A muscle jumped in his jaw as he clenched it suddenly. “I exorcised the damn demon,” he snapped. “I know how to do my goddamn job.”
The door slammed hard behind him, making Brittany jump.
Karma shot her an exasperated look.
Brittany scurried back to her chair. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked nervously.
Please don’t let her be fired already. She wanted this job. It was The One. Just because she wasn’t quite secretarial in type didn’t mean she wouldn’t be the best darn secretary Karmic Consultants had ever seen.
“Things like that happen every day around here, Brittany.”
“Your consultants get propositioned every day?”
Karma’s mouth tightened. “No,” she said stiffly. “Exorcisms. Ghost exterminations. Aura readings and finding missing items through supernatural means. This is not a joke.”
Brittany nodded solemnly, seeing that solemnity was called for. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry, Brittany.”
Her heart locked and stuttered a beat. Out of habit, Brittany put a hand over it, pressing down as if she could steady the beat and hold it safe and calm in her chest. Was she being fired already? What had she done? She held herself quiet and still as she waited for Karma’s next words.
Please don’t fire me. Please please please.
“I just don’t think this is going to work ou—”
The door to the office slammed open again, so hard it rebounded off the far wall and nearly smacked the entering duo in the face.
Karma groaned. “If I don’t get a secretary to screen my visitors soon, I’m going to have to nail that door shut,” she muttered, before standing and facing the pair of blondes rapidly approaching her desk. “Jo. Lucy. What seems to be the problem?”
The taller of the two, the one with black tips in her spiky blonde hair, planted herself in front of the desk. “We need a hitman. Reliable. But on a budget.”
Chapter Three—Flowers, Flour & Other F Words
Karma didn’t even blink—which probably should have concerned Brittany, but somehow didn’t in the least. “Who are we killing?”
The petite, curly-haired blonde who bore a striking resemblance to Shirley Temple held up both hands like a hostage negotiator approaching the armed and dangerous. “No one. We aren’t killing anyone.”
“The wedding planner,” the tall, punkish one said.
“The ex-wedding planner,” Shirley Temple sighed mournfully.
“Ex?” Karma pounced on that little syllable. Then she fell back into her chair with a groan. “What happened to this one?”
“Nothing. Yet. That’s why we need the hitman.”
“Jo,” Shirley Temple said with exasperation. “We aren’t taking a contract out on the wedding planner just because he canceled on me.”
“
Three weeks
before your wedding, Lucy,” the punkette—Jo, evidently—protested. “Three weeks! And he bails. That’s a death sentence right there.”
“What was this one’s excuse?” Karma asked, dread thick in her voice.
“The flowers.” Lucy flopped onto the other chair facing the desk as her cohort began pacing. “The florist we’d arranged contacted the planner this morning. Apparently, their primary supplier contracted some kind of fungus that destroyed their entire inventory. Every single bloom. Totally wiped out. And not one, not two, but
all three
of their back-up greenhouses reported similar problems. A malfunctioning sprinkler system drowned every blossom in one. A mix-up with their pesticide order caused all of the plants to be sprayed with a toxic chemical at another. And the third? Locusts. An actual plague of locusts.”
“Very biblical,” Karma said dryly.
“The wedding planner said he couldn’t take any more. He said every time he even thought about my wedding he saw red. He’s gone. And I’m on my own. With no flowers.”
A ringtone version of Abba’s “I Do, I Do, I Do” chirped out of Lucy’s purse. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID. “Better Buns Bakery,” she read aloud, and then paled. “Oh God, not the
cake
.”
Brittany watched as Lucy flipped open the phone and uttered a cautious “hello”. Then she watched as the blushing bride lost all color in her face. She could actually see the blood rushing away from poor Lucy’s head. The bride swayed a little in her chair and Brittany was glad she was already sitting down or she would have surely hit the floor.
“Rancid flour?” Lucy said dazedly. “Can’t you make a flourless cake or something?” She listened some more, then gave a horrified yelp. “But you can’t cancel our order! We gave you a deposit.”
