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PARADISE BY THE RIFLE SIGHTS

by

LESLIE LANGTRY

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ebook Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Leslie Langtry

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

"I knew one thing: as soon as anyone said you didn't need a gun, you'd better take one along that worked."

~Raymond Chandler

"Paris Bombay!" Perry, the announcer shouted. I flinched inwardly. The rose they gave me still had thorns, and I was sweating like a fat guy in a sauna in this tux under these stage lights.

"The time has come!" he continued, "who are you going to choose? Cin, or Teri?" I felt a clock ticking inside my head, and it made me think of the bombs my cousin Dak and I used to make as kids. How did I get into this mess? I never wanted to star on The Single Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever. Great. Cin and Teri are looking at me thinking I'm about to make a decision. How do I tell them I can't?

It all started two months ago. And it was all my sister, Liv's, fault.

"But, I just finished a job!" I protested. And if you think it was easy taking out an African warlord using only a plastic hotel key (Hint—it's all in the wrist.), you're kidding yourself.

"Well I can't do it! Alta has the state science fair, and Woody is trying out for the Olympic Archery team! It's the finals!" Liv folded her arms over her chest and pouted. She actually pouted. And that's when I knew I was screwed.

"We're not supposed to do each other's assignments," I whined, even though I could feel myself giving in a little. And when I say "assignments" I mean contract killing…just to make that clear. I'm an assassin. So is my sister, my dad, my cousins, and my grandmother. Well, actually, Grandma Mary is retired.

The Bombays have been contract killers since ancient Greece. After four millennia of wet work, you become pretty good at it, and we are the best. Every child born a Bombay joins the family business, whether we like it or not. Retirement is something that only happens when you are old enough to join the Council. All jobs are handed down by the Council. If you screw up…let's just say the consequences are dire.

On the plus side, we are each independently wealthy, world travelers who can creatively kill anyone with anything. I'm serious. I've seen (or participated in) death by mangoes, scotch tape, and once—a cleverly placed cotton ball. We are allowed to pick our own modus operandi, as long as the work is done and the Bombays aren't implicated. Technically speaking, we only have one or two assignments a year. Assignments we are not allowed to pass on to other Bombays.

Liv threw her hands in the air—a gesture of futility she knew would work on her little brother. "It's bad enough I can't do both of the kids' things! Todd and I have to split up to go! And I won't pick whether your precious nephew or adorable niece feels abandoned on their big day! I just won't do it!"

I sighed the sigh of capitulation. And Liv knew it. I have to give her credit for not gloating. I would've.

"Okay, fine." I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. "I'll do it." After uncorking the bottle, I handed my sister the first glass.

Liv threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. I saw that coming. It was what she did every time she needed me to cover for her. I could write the dialogue for these conversations. She always won, and I always lost.

After she left (with a small, in-your-face victory dance when she thought I wasn't looking), I opened the envelope with the information on the Vic and this assignment.

Chuck Plimpton was a big-time TV producer who ran a human trafficking ring for his string of sweat shops on the side. The problem (well, besides the human trafficking ring) was that Chuck was a hermit. No one had taken a picture of him in years. He didn't go to parties or awards ceremonies. Rumor had it he liked to spend all his time "playing" with his employees.

Oh yeah, and he also threw money at television. He'd produced some real winners in the past; Orgy Island, Nuns in Vegas, and Scared Straight (which featured gay men being forced to live in trailers and buy their clothes at Goodwill—and lasted only two episodes due to a network boycott led by Lady Gaga). I never watched reality TV. But something about Orgy Island made me think I should catch up.

I'd heard about Nuns in Vegas. It was the only show he had that didn't live up to its premise. Of course, it was a huge hit as a result. Chuck thought he had a "fish out of water" story here. Bring ten nuns from Iowa—from an order that lived as humbly as a medieval peasant with leprosy—and plant them in a suite at the Bellagio, giving them each $1 million to spend by the end of the show. Chuck was sure these little, old ladies in habits would try to spend it on charity.

