Sun God Seeks...surrogate? (2 page)

Well, actually, it was a cranky, rather large warrior named Brutus strapped to her back and wearing the parachute because she had yet to find time for skydiving lessons.

Dork.

In any case, looking like a ridiculous, oversized baby kangaroo wasn’t enough to stop her from making this nocturnal leap into enemy territory—Maaskab territory. She had scores to settle.

Emma sucked in a deep breath, the roar of the plane’s large engines and Brutus’s growls making it difficult to find her center—the key to winning any battle. And not freak out.

Funny. If someone had told her a year ago that she’d end up here, an immortal demigoddess engaged to the infamous God of Death and War, she would have said, “Christ! Yep! That
toootally
sounds about right.”

Why the hell not? She’d lived the first twenty-two years of her life with Guy—a nickname she’d given her handsome god—obsessed with his seductive voice, a voice only she could hear. Turned out, after they finally met face-to-face, their connection ran blood deep. Universe deep, actually. A match made by fate.

Emma rubbed her hands together, summoning the divine power deep within her cells. One blast with her fingertips and she could split a man right down the middle.

“Careful where you put those,” Guy said, cupping himself.

Emma gazed up at his smiling face and couldn’t help but admire the glorious, masculine view.
Sigh.
She knew she’d been born to love him, flaws—enormous ego and otherworldly bossiness—and all.

His smile melted away. “Please change your mind, my sweet. Stay on the plane, and let me do your fighting.”

“Can’t do that,” she replied. “The Maaskab took my grandmother, and I’m going to be the one to get her back. Even if I have to kill Tommaso to do it.”

Guy shook his head. “No. You are to let me deal with him.”

Emma felt her immortal blood boil. She’d trusted Tommaso once, and he’d betrayed her. Almost gotten her killed, too. But she’d known—well, she’d
thought
—it wasn’t Tommaso’s fault. He’d been injected with liquid black jade, an evil substance that could darken the heart of an angel. That’s why, after he’d been captured and mortally wounded, she’d begged the gods to cure him.

Then she did the unthinkable: she’d put her faith in him again.

Stupid move.

He’d turned on her a second time, the bastard. Yes, his betrayal—done of his own free will—was her prize on that fateful night almost one year ago when her grandmother showed up on their doorstep in Italy, leading an army of evil Maaskab priests, her mind clearly poisoned.

“If Tommaso hadn’t helped her escape, we could’ve saved her,” she said purely to vent, because she really wanted to cry. But the fiancée of the God of Death and War didn’t cry. Especially in front of the hundred warriors riding shotgun on the plane tonight.

Okay, maybe one teeny tiny tear while no one’s looking.

“Do not give up hope, Emma.” Guy clutched her hand. “And do not forget…whatever happens, I love you. Until the last ray of sunlight. Until the last flicker of life inhabits this planet.”

Brutus groaned and rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the sappy chatter.

Emma elbowed him in the ribs. “Shush! And how can you, of all people, be uncomfortable with a little affection? Huh? You bunk with eight dudes every night. That’s gross by the way. Not the dude part. I’m cool with that. But eight, big, sweaty warriors all at once? Yuck. So don’t judge me because I’m into the one-man-at-a-time rule. That’s messed up, Brutus.”

Brutus growled and Guy chuckled.

In truth, Emma didn’t know what Brutus was into or how he and his elite team slept, but she loved teasing him. She figured that sooner or later she’d find the magic words to get Brutus to speak to her.

No luck yet.

Accepting a temporary defeat, she shrugged and turned her attention back to the task at hand. She took one last look at her delicious male—seven feet of solid muscle with thick blue-black waves of hair and bronzed skin.
Sigh.
“Okay. I’m ready,” she declared boldly. “Let’s kill some Scabs and get my granny!”

She glanced over her other shoulder at Penelope, their newest family member. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated the anger simmering in her dark green eyes. Pissed would be a serious understatement.

Emma didn’t blame her. What a cluster.

“Ready?” Emma asked.

“You better believe it,” Penelope replied. “These clowns picked the wrong girl to mess with.”

