Sun God Seeks...surrogate?(2)

By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff


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.

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