinned. Vee was great at schmoozing. Veronica Elsworth Martori was an heiress who had more money than she could spend in three lifetimes. The woman was the world’s most ardent fan of love, though she hadn’t been much good at keeping a long-term relationship. The magazine she created was a mixture of book reviews, celebrity interviews, short romantic fiction, travel pieces, and carb-lush recipes. It had done fabulously well, much to the surprise of Veronica’s parents and the publishing world.
Just five years ago, fresh from the University of Las Vegas with a degree in journalism, Karee had applied as an assistant for the upstart publication. She hadn’t realized then Love Magazine was the ticket to her dreams, but it turned out to be the very thing she wanted. She loved everything about working for the magazine—the more difficult, the better. God, she relished the challenges of the publishing world. She hoped her hard work and her obvious passion for Love would gain her the Managing Editor position. Then she’d have more input on stories, layout, pictorials … it thrilled her to think about having more artistic control.
“When’s the last time you went home?” asked Veronica as she hung up the phone.
Karee blinked away her musings and looked at her friend. “Last night.”
“Wow. The first time in almost two weeks.”
“The advantage of working in such a huge and fantastic suite is the availability of bedrooms.”
“Don’t you have a plant or a cat to take care of?”
“There is nothing alive at my apartment—unless you count the science experiments growing in my refrigerator.”
Veronica blanched. “TMI, sweetie. You really need something to do outside of writing for Love Magazine.”
“My social life has increased exponentially because I write for your magazine. I go to clubs, museums, restaurants, pool parties, and—”
“And who do you bring with you? Who do you meet that you actually continue to have a relationship with after the articles are finished?”
“I can’t believe you’re lecturing me about permanent, fulfilling relationships.”
“Retract your claws, my dear. Even if I keep meeting Mr. Wrong, at least I’m trying to find Mr. Right. I can’t remember the last time you had a real date.”
“Well, I had a really hot dream last night. Does that count?”
“Let me guess! Mystery man in the lavatory with a penis.”
“Har. Har. Har.”
“Did you get to the end of the dream?”
“Nope. I not only woke up, I fell off my couch.”
Veronica laughed then she stood up and rounded the massive desk, leaning against the edge and crossing her arms. Her pink blouse rose just a tad above her pink jeans, showing a strip of tanned tummy and the glitter of a diamond-pierced naval. Veronica was very tall, very thin, and very blonde, with blue, blue eyes. She never wore any other color than pink, mostly to annoy her father, who thought his daughter should act and dress more corporate.
“We need to be prepared for the museum’s soiree tonight. Max-Out will have reporters there, too, and chances are good they’re not showing up to do a serious article about Monet’s masterpieces.”
“You mean we should expect one of their famous practical jokes. After what happened when the Bellagio unveiled its newest water show, it’s a wonder they got invited back for something as classy as an art shindig.”
“Hmph. They hired six strippers to take off their clothes and jump into the water just as the dancing fountains started the routine to ‘Love Me Tender.’ Bellagio got more publicity than Britney Spears’ drunken nuptials. Three months later, the publicists are still talking about it. They’re probably hoping Max-Out will do something crazy and boost interest in the Gallery.”
Max-Out Magazine might be considered the male version of Love Magazine, except that it reveled in its ability to make fun of everything about love and relationships. Despite its use of crass humor, skimpily dressed women, and encouragement of all things debauched, it still was well written, funny, and wildly popular—at least with most men.
“You think Mad Max will be there?”
Veronica shrugged. “Mad Max” was Maximillian Rutledge, owner and publisher of the magazine. He had the same kind of background as Veronica: rich, famous, and a schmoozer of the first order. In fact, he and Veronica had dated for a while, but why they broke up was a mystery to Karee. The subject was verboten. Not long after the relationship ended, Veronica started Love, and not long after that, Max started Max-Out. Karee suspected that even after five years, her friend still carried a torch for her old beaux.
“Gird yourself for battle,” said Veronica. “We’ll need shields and swords to survive Max’s minions.”
Karee grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I have the perfect dress.”
“These days fashion doesn’t allow for sword sheaths.”
“I guess my Jimmy Choo heels will have to do.
”
Vee gasped. “You bought them? Oh my God. The red ones with the tiny straps that go around the leg?”
“Sued, open-toed, three-inch heels. Damn straight I bought them. It’s my Valentine’s gift to myself. After all, a girl has to pamper herself every once in a while.”
Chuckling, Veronica returned to her desk and opened a drawer. She withdrew a large, red heart-shaped box and a pink envelope. “Speaking of prezzies...”
Karee rolled her eyes. “How romantic,” she said, only mildly sarcastic. She hated Valentine’s Day, but that didn’t stop Vee from getting her something every year. “You shouldn’t have.”
“And you argue about it every year.” Veronica strode across the room and handing her the packages. “Now open your fucking gift and shut up.”
“Oh all right.”
Karee had to admit that she experienced a small thrill from Vee’s kindness. She lost her parents in a car accident her sophomore year of college. Orphaned at age twenty. She’d been the only child of a mother and father who were also only children. Both sets of grandparents had passed away before she’d been born. Writing became her obsession, her solace, and her excuse to avoid real relationships. Instead she wrote about them with the objective eye of a reporter. It wasn’t that she had a cold heart. No. Not at all. She had, without conscious intent, protected herself from other people by simply never forming any lasting relationships.