What he didn't figure on, was that the Sisters of Perpetual Poverty were hardcore gamblers and professional alcoholics. They embarrassed a bevy of slutty Playboy Bunnies and made a Gangsta Rapper cry on the first episode, then poured money into male escorts and the roulette wheel on the other shows. The ratings were ridiculous. The nuns were excommunicated. And Chuck was an even richer bastard than before.

The problem would be getting to him. Chuck never left his compound except for auditions for his next show. Even then, he was in a private room behind two-way mirrors, surrounded by bodyguards. I wondered how Liv had thought she could do it. But then, she's a soccer mom, so she can really multitask.

But this was no longer her concern…it was mine. By now the house was dark. When did night fall? I flipped on the lights and turned off the Sinatra playlist on my iPod. Fumbling through the fridge I managed to find some brie and a mango. I sliced it all up and brought it back into my living room with a Harvey Wallbanger.

I wasn't surprised to find that Netflix had all of Chuck's shows in their video streaming library. I went to the first episode of Orgy Island and hit "play."

I had no idea you could film such things and air them on prime time. People are animals! Don't they have mothers? Who signs on to a reality show and doesn't know they're going to look like idiots? I mean, seriously—the one episode with the banana and snake…really?

Right now, I couldn't worry about that. I needed a plan to get in, take out the Vic (our cute family name for our victims) and get on with my life.

Well, if I had a life to get on with, that is. The fact of the matter was that I didn't do much. My cousin Dak and I used to hit the town a lot, with the occasional trip to more exotic locales. But since he got married and had kids, his priorities have changed.

I've had dates. Okay, well I used to have more. But do you know how hard it is for an assassin to hit the dating scene? And we're forbidden from having real Facebook accounts by the family Council. They kind of have a "leave no trace" policy.

I tried speed dating once. It was like running my hand through a meat grinder and rolling what was left in lemon juice. I met four women named "Katelynn." And that is the best thing I can say about any of them.

For a while, my Aunt Carolyn Bombay tried fixing me up. I hate blind dates. No, I'd rather run into the perfect woman while browsing in the poetry section of a bookstore, or at a jazz concert in a smoky lounge. So far, all that's happened is I've been banned from the poetry section of Borders for "weird loitering," and you'd be surprised how little you can see in a dark, smoky lounge. At least from the chest up.

My cousins and sister were all married. And of all of them, I was the one who wanted to find someone special and settle down. It couldn't be that hard if they did it. Could it? And yet, that certain someone eluded me.

I opened up my laptop and decided to put more energy into nailing Chuck. Kill Chuck first, then date someone wonderful. How hard could that be? I had to focus. So I googled Chuck.

It only took fifteen minutes to hit the jackpot. Turned out Chuck would be auditioning single men for some bachelor show. Approved candidates had to report in a few days to the studio in LA. Fine. I'd go there to audition and, literally, blow Chuck Plimpton away.

First, I had to fill out an online application. No problem. It would all be lies because I had no intention of following through with it. Well, I had to use my real name because they'd be checking it against our drivers' licenses, which told me they'd been burned in some strange way before. Okay. Fine. Paris Bombay. It's not like I'd make it any further than the audition.

These shows were stupid. Who really believes that a man can be put in a house full of women and actually find his one, true love? And these women! They all supposedly fell in love with whoever this moron bachelor was. Love was more meaningful than that, right?

I was one of those guys who really appreciated women. I've always thought of them as equals in every way. Girls in high school and college loved me. I was the boy-next-door (who just happened to like cleaning guns and shooting a sniper rifle) who turned into the unfortunate role of best friend instead of boyfriend.

The only thing I couldn't tolerate was bimbos—women who thought it was okay to act like idiots to get a man's attention. Unfortunately, as Dak's best friend, they were most of the women we went out with, until his wife Leonie came along. In my humble opinion, these women who played the part of slutty girlfriend, hoping for a diamond from one guy she shared with twenty other losers was the worst of all. Give me a woman with a brain any day. Hopefully, I wouldn't even meet these shallow girls who would fight like cats over the character I was applying for.

