Goddess for Hire (7 page)

I REQUESTED
the patio.

The food at Las Brisas was good, but the view was absolutely delicious. I didn't know if it was that, or the dirty martini with extra vodka, but as soon as our appetizers were served, the mood had settled into one of almost semipleasantness.

Ocean breezes seemed to have a positive effect on Tahir. He was sitting back in his chair, relaxed, sipping on a glass of Chardonnay, and staring out at the Pacific. He hadn't said one irritating thing since we'd left Fashion Island; in fact, he'd been rather silent.

I hated to spoil the mood, but it was time we had a talk. “There's something we need to discuss.”

He continued to stare out at the view. “I'm not telling your parents.”

“Why?” I demanded. “I can't tell them! I'm already the black sheep of the family. You want me to go down to mutton? Just say you're not interested.”

Finally, he turned toward me. “Tell the people who
are currently hosting me that I have no interest in their one and only daughter? That would be unbelievably rude.” He set his wineglass down and took a bite of his scallops. “Lovely.”

My ahi salad remained untouched. “You don't want to be rude? You've been nothing but since you arrived.”

He took another bite and looked at me coolly. “And how exactly would you describe someone who leaves another stranded at the airport?”

Touché. “I had my reasons.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, the neo-Nazis.”

“White supremacists.”

“May I try your ahi?”

I was about to refuse, but that would be
rude
. I pushed over my plate.

“Why aren't you married?” he asked, helping himself to a rather large portion of my salad. “How old are you? Thirty-one, thirty-two?”

I snatched the plate back. “I just turned thirty, which is still young. Besides, I get carded all the time at bars.”

He smirked. “There must be a rash of legally blind bartenders in the state.”

My eyes narrowed. “God, you're such an asshole.”

“Most women find me irresistible.”

“Just to clarify, we're talking about women brainwashed by society, victimized by double standards, who also possess low self-esteem?”

To my surprise, he laughed.

His laugh was more mouthwatering than the ahi.
Even white teeth, the slender yet strong line of his neck, the way his eyes lit up…

He reached for my plate again, but I swatted at his hand. “Hand over the scallops, and you've got a deal.” He did. The mood at the table returned to one of semi-semipleasantness.

Then—

“Why don't you have a job?” he said.

I do. Fighting evil.

I wanted to tell the truth. I wanted to tell everyone. I couldn't, for two reasons.

Growing up in an Indian family, it becomes second nature to hide everything from your parents. First it was makeup, then non-Indian boyfriends, now bottles of Grey Goose vodka and, of course, my true dharma.

Secondly, what would I say? I'm Kali reborn, but last night I got my ass kicked by two thugs at a convenience store.

The time wasn't right. Not yet.

Seriously, though, the guy wasn't the most stimulating of conversationalists. He had brought up my age, my unmarried and unemployed status. What would he bring up next, my unfertilized eggs? On the subject of raising kids, I'd rather save the Universe…twice. Without doubt, it would be easier.

Instead of answering his question, I took a sip of my drink.

Tahir polished off the ahi. “You're incredibly spoiled, you know that?” He eyed my scallops.

Like I was going to share after that comment!

I pulled the plate closer toward me. “Look who's talking! How many servants does your family employ back in Delhi?”

He shrugged. “There happens to be an excess of labor in the country.”

“And my parents happen to have more money than Solomon, malpractice insurance aside.” I speared a scallop with force. “And what exactly do you do? You said something about moving here permanently.” Maybe I could report him to the INS?

“Ah yes, I did mention that to you before you left me stranded at the air—”

“Just to clarify,” I interrupted. “How long are you going to keep throwing that in my face?”

He smiled. “A while, do you mind?”

His smile caused the scallop to lodge in my throat. I took a gulp of water. “You were saying…”

“I was vice president of International Acquisitions at Metro Bank in Delhi. When the position of senior manager of the Asia Division at the Los Angeles office came my way, I jumped at it. It's quite a step up.”

“How interesting,” I said without interest. “Now if you don't mind, I'm going to the ladies' room.” I rose delicately, smoothing my skirt.

Tahir held up his empty wineglass. “If you see the waiter on the way to the toilet, send him over.”

My lips in a thin line, I spun on one heel. The waiter was right in my path near the door, so I reluctantly re
layed the message, and looked back in time to see Tahir set my plate of scallops in front of him.

 

Environmentally conscious, I used just one paper towel to dry my hands. A dab or two of matte face powder, a smear of lip gloss, and I was ready. I breezed through the restroom door. Maybe after dropping off Tahir, I'd cruise around, see if my Malevolent Meter went—

Ugh!