“You’re damn right he can’t cancel that order,” Jo snapped, storming toward where Lucy huddled low in the chair like the victim of a natural disaster, stunned as she gazed at the wreckage of her life. “Give me the phone, Luce. I’ll talk some sense into him.”
Jo made a grab for the phone, but Lucy must have realized what a catastrophe that would be because she tucked the phone to her chest and curled her body around it protectively, all the while crooning, “Mr. Bunting,
please
,” in the direction of the mouthpiece.
“Jo, I don’t think you should…”
When Karma spoke, both Lucy and Brittany looked in her direction, having completely forgotten her presence in the room. Jo capitalized on Lucy’s distraction to yank the phone out of her grasp and begin pouring verbal abuse down the line.
“Listen, Bunting, I don’t give a flying fuck about your flour problems. You’re gonna make Lucy a cake. You’re gonna make my cousin the best damn cake that has ever fucking been made or I am going to come down there and break my foot off in your skinny little ass. You got that, you spineless—”
Brittany had the element of surprise on her side. Jo expected Karma and Lucy to try to get the phone away from her, but she wasn’t anticipating Brittany as a possible aggressor. As Jo danced away from the now red-faced and nearly hyperventilating bride, Brittany leapt at her from behind and quickly disarmed her, running away with the cell phone pressed to her ear.
“Mr. Bunting?” Brittany panted into the phone as she ran, dodging and weaving and putting furniture between herself and Jo. She pitched her voice to sound as similar to what she’d heard of Lucy’s as she could—luckily their voices were already pretty similar in register, high-pitched and chirpy. “Golly, I’m sorry about my cousin Jo. She’s just so stressed out right now. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she just had the worst fight with her fiancé.”
Through the phone, a man’s reedy voice piped. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Cartwrigh—”
Brittany didn’t give him a chance to get going. Karma had been about to fire her and she hadn’t been able to say a word to stop it, but
this
was something she knew how to fix. She gave a forced laugh and talked right over whatever excuse he was making. Rancid flour, her Aunt Fanny.
“You know how men are. Their mothers say something and they just agree without even
thinking
about whether their bride-to-be would go along with it. Poor Jo. Do you know her fiancé actually said
yes
when his mother suggested a group wedding with all
four
of his sisters? How tacky can you get?
“And it isn’t as if his family can’t afford to have
four
separate big
expensive
weddings with all the trimmings. They’re just rolling in it, though it’s ill bred of me to even mention it. Jo’s future mother-in-law actually thought it would make the experience more special. Can you imagine? Though I’m sure they’ll work it all out.
“It’s too bad about your flour. Such a shame. I really wanted to recommend your bakery to my new in-laws, since they are planning
so many
weddings in the next few months, but I guess we’ll have to run around and do a bunch of tastings at the last minute. We can use my little bitty cake as an audition for the big ones they’ll need in the next few months. So in a way, I guess you did us a favor. Now I’ll get this bonding experience with my new in-laws.”
Brittany let her babble trail off and waited. She’d dangled the bait, now she just had to see if Bunting would take it. The sound of the air conditioner humming to life jolted Brittany with the realization that Karma’s office had grown eerily quiet as Karma, Lucy and Jo gaped at her. At least Jo had stopped chasing her around the room. They all stood paralyzed. Waiting.
Silence loomed on the other end of the line. It lasted so long, Brittany began to wonder if Bunting had just hung up on her during her rant. Her heart stuttered again and she pressed her hand against it. Then a low cough came through the earpiece of the phone.
“Ms. Cartwright, I don’t know what I was thinking. Our flour supplier will definitely be able to replace our stock satisfactorily before we prepare your cake.”
Brittany’s heart began thundering away in double time as victory surged on a tide of adrenaline through her blood. “Oh? So you think you’ll be able to handle my order after all?”
“Of course, Ms. Cartwright. We would never cancel on such a valued customer. I’m so sorry for the mix-up.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Bunting. There’s nothing whatsoever to apologize for. You’ve been all that’s professional,” Brittany oozed the lies with the practice of a lifetime. “Thank you so much for keeping us apprised of the flour situation. I have every confidence that you will overcome this little obstacle.”