Guy frowned as they leaped from the plane into the black night.

“A true friend is one soul in two bodies.”

—Aristotle

“A true friend is two souls in one body
.
”

—Kinich Ahau, God of the Sun

CHAPTER 1

Penelope. Approximately Three Weeks Earlier

“Sorry, but did you just say…? You want me to
what
?” I stared at the flaming redhead who’d trotted into the crowded café off the snowy New York street, helped herself to the chair across from me, and swiped her finger through the creamy froth of my eagerly anticipated cappuccino.

Rude!

Didn’t matter that the woman was disturbed, which she clearly was; the pink scuba mask on her head was a dead giveaway, as was the hot-pink mink coat.

“You heard me, Penelope,” she said, rapping her glittery pink fingernails on the tabletop. “Five hundred thousand dollars—okay…I’ll make it one million. But not a penny more!”

How the hell did she know my name? And had she really offered me money for what I thought? Was today April Fool’s? No. It was November 30th.

Then it dawned on me. I was being Punk’d. Wait. That show was canceled. Yes, Ashton had moved on to corny camera commercials, a sitcom, and a very unflattering Ringo Starr beard.

Well, double dammit, whatever was going on, I didn’t have the patience for this today; I’d just received bad news. The worst kind of bad news.

I dog-eared my book,
Spanish for Linguistic Tards
—never too late to learn another language, you know—and slapped it down. “I don’t know which of my friends orchestrated this crappy prank, but I’ve got work in twenty minutes, and it’s going to be a long, long night—”

“Hold your jicama!” she interrupted, shoving her index finger in my face as her phone squawked. She quickly dug through her oversized pink fuzzy handbag and pulled out the device. “Wassup? Yeah. Yeah. Oooh my…” The odd woman, who appeared to be in her thirties, continued her egregiously loud banter while stroking the lapel of her furry coat.

I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if anyone else inside the bustling café was witnessing this obnoxious display. Oddly enough, not one person was.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. I’d already decided to go find my pre–night shift triple-skinny cappuccino (hold the weirdo finger) elsewhere.

I pushed away from the table, and she latched onto my wrist, instantly igniting a surge of numbing static throughout my entire body. Every muscle ground to a halt. Except my pounding heart. That worked just fine.

She narrowed her eyes and then made a little no-no wave with her scrawny, pale finger.

“Yeah. Uh-huh. Oooh. Nice,” she continued chatting on her phone while I experienced the world’s quietest panic attack. “I’m thinkin’ we go with the chicken fingers.” She shook her head a few times. “No, silly. Real ones. I just love crunchy food.” Pause. “How the hell should I know what to do with the chickens? Make them some special shoes.” Pause. “Yup. Yup. Clothing is optional. Except for the clowns. They get too carried away with the ball jokes. Seriously. It’s disturbing. Even for me.” Another pause. “We can talk about it later, Fate. I gotta take care of this girl before she throws a hissy.” Pause. “Yes. It’s
that
girl. This is gonna be drama-licious!”

She ended her call and sighed happily in my general direction. “Gods, I rock. I should be a ride at Six Flags. They should name a country after me—wait! No. The planet. They should name the entire planet after
magnifique moi
!” She suddenly snapped back her head, and locked her eyes on the ceiling. “Oh yeah? You just try it!”

I couldn’t move my head, but from the corner of my eye I noticed a little black dot.

A fly? She’s talking to the fly?

She then pointed right at the little bugger. “That’s right! I’ll take you down. I’ll cut you, bitch!”

The fly buzzed away.

The woman shrugged and then leaned into the table. A wide, evil grin stretched across her elfin face. “Okillee dokillee, Penelope. Let’s not play games—for the next five minutes, anyway—Pin the Tail on the Donkey is my favorite, though. Just in case you were wondering.” She snorted. “I like it when they squeal.”

Her paralyzing grip didn’t allow a response, but I was all ears; this woman scared the crappity-crap out of me.

“I know everything about you,” she continued. “You’re Penelope Trudeau. You were raised right here in good ol’ N-Y-C. You’re mother has been fighting a mysterious illness for the past year, which is why you’ve put off going to grad school even though you’ve been accepted to several excellent programs.”