I gasped and placed a hand over my middle.

Malevolence. Close by.

My eyes zoomed past waiters, waitresses, busboys, customers—and widened in disbelief.

Wickedness wore a powder blue Chanel suit.

She was slender, middle-aged, well coiffed, with corn-flower blue eyes and honey gold hair. Elegant, expensive pearls lined her wrists and throat. Her most striking accessory, though, had to be the cloud of evil that rose off her like a foul-smelling perfume.

She thanked the waiter by name.

“You're always welcome, Mrs. Danner,” he said gallantly and with a fawning bow.

Danner? My mind raced. Gwen Danner?

And then it came to me. All those mornings spent happily wading through the society pages, having tossed aside the Current Events section, using Business or Op-Ed as a coaster for my glass, I read about the doings and undoings of Orange County's richest.

Gwen was the creamiest of the creme de la creme of
Newport Beach, one of many tennis-playing, black-and-white ball-attending, socialite-philanthropists who lined the Pacific Coast.

And she was gone.

Racing out the door and to the parking lot, I spied her getting into a blue Jaguar the exact color of her suit. She handed the valet a twenty. Obviously, generous tipping and evil doing weren't mutually exclusive.

I ran to the valet and handed him my ticket. “Please hurry.” He slowly walked off. Okay, now he'd be lucky if I threw my spare change at him.

Precious minutes later I was tearing out of the parking lot, scanning the street for the Jag. Finally, I saw it, four cars ahead.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. I only knew I couldn't fail. Not again.

As I zoomed after Gwen, I remembered Tahir at the table waiting. He would not be happy being stranded again. Actually this time he would be significantly unhappier.

I'd left him with the bill.

GATED ENTRANCE.
High walls. Armed guards. Maximum security.

Welcome to Camino Real, the most exclusive country club in Orange County.

From a safe distance I watched the guard wave Gwen's Jag in. I wondered what she was doing there, stopping by for a round of golf? I quickly discarded the thought. It wouldn't make sense if I were supposed to wait two hours, two days, or two weeks for Gwen Danner to do something evil. The Universe was more efficient than that.

Something was going to happen soon.

Gwen wasn't there to lob tennis balls with the tennis pro or issue rude demands to the help.

She was there to do something very, very bad.

And I had a feeling it was far worse than pouring old mayonnaise into the shrimp salad.

I drove slowly up to the gate. I was about to call the goddess but the guard looked like your average man.
Maybe a heady dose of beauty and charm would convince him to let me in.

Fifteen minutes later I was still at the gate, having giggled, flirted, and cajoled to the best of my ability. The guard continued to stand there, arms folded, offering nothing.

I lowered my Gucci sunglasses and widened my dark brown eyes at him. “Honestly, do I look like someone who would try to sneak into a country club? I have better things to do. Gwen Danner really is expecting me.”

He continued to stand there, unmoving.

I threw up my hands. “For God's sake I drive one of the most expensive cars on the market!”

“Yeah,” he said. Then reached out and gently caressed the fender.

“Listen.” I rummaged through my purse until I came in contact with the slim silver card case. “Here's my card. Anytime you want to drive it, you can, and I'm not talking customary humdrum test drive. You can burn rubber—but only if you let me in.”

He took the card. “How 'bout now?”

“No. There's no time. It's an emergency.”

“Gwen Danner's invitation to the ball get lost in the mail?”

I sighed. “Something like that.”

He hit the remote and the gates swung open. “Go on in. And I'll be calling for that ride.” He grinned. Wouldn't want to miss another opportunity to stroke your fender.”

Ha. Ha. Double entendre. I get it.

I wasn't about to lay down my dating rules right then and there. “Thanks,” I called out, and hit the gas.

I was speeding so fast up the long, cemented drive I barely noticed the exquisite grounds.

Okay, maybe I noticed.

I hated country clubs. I despised their homogeneous membership, their backward, narrow-minded thinking, and their superior air.

But mostly I resented not being a member.

My parents were in the upper tax bracket but didn't exactly hang with the “right” crowd.

Personally I didn't mind restrictions, provided I was the one doing the restricting.

I parked and ran to the entrance, rather difficult in my Bruno Magli slingbacks, and stopped outside.

I wouldn't make the same mistake I did at the convenience store.

No way was I taking one step inside without calling the Goddess Within.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Lightning split the sky.

NO AURAS.
No gale-force winds.

Ram was right. Only what I chose to happen…happened. It was as if some part of me
knew
exactly what to do.

I guess you could call it divine protocol.