Bunting made a few more groveling attempts to assure himself he was in her good graces, then wished her the best on her happy day and said his goodbyes. Brittany flipped the phone closed and raised her eyes to face the trio of women gawking at her.
Lucy’s expression was adoring, Karma’s bemused, and Jo’s still edged on homicidal.
“How did you do that?” Karma asked.
“Who cares?” Lucy gushed. “She did it! I have a cake!”
Jo folded her arms across her chest. “Wyatt and I aren’t engaged.”
Lucy waved away her complaint. “You will be soon enough. And he
is
loaded,” she added in cheerfully. Nothing could dampen the bride’s mood. “How did you know that?”
“Who are you?” Jo snapped. “And what gives you the right to dictate when I get married? And Wyatt’s an only child, for the record. I don’t know how you’re going to produce these supposed sisters of his.”
Brittany took a deep breath and folded her hands in front of her. Since Jo looked the angriest, she answered her questions first. “I’m Brittany,” she said. “And no one has to get married who doesn’t want to.” She then turned to her prospective boss and her how-to query. “There was nothing wrong with the flour. The timing was too pat. The wedding planner probably called the bakery to let them know they’d be dealing directly with you. Bakeries often overbook themselves. Sometimes because they are anticipating cancellations, but often there are just certain clients they are afraid to say no to—like wedding planners who will be reliable repeat customers. When your wedding planner left the equation, canceling your order became a matter of only pissing off one lowly little bride. They call you with some excuse that’s clearly out of their control—like rancid flour—and while you may not recommend the bakery to anyone else, the odds are you won’t have much of a negative impact on their business in the long run.”
Lucy nodded, visibly awed. “So you tell them I’m going to have a whole lot of wedding cake business in the near future and they change their mind.”
Jo was still unimpressed. “Won’t they notice when we don’t order five more wedding cakes?”
“Honestly? Probably not.” Brittany ticked the reasons off on her fingers. “One—weddings are called off every day and I already planted the seed that your relationship wasn’t on the firmest footing. Two—once your cake is made and out the door, they are on to the next catastrophe and they don’t have time to worry about whether or not you ever come back for round two. And three—what are they going to do even if they do notice? Hunt you down and demand you use their bakery? He already knows he screwed up by trying to back out on you. I don’t think a baker stalking you and trying to force-feed you pastries is very likely to be a problem.”
Jo frowned at her. “Who
are
you?”
“I’m the new secretary. Or I’d like to be.” Brittany looked to Karma, who eyed her speculatively.
“Have you ever planned a wedding before, Ms. Hylton?”
“Hilton? Like Paris?” Jo snorted. “Wyatt’ll love that.”
“Hylton-VanDeere,” Brittany corrected. “With a
y
. No relation. And no, I’ve never planned a wedding, but I’ve coordinated several large events.”
Karma tapped the paper on her desk. “That isn’t on your resume.”
She shrugged. “It’s a family thing.”
Lucy tipped her head inquisitively. “Your parents are event planners?”
“Um, yes.”
Something like that
. Her mother liked to list her profession as
Volunteer
, but event planner was probably a much more accurate description. Her mother’s idea of volunteering was more dinners with ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate price tags than soup kitchens and shelters.
“The job listing for the secretary position includes basic administrative tasks for me as needed,” Karma said, each word deliberate. “If those tasks were to include locating florists and caterers and troubleshooting any problems that might arise surrounding a wedding scheduled three weeks from last Saturday, would you be amenable to that?”
Brittany felt a thrill of triumph streak through her heart. She was going to get The Job. She was going to work for The Company That Believed. And not only that, but she was going to get to do the one thing she was really,
really
good at—event planning. She’d known this was The One from the second she’d walked in the door. And she’d been right.
“I’d love that,” she said sincerely.
Karma nodded crisply. No muss. No fuss. No nonsense. Problem solved. “You’re hired.”
Chapter Four—Christine, German Edition
Brittany stepped out into the blinding sunlight that warmed the Karmic Consultants’ parking lot and gave a leap that would make an actual cheerleader proud.