So I filled out the application in a way that would get me in the door but not much else after. Was I wealthy? Yes. Bombays have outrageous trust funds due to four millennia of "wet work." What was my idea of a perfect date? A picnic on the beach at sunset sounds cliché enough to work. If I was a fish, what kind of fish would I be, and why? Are they serious? Okay, okay. Um, I'd be a salmon, swimming upstream, against the flow, to be with the, um, girl salmon I love.

After hitting send, I put the laptop down and picked up the phone to call my cousin Missi.

"Paris?" I heard her ask. Of course she'd have caller ID. Hell, for all I knew, my inventive cousin could see the color of my boxer shorts. They are black, if you must know.

"Hey Missi. I have a job, and I need some advice." I smiled as I said this. Missi was the inventor of ways to kill people for the Bombays. She'd come up with everything from exploding Wacky WallWalkers to plants that could suck the oxygen out of room.

"What's the scenario?" she asked. This was good, because Missi tended to get sidetracked easily. Bring up a silencer make, and she'd tell you how to explode them when you pressurize them.

"I'll be in one room while my Vic is behind a two-way mirror, flanked by security." Hmmm, now that I said it aloud, it seemed harder than it originally had. Maybe there was another reason Liv didn't want this gig.

"Wow," Missi said. That got my attention. Missi never said anything other than give me a few hours before. "It might take me a couple of weeks."

What? "Oh, okay." I cleared my throat. "You know what, Missi, don't worry about it. I can come up with something."

"Really? Are you sure?" came the doubtful reply.

I nodded, as if she could see me. "Yes. I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

"Okay!" Missi sounded cheerful before the phone went dead in my hand.

I was on my own. Damn.

CHAPTER TWO

"I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, and I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat, and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room."

~Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely

The next morning found me tired from staring at the ceiling all night with no new ideas. I had nothing. Basically, all I could come up with was actually making it to the audition. It was the two-way mirror's fault. The bodyguards would have the drop on me before I could do anything. And then I'd have to be able to get out of there unseen. There'd be a line of actors waiting their turn in the hallway. And without knowing how many were behind the mirror, I couldn't plan an organized attack. That annoyed me. I loved being organized. It's like foreplay.

I needed advice. Why was I blanking on this gig?

"Because it wasn't assigned to you." Dak said an hour later when he met me for coffee. "There is a reason why jobs are assigned to specific Bombays." He motioned for the blonde waitress to bring him another cup without even looking at her. Marriage had really changed him. For the better. Now if I could just find someone.

"The Vic loves brunettes. He gets most of his sweat shop workers from Central and South America." My sister, Liv, was a brunette with big, innocent eyes. Vic wouldn't have suspected her of anything.

Pushing back in my seat, I brought my right ankle up to rest on my left knee. "We've helped each other out on jobs before," I said. A fleeting memory of Mickey Mouse going "pop" at Disney World crossed my mind.

Dak shook his head. "We've helped each other but never completed the job for someone else," he chuckled softly. "What were you thinking?"

The waitress returned with Dak's coffee. She raised one eyebrow suggestively at me. For a moment I took it as flirting. Then she pointed to my empty cup. I just shook my head and waved her away.

"I wasn't thinking," I answered. The gravity of the situation hung in the air between us. Dak was right. None of us ever took on another Bombay's job before. Even with Liv, I'd helped her, but I never did it for her. This was serious. Didn't she realize what she'd asked me to do?

I ran my hands through my hair. What was wrong with me? I should just call her right now and tell her I refuse to do it.

"What are you going to do?" Dak asked.

I looked at my cousin and best friend. His hair was tousled, and he looked like some guy in a Starbucks ad with his blonde hair, blue eyes, and golf shirt with khakis. Marriage and kids agreed with him. There was a glimmer of contentment in his eyes lately. One more thing to make me realize how alone I really was.