I was filled with confidence, brimming with energy. There wasn't a doubt in my mind I would stop Gwen. The “how” and “why” were still unclear, but that was irrelevant. Once again I was that little girl jumping off the roof, knowing I would be safe, knowing I could do anything.

I swept into the club foyer and looked around.

The dining room was to my left. Gwen was in there. I could feel her.

The maître d' blocked my path as I reached the door. “Members only.”

I held his gaze. “Are you sure about that?”

He paused, then swept his arm out. “Welcome, madam.”

Holy Jedi mind tricks, Batman!

I stepped into the room.

Gwen Danner was seated at a small dais in the back of the room, a Coach tote at her elbow. The bag was to die for—

Literally.

Gwen was packing a small machine gun inside.

It wasn't like I had X-ray vision or anything. When I looked at the bag a picture formed in my mind, and I knew what was inside. I wasn't about to volunteer my services for airport security, though.

Not when Gwen Danner, socialite extraordinaire, was about to star in
Country Club Carnage
.

I remained in position, waiting. The time wasn't right. Not yet.

A distinguished, steel-haired man moved to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for our new club president, Abby Michaels.”

A petite silver-haired woman stood.

So did Gwen.

I stepped forward but continued to wait. No one else in the room seemed to notice anything odd—maybe they thought Gwen was heading for the restroom.

“I want to thank those of you who voted for me,” Abby said softly into the microphone. “Being club president is a dream come true, I—”

“I'm the rightful president, you bitch!” Gwen screamed, and pulled the machine gun out of her bag. The entire room went still. Abby's face drained white.

I had to admit, the machine gun went pretty well with the pearls and the suit.

I moved forward. “Not so fast, Gwen.”

Maybe it was the distance, maybe Gwen's emotions were too strong, but she refused to be swayed by my Goddess Gaze. “You're not a member!” she spat.

I put my hand on the shoulder of a woman at the table next to me. She looked up. “Call the police,” I said.

“Don't you dare, Joanna,” Gwen warned.

The woman looked back at me. “It's okay,” I said. She nodded and began dialing.

I was now in front of the dais. My brown eyes trained on Gwen's blue. “Put the gun down, now.”

She responded by opening fire.

Okay, so I really needed to try something other than the Goddess Gaze.

I wasn't about to test my supposed miraculous healing powers by acting like a human shield and dived to the ground. Besides, bullet holes would wreak havoc with my new Bebe shirt.

Gwennie was seriously pissing me off.

She reached into her tote and pulled out another clip.

I raced forward, dived over the dais, and threw myself in front of Abby, knocking her down.

“Everyone get down!” I yelled. Why they hadn't earlier was beyond me.

Thankfully, everyone listened and I had a roomful of rich people kissing the floor. Gwen started shooting, tearing up the walls, paintings, and chandeliers.

I tackled her at the knees. She didn't let go of the gun and continued shooting straight up. Pieces of ceiling began to rain down on both of us. Plaster was not a good look for me, and I grabbed the gun, flinging it aside.

Gwen knew how to fight like a girl, too, and lunged, a mass of bared teeth and French-manicured nails. I clipped her on the side of the head, and she was down for the count.

My heart was pounding.

Blood roared through my veins.

Goddamn I felt great.

I stood up and faced the room. I was tempted to throw out my arms and shout, “Bow before me, mere mortals,” but Abby Michaels was coming toward me.

“Gwen didn't like losing the election,” she said shakily.

“No shit.”

An older gentleman came and put a protective arm around Abby. “I think this calls for rescinding Gwen's membership, don't you?”

“The police have arrived,” someone called out.

The fuzz hadn't responded nearly this fast to the convenience store robbery. Ali would not be surprised.

Time to leave.

I spied a back entrance and quickly headed toward it.

“Wait,” Abby called. “We don't even know your name.”

I turned and flashed a smile. “Call me the goddess.”

And then I was out the door and running toward the parking lot.

 

The same guard opened the gate. “The police are here, what's going on?”

I met his gaze. “You won't remember me.”

He nodded. “I won't remember you.”

I sped away, then stopped, and reversed. “Ah, can I have my card back.” It had my name and phone number on it, which sort of defeated the purpose of the mind control thing.

Silently, he handed me the card.

I was off, feeling great and ready for some more action.

I turned on the radio. Instead of my favorite hip hop station, I moved the dial to local news.

I didn't have to wait very long.

Gang members involved in a Compton shoot-out had broken into a home, and were holding the entire family hostage.

I'd been heading home but made a U-turn, toward the 405 North and Los Angeles. The excitement began building inside me.

I was going to save this family.

I was going to pound some ass.

I was Maya Mehra, Goddess of Destruction.

I'd be bigger than the Taj Mahal.