“I got The Job!” she told the empty lot, hugging her arms around herself and spinning in a circle. The joy inside her bubbled out in a stream of giggles.
Brittany bounced on the balls of her feet all the way to the far corner of the lot where she’d parked the silver Audi her parents had bought her for her twenty-fifth birthday. After years of refusing her pleas, they’d finally agreed to let her have her own car. Her father’s obsession with safety and crash test ratings had warred with her mother’s obsession with luxury and standing. The Audi emerged victorious.
It bleeped cheerfully in welcome as she approached, the doors unlocking automatically. She knew it was just the state-of-the-art technology, but Brittany liked to think the car adored her just as much as she adored the freedom it represented. Freedom from chauffeurs who would report back to her parents on her comings and goings. Freedom to take to the open road and just go.
Even if she never actually went anywhere.
She slid into the cozy leather driver’s seat and gave a contented sigh, still wallowing in her Karmic victory and not ready to head home just yet. Though she ought to. She had a mission. To find a replacement florist at the last minute for Lucy’s wedding. Lucy, whom Brittany had learned was not only a medium and one of Karma’s valued consultants, but was also Karma’s soon-to-be-sister-in-law.
If the story Lucy’s ex-wedding planner had told was true, then a lot of florists would be scrambling now that the growers were all out of commission. But if anyone knew how to throw a perfect event together at the last minute under less than ideal circumstances, it was Brittany’s mother. She would know exactly which florist to call.
Brittany bit her lip and fiddled with her key. Was it cheating to ask her mother for help on a job? Especially a job she couldn’t even admit to her mother she’d applied for?
She didn’t have to tell her mother what the flowers were for, necessarily. But if her mother got curious, all she had to do was call the florist to get answers. No florist in his right mind would lie to Claudia Hylton-VanDeere. And then how would Brittany explain?
Perhaps it was best to do some scouting on her own before calling in the reserve team. Her mother could be a last resort.
Brittany decided to take a quick cruise down to the farmer’s market and talk to the florists who sold flowers there. They probably wouldn’t be able to supply a whole wedding, but they would know who was reputable and be able to point her in the right direction. Brittany cranked the key to start the Audi and the radio suddenly blared to life.
The Dixie Cups belting out “Chapel of Love” erupted from the speakers.
She was sure she hadn’t left the radio on—she was a bit of a nervous driver after only three months of getting herself around and didn’t like the distraction of it—but Brittany bopped along with a silly grin on her face for a minute before she hit the button to kill the music. The glitch of the turned-on radio suddenly seemed like a good omen, a blessing on her new career as a wedding planner/secretary.
Carefully checking both ways, Brittany eased out of the parking space and crept across the lot. “I’m driving to the florist,” she sang softly to herself, improvising new lyrics to the tune stuck in her head, “and I’m gonna plan an awesome wedding.”
An old, boxy Honda blocked the exit, waiting for its chance to pull out into the busy main street beyond. Brittany depressed the brake, her eyes locked on the squared-off edges of the bumper in front of her.
She loved the freedom of her car. She just hated driving the darn thing.
“Gonna get some flowers and I’m—”
Music exploded from the car’s speakers.
“GOING TO THE CHAPEL OF LOVE.”
Brittany jumped at the sudden barrage of sound and gave a startled “Yeep!” She yanked at the wheel then jerked it back to avoid sideswiping a parked car. She slammed both feet down on the brake pedal, riding it all the way to the floor, but the car kept coasting forward, as if she weren’t braking at all. A fine red mist sprayed across her windshield, like someone had replaced her wiper fluid with cherry cola. The red coated the windshield, blinding her. She couldn’t see the boxy Honda anymore, but she prayed for all her little heart was worth that it was still there, because if it wasn’t, she was going to go rolling right out onto that busy street with nothing to stop her.
As the Dixie Cups
yeah-yeah-yeahed
at an ear-splitting decibel
,
Brittany screamed, “Eeyyyyahhh!” in chorus with the song and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands wrapped viselike at ten and two.
