Vicki Pettersson - The Taste Of Night

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as Cher had and said airily, “Yeah, if you were, like, a doctor.”

“Hey, don’t pick on her. She said you have nice toe cleavage.”

“Really?” Vanessa looked down hopefully, then caught my smug look and straightened, clearing her throat. “Anyway, Daddy Dearest just provided me with a rare quote. He said you’re the kindest, most generous person he knows.”

I considered what I knew of Xavier Archer’s business, personal, and-most importantly- otherworldly contacts, and could believe it. Then again, Olivia had been the best person I’d known too. Even with her predilection for over-priced shoes.

“Shows how well he knows me, huh?”

Vanessa cocked a hand on her hip. “Right. I mean, if he knew his supposed daughter was really a member of Zodiac troop 175, charged with promoting peace and cosmic balance in the Universe-”

“Or at least in the greater Las Vegas valley-”

“And that taking over Olivia Archer’s identity was really a crafty plot to infiltrate our enemy’s most profitable mortal-run corporation…he’d shit bricks.”

“Yeah,” I said wryly, and motioned down my cartoon character body. “Crafty.”

Vanessa pursed her lips. “Hey, it’s a great cover. You’re like Diana Prince and Wonder Woman. Or Clark Kent and Superman. Bruce Wayne and Batman.”

I drew back, Olivia’s most haughty expression on my face. “Excuse me, but I have nothing in common with that…bat.”

“Sure you do. He was a billionaire philanthropist and playboy. You’re a-”

“Millionaire heiress and Playmate?” I quipped, as the emcee sold another woman out front. “Sure, rub it in.”

Vanessa’s amusement returned. “Okay, so instead of a loyal butler you have a bubble-brained socialite as your closest confidante. But your tactical support ain’t so bad”-and here she took a bow-“and I bet you have all the martial assistance you need tucked between your legs.”

“Don’t be crude.”

She smirked. “You know what I mean.”

I did know, but I hadn’t been able to squeeze anything else beneath this pencil skirt, so I clipped open my handbag and showed her the conduit I’d stashed there. It was a palm-sized bow and arrow, weighty, but made just for me. I never left home, much less hosted a charity auction, without it.

The polished slide of the metal beneath my fingers was soothing, and I shot Vanessa a wry grin as I snapped the bag shut again. She was right. It could be worse. “So what are you going to write about this time, Vanessa?”

“The usual. I’ll use this event to recap how the beautiful and wealthy Olivia Archer has bounced back from an attack on her life-that killed her sister-to become this city’s premiere philanthropic icon.”

I winced at the nutshell version of “Olivia’s” recent past, though anyone who’d been in the Las Vegas valley more than a minute would’ve already heard all the gory details. They’d dominated headlines for weeks.

CASINO HEIRESS PLUMMETS TO DEATH WHILE SISTER WATCHES.

Only thing, it’d been Olivia plummeting and me watching. Not the reverse.

“So, where’ve you been lately?” Vanessa asked abruptly.

I shifted uncomfortably. Apparently she was here to do more than polish her pristine reporter’s persona. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me I’m wanted back at the sanctuary?”

“Wow, beauty and brains,” she quipped, then shrugged, returning to the topic. “You haven’t been back in weeks.”

“I’m taking the scenic route to superherodom.” I joked, but this time she didn’t smile. Well, she was right. It had been a while. “Okay. Dawn or dusk?”

She blew out a breath, obviously relieved to be able to give our troop leader good news. “Dusk tomorrow is fine. The training field should be ready by then.”

I lifted a brow. Training field?

“Oh yeah,” she said, seeing my expression. “Tekla’s set up a new lesson for us. Everyone is going to be there.”

Great, I thought wryly. Heropalooza.

Vanessa looked over my shoulder. “I think you’re being paged.”

I turned to find the stage manager waving at me frantically. Apparently I was up next. “Oh God. I wonder what exactly these people think they’re buying.”

“Whatever it is, tell them you’ll throw in the knife set for free.”

“I don’t think they know I’m the kind of girl who plays with knives,” I said, and couldn’t help but return her grin.

I joined Cher huddled next to the runway ramp, peering through the gold lamé curtain as the emcee announced Lena Carradine. She pivoted and twirled her way down the catwalk, lifted her surgically enhanced face into the blazing spotlight, and blew air kisses with a mouth stretched so tight she could barely pucker. Cher hissed at Lena through her peephole. “Go on, girl. Hurl yourself down the walk of shame.”

“I’m trying to raise money here,” I reminded Cher.

She turned to me, placed one palm on each of my cheeks, and said encouragingly, “And you will, honey. The second you set foot on that stage, you’ll have more to give to charity than Warren Buffett.”

I looked at her.

“Before the Gates Foundation got to him, I mean. Now go.”

Pushing my handbag up to my elbow, I lined up, took a deep breath, and when I heard my new name called, stepped onto the stage and into my personal hell.

A soft, sensuous tune from the live orchestra accompanied my stride down the catwalk, and I fought the impulse to look down, hide my face, and rush through the torture of being so blatantly stared at, knowing Olivia would do none of those things. So I forced myself to make eye contact with those seated at the numbered tables-both the men who eyed me with appreciative speculation, and the women who sought out flaws where there were none-and shot them all Olivia’s most blinding smile. There were only a handful of faces I recognized, dozens I didn’t, and one in particular I wish I hadn’t: Olivia’s father, Xavier-owner of Valhalla, human lackey to the most evil man on the planet, and the man who’d made my teen years a living hell.

He probably thought selling off his daughter for charity was a good investment. I snarled inwardly as I shot him a saccharine smile. He nodded back.

Could this get any worse?

It could-and did-as soon as the bidding began. I held my breath until the first paddle was lifted in the air, sending a relieved smile out to number 15, but the emcee’s voice quickly acknowledged a second bidder, then a third…then a stream of numbers in such quick succession I lost count. I concentrated on keeping a look of cheery interest plastered on my face, feeling sweat trickle down my spine as the bidding, and minutes, went on.

Finally, after what felt like light years, the bidding was narrowed to four. Number 15 was still in it, but he lifted his paddle more slowly now, and it shook slightly in the air, which meant his funds couldn’t match the heart practically pulsing on his sleeve. The three other bidders saw it and doubled the pace. One, surprisingly, was a young woman-blond, tidy, her good looks understated in unrelieved black-but the emcee didn’t question her right to bid, nor did anyone else. This was Vegas, after all. Money didn’t just talk here, it screamed for attention.

One of her rivals was a well-dressed gentleman standing next to Xavier, probably a business associate, and I wondered how much he was willing to drop on me just to ingratiate himself to my “father.” Finally, there was a blond man who looked as out of place as I felt. Number 56 reminded me of a construction worker despite his double-breasted suit, but he wielded his paddle with a careless flick of his wrists, so I let the observation pass. Looks, as I well knew, were deceiving.