"I'm going to call my sister and tell her I can't do it," I said firmly. Digging out my cell, I hit the quick dial.

Liv answered on the first ring. "What." Her voice was flat, like she knew why I was calling.

Dak nodded at me, and I spoke up, "I can't do your job. I'm not supposed to."

"What?" Liv's voice took on a dangerous tone. I waited for her to respond, but there was nothing more.

"I can't do an assignment given to you by the Council," I said.

"Why not?" my sister asked. "I've saved your ass many times, Paris Cyrano Bombay!" Uh-oh. She sounded like Mom. "And you're telling me you can't do this one, little job?" Her voice was calm and even. That was worse than hysterical and yelling.

"Fine," I caved with as much dignity as a man can when doing so to his sister, in front of his best friend.

"That went well." Dak grinned as he took a sip of coffee. He really couldn't talk though. His sister Gin had him by the balls most of the time too.

"Just help me come up with some ideas," I pleaded, my dignity now pooling on the floor at my feet.

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "When can you go forward?"

I sighed. "If I get accepted to audition as a contestant, it'll be soon. If not, we'll have to go a different way."

Dak dropped a twenty on the table and rose to his feet. "I'll talk to Leonie and Gin…see if they have any ideas… and talk to you tomorrow."

I got up to leave. "Thanks Dak."

I headed back home feeling a little better. Dak would come up with something. But maybe I should have a few thoughts for a backup plan, in case he didn't.

I took some paper and a pen and sat at the dining room table. After drawing a diagram of what I imagined the scene would be, I used paper clips to simulate the actors in the hall, an olive for me and four grapes for the Vic and his bodyguards. I had to think of it as a room with only one entrance. Hoping for an extra exit was an amateur move. Always think of the worst and you'll be better off—that's my motto. Well, that and avoid flamethrowers at all costs. I really don't like flamethrowers. That's just plain cheating.

One possibility was to smash through the mirror, like Ryan Reynolds did in Blade Trinity. There would probably be an extra way out in that room. But that required getting the drop on guys I couldn't see.

Spraying the window with machine gun fire might work. It would have to be an Uzi or some other compact for me to smuggle it in. That would smash the window and kill pretty much everyone behind it. But it was noisy and would draw the attention of the actors in the hallway. I imagined a bunch of vapid, attractive men trying to keep their Botoxed features placid at such a noise, so as not to induce unsightly wrinkles.

I also tried to imagine them rushing in to help, but I was pretty sure they'd flee instead. Why help someone and risk having your six pack abs scarred by a bullet? The idea made me laugh. Maybe going out the way I came in was an option after all.

The other problem with the Uzi idea was that it would be tough to smuggle in. My Vic was paranoid and had security. No doubt, he'd have them searching everyone. At least, that's what I would do.

The olive, grapes, and paperclips stared at me. Have you ever had an olive stare at you? It's creepy. I ate the food and shoved the paperclips aside. Once again, I had nothing. My cell beeped, and I pulled it from my pocket to check my email.

Mr. Bombay,

You have been selected to audition for The Bachelor! Please report to Studio 7B at the date and location listed below.

Sincerely,

The Producers

I was in. I had two days. Two days to get to LA and complete Liv's assignment. Once home, I would finally look into some speed dating or something to get my life on track. That was something to look forward to.

CHAPTER THREE

"Nothing is impossible. Some things are just less likely than others."

~Jonathan Winters

"You want me to shake his hand?" I asked Dak, frowning.

"It's a small, clear pin filled with tree frog poison." Dak grinned at me as he pulled out a small, nearly invisible needle.

"So, he'll feel it when it happens?" I wasn't sure about this. Bombays weren't too keen on getting caught.

Dak ran his other hand (the one unencumbered with frog poison) through his hair. "Well, yeah. But you palm the empty needle and get away."

I examined the needle. "Exactly how do I hold the needle so it pierces him, and not me?"

"You grip it with your palm." Dak's smile lost some of its luster.

"I don't know about you, but I don't have prehensile palms." I shook my head. "And this whole plan is contingent on the fact that I can get a face-to-face with him." I pictured myself failing at this and attempting to throw the needle at the mirror in a last ditch effort. In this fantasy, the needle would clink against the mirror before shattering on the floor, spilling a microscopic amount of tree frog poison.

Dak nodded. "Okay. That won't work. Sorry."

I sighed, "No problem. I shouldn't have asked. Of course, I shouldn't have agreed with Liv either."

"Ask Missi," Dak said.

I told him about my conversation with her. "Anyway, this is my problem." I looked at my watch. "I have to pack for my flight tomorrow."

An hour later, I had my black, Tumi roll-on neatly organized with everything I would need for the trip. Everything, that is, except for a plan. The whole thing was bothering me. I've always been organized…on top of things. How did this happen? It wasn't like me at all.

I'd just have to think of something on the flight over. My audition was in twelve hours. Whatever I'd need I'd have to find in LA. I'd never been so disorganized. That's what happens when you take jobs that aren't yours. And because I was illegally on the job, I couldn't borrow the Bombay private jet. Word would get out. Family would know. If you got busted by the Council taking another Bombay's job, that meant corporeal punishment. And that meant I was taking a commercial airline.

I was starting to believe that I'd lost it. Bombays lose it all the time. The pressure of the job makes having a normal life impossible. Our family tree was loaded with stories of assassins snapping—often spectacularly. In the early twentieth century, Sicily Bombay snapped and ran around the streets of Oslo wearing a Santa suit and throwing cauliflower at people before she was gunned down by the cauliflower-hating police.

Forty years earlier, Kiev Bombay decided to swim the distance between Australia and New Zealand, while wearing a necklace made of steak. His remains were never found. Perhaps the most famous story in our history is that of Moosejaw Bombay. At the age of eighty-three he decided he was such an excellent assassin, he could kill an elephant with his bare hands. He even insisted on wearing a blindfold. I've heard he still stains the pavement at a bazaar in Pakistan—but I've never been to check it out myself.

I didn't want to lose it. Sure, this business was pretty high pressure—but to go insane on a simple job would make it tough to find Mrs. Paris Bombay. I just had to hold it together through this assignment. If I did that, I could make Liv do the next gig assigned to me. And I hoped it was a messy one.

I flew first class to LAX, naturally. My Armani suit jacket hung on a hanger behind me. After the hot towel and a whiskey sour, I could feel myself starting to relax. Of course I could come up with something. I'm a Bombay—and not one of the crazy ones. We've had four thousand years of experience making stuff up on the fly. In fact, that's what we all did before we had Missi. Great, Great Aunt Bethesda once had five seconds to figure out how to kill a South American dictator during a tennis party and escape without notice. (Hint, the secret was in the velocity of the tennis ball.)

It would come to me. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

"Excuse me?" A woman's voice said.

I looked up and saw a statuesque brunette with full lips and a neat black bob. She was cute. Really cute.

"Can you help me?" She was struggling with a carry on.

I was on my feet in seconds, easing the bag into the overhead compartment. The woman stood close to me. She smelled like expensive perfume. I smiled at her and then returned to my seat.

"Thanks," she said with a grin that implied she was interested. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that. She took the seat next to mine and extended her hand.

"My name is Cindee," she said with a smile.

She was tall and curvy in all the right places and made me think of noir black and white films. I felt like Sam Spade and immediately regretted not bringing my fedora.

"Paris," I said, taking her hand in mine. "A pleasure to meet you."

She had dimples and a voice that sounded like a tall, cool drink on a hot afternoon.

"Nice to meet you, Paris." I wondered what to say next. Dak was the guy with the moves and great lines, not me.

"So," I said, "heading to Los Angeles?" Okay, that might have been a bit stupid. The plane we were on was, after all, a direct flight to LAX.

Cindee had the class to ignore my faux pas. "Yes, and I'll be there a while…I hope."

"You hope?" I asked. "You don't know