And then, with a dull
clunk
, the car stopped. The song ended and the radio suddenly hummed with static silence.
Brittany pried open her eyes, and slapped both hands to her chest to hold her heart inside. She was alive.
Probably.
Either that or “Chapel of Love” was what the heavenly host was singing these days as they winged you up to your just reward.
The cherry cola windshield wash was gone. The glass was car-wash-sparkly clean, giving her a clear view of the Honda she’d just rear-ended.
And of the man climbing out of the driver’s seat of the Honda she’d just rear-ended.
The big, sexy, exorcising man. Her heart began tripping for a whole new reason.
She’d forgotten all about Rodriguez.
Rodriguez rubbed at the back of his neck as he climbed out of the front seat of his kid sister’s Honda. Marisol was gonna love this.
He walked toward the back bumper to assess the damage as the door of the sporty silver car that had hit him popped open and the brunette bimbo from Karma’s office bounced out, grinning like an idiot.
“You okay?” he called across the distance separating them. She hadn’t hit him hard, but even fender benders could cause unexpected damage.
“Right as rain. Wow, I’m sorry about your car,” she bubbled with a bright smile on her face that wasn’t even a distant cousin to contrition.
Sorry, my ass.
She was a cute thing, with a neat little figure. Her big doe eyes held a perpetual sparkle and his first thought when he’d seen her inside was that those wild brown curls would look great spread across his pillow. But anyone who crashed into another car and danced out of the driver’s seat with a smile on her face and a song in her heart had to be more than a few bricks short of a load. He didn’t do crazy.
Though maybe she’d walloped her head on the steering wheel. That could cause some irrational behavior, couldn’t it? Why else would she be so damned cheerful about rear-ending him? That was not a natural reaction.
“You sure you’re all right?” He squinted at her forehead. There wasn’t a mark from where she must’ve hit. Shouldn’t there have been a mark?
“Fine and dandy,” she burbled. “Is your car okay? Don’t you worry about the damages. I’ve got it covered. Just name your price.”
Rodriguez stiffened at the mention of
his price
. “That isn’t necessary.”
She probably didn’t have insurance. Hell, she might not even have a goddamn driver’s license, but toss out a little cashola and
no, there’s no need to call the cops and report this
.
Name your price.
What was it with everyone thinking he could be bought today? Was it because he was Mexican? Just because his parents immigrated—
legally
, thank you very much—from Michoacán, everyone assumed he must be out for whatever he could get? He had honor, damn it.
He couldn’t seem to escape the people trying to buy him today.
He hadn’t gotten ten feet out of Karma’s office before his cell had rung. One of his former clients—the original desperate housewife—had somehow gotten his personal number and was trying to book him for a private exorcism. She’d offered him twice what Karmic usually charged for his services, and then upped her bribe by hundred dollar increments every time he said no. By the time he’d hung up on her, she was approaching five figures.
It wasn’t that Rodriguez didn’t like money. He liked earning it and he definitely liked having it. But he also liked being able to look himself in the mirror in the mornings. He was not a boy toy, nor some object to pass around from one bored, rich woman to the next. Real men did not make their money on their backs. He was an exorcist, not a goddamn incubus.
“I don’t know what happened. It just wouldn’t
stop
,” the sparkly-eyed brunette gushed, waving her hands in a gesture of helplessness and bringing his attention back to the collision course at hand—he’d deal with the women rear-ending his integrity later. “And the music was so loud. It’s never done that before.”
Rodriguez managed not to comment on her inability to work the volume controls in her own car.
He eyed the expensive sports car—far too expensive for a secretary—and then looked back at the oh-so-innocent woman who’d crashed into him. Were the housewives getting more creative in their attempts to tag him like a goddamn animal?
The brunette bimbo wasn’t wearing a wedding band and she was substantially younger than the others, but that didn’t mean much. Trophy wives were getting younger and younger and she had a certain designer look that didn’t mesh with his idea of a secretary.
She came to stand beside him, leaning close enough to hit him with her scent as he peered at the damage. She even
smelled
expensive. The heady perfume that shot straight from his nostrils to his dick was not bought with a secretary’s salary.
“Is it bad?” she asked—still sounding far too jovial.
The Honda hadn’t taken any damage to speak of. She’d hit him going about five miles per hour. Marisol’s bumper wasn’t even dented. A tiny scratch on her silver sedan was the only sign they’d hit at all. It wasn’t even worth reporting to his insurance company.
He was almost pissed that it wasn’t worth calling it in. He’d wanted to ram that
name your price
right back in her dopily smiling face.
“It’s nothing.”
The brain-trust at his side heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “Oh,
good
. I was so worried there would be damage. Not that I couldn’t pay for it, because I
can
. I’ve got more insurance than the Hope diamond. But I would have felt just awful if I’d really damaged your car. Especially after I kind of hoped I would hit you.”
Rodriguez straightened, the better to glower at her. This just kept getting better and better. “You were
trying
to hit me? Have you skipped your meds, lady?”
Was it all part of a plan to get his attention with her adorable innocent act so she could get him into bed like all the other trophy wives had been trying to do? Hit him with her car, bat her big doe eyes, and he was supposed to drop trou and bend her over the bumper for a quickie?
“Goodness, no,” she giggled, fidgeting with the turquoise scarf that hid her cleavage. “I wouldn’t do that.”
He wasn’t sure whether she was referring to missing her medication or trying to hit him with her car and he decided he didn’t want clarification. The supposed-secretary was either a cold con artist out to win a wager, or her elevator didn’t go all the way to the top. Either way, the sooner he patted her on the head and sent her on her way, the better.
“I’m Brittany, by the way,” she told him cheerfully, as if he gave a damn what her name was. “Brittany Hylton-VanDeere. With a
y
. No relation.”
Christ, even her name sounded expensive.
“You’re Rodriguez?” She beamed at him, brown eyes twinkling innocently.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
He should have walked away. Driven away. Gotten the hell out of there. But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood there, breathing her goddamn designer perfume and trying to puzzle out what the hell she was up to.
He couldn’t figure her out. There wasn’t even the slightest trace of malice in her face. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who rear-ended people for fun. And neither did she particularly resemble the jaded housewives who’d been stalking him lately.
Brittany Hylton-VanDeere was either an honest-to-goodness ray of unstoppable sunshine or she was the best damn con artist he’d ever seen. His hunch was starting to lean toward the former.
But it didn’t matter.
Just walk away, Rodriguez. Nothing to see
. He didn’t need to know whether she really was as sweet as spun sugar.
Bet she even
tastes
sweet.
He yanked his gaze off her lips and shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the thought.
Walk away
.
Against his better judgment, he heard himself asking, “Why were you trying to hit me?”
“Oh, I wasn’t
trying
to hit you. I was hoping!”
Rodriguez frowned, uncertain of the distinction, but Brittany didn’t leave him wondering for long. The woman couldn’t keep her mouth shut without the assistance of super glue.
“I swear I pushed the brake, but it didn’t do anything. And I couldn’t see. So I couldn’t tell if you were in front of me or not. And that road—” She pointed to the cars zipping past on the main road and shuddered. “I would have been smashed to smithereens. So it was much better to hit you. Thank you, by the way. For stopping me. You saved my life.”
Rodriguez nodded vaguely in response to the fierce hero-worship that entered in her eyes. Her explanation was almost logical. Part of him really wanted to believe her. Except… “You couldn’t see?”
“The cherry windshield,” she said, as if that made perfect sense. “And then I closed my eyes. But only after I couldn’t see.”
She’d closed her eyes. Of course.
He eyed the car again, but could see no sign of cherries, or anything else that might have caused the new-looking sedan to malfunction. “Did you pump the brake?”
Brittany blinked her doe eyes. “You’re supposed to do that?”
Rodriguez sighed. He didn’t know cars the way his sister Adela did—one mechanic was enough for the family—but even he knew to pump the brake if it didn’t catch.
The verdict was in. Brittany was a moron. But probably a truthful one.