Who the hell was this woman? She recited every fact about my life, including how I was a size eight—or size ten after the major holidays and sporting events—had a black belt in karate, was afraid of spiders, and had no intention of celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow. Birthdays freaked me out.

“My brother and I mean business, Penelope. This isn’t a joke. Though…”—she snorted twice—“did you ever hear the one about the porcupine who married the sheep?”

She released my wrist.

Ever so slowly, my body sparked back to life. Terrified, I blinked several times before nodding no. She was insane. Truly. Unequivocally. Bonkers. And she apparently knew how to do that Vulcan grip thing. Not a good combo.

“Well, their children were able to knit their own sweaters!” She chuckled loudly and slapped her knee.

Then, for no apparent reason, her expression transformed into a void of human warmth. It sent shivers deep down into the pit of my stomach, which was now telling me to run. Run far, far away. I didn’t know if her offer to pay me one million dollars was genuine or the ramblings of a madwoman, but God save me, I didn’t want anything to do with her.

“So, you in or out?” she asked, crossing her arms. “One million dollars, honey. It will solve all your problems: help your mother, pay for school…What’s one little egg and nine months of your life?”

The insane woman continued staring as I realized I had full control of my body again.

The words “My womb is not for rent!” exploded from my mouth, and the entire café fell silent. Everyone stared with gaping mouths.

“Oh, sure.
Now
you’re all paying attention,” I mumbled.

I turned my attention back to Ms. Nut Job and slowly stepped away, preparing to make a mad dash for my life. “I’m not interested.”

“Great!” She popped up from her chair and flicked her hand in the air. “You’ll get half the money now—just for showing up to the party. I mean that figuratively, by the way—’cause you’re not invited to my
actual
party. Friends and family only. Plus a few people who won the raffle. And some clowns. And my unicorn—don’t ask.”

I felt my face involuntarily contort. She wasn’t just disturbed, she was bat-shit crazy.

“Come to my house tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m. sharp.” She began digging in her purse again. “My lawyer slash Twister coach, Rochell, will have the papers ready along with a Welcome Handbook. I suggest you read it. There will be a pop quiz, and Rochell doesn’t mess around.”

I stepped away from the table toward the door. “I don’t know who you are, but I said ‘no,’ and I meant it. Stay the hell away from me!”

That something in my gut, which had told me to run, now screamed at the top of its lungs.

I listened.

I bolted onto the bustling street filled with evening holiday shoppers making their way down the snow-covered sidewalks. But when I glanced over my shoulder, back toward the corner café with its floor-to-ceiling windows, the madwoman wasn’t inside or on the street.

I stopped in my tracks and shook my head.

Had I dreamed the entire thing? Had some deranged woman dressed like pink cotton candy, using a scuba mask as a headband, just propositioned me to be the surrogate mother to her brother’s baby for one million dollars?

Nooo.

I seriously needed some sleep. Or therapy.

CHAPTER 2

For the record, I’ve never been one to look down on a hard day’s work. I come from a long line of hard workers despite my hoity-toity French last name. But truth be told, I couldn’t wait for the day I’d leave behind waiting tables in exchange for a real career. My dream was going to grad school to get my Master of Political Science. Eventually, I wanted a PhD and to teach. But that dream was far off, some untouchable horizon beyond the daily grind of my current life that consisted of taking care of my sick mother during the day and working two, back-to-back night shifts at Carmine’s Trattoria seven days a week.

What about my dad? We didn’t talk about him much, but I knew he’d studied at the same university as my mother and hadn’t been ready for fatherhood. So that left us two girls and a few random cousins out West.

Mind you, I didn’t complain about taking care of my mom because she was the sort of person worthy of any sacrifice—kind, generous, always finding the silver lining in everything—but that didn’t mean our situation wasn’t hard. Her condition was a medical mystery with only one real symptom: She suffered from a crippling exhaustion. She barely stayed awake long enough to get in one meal a day. And not one of the dozen or so specialists I made her see knew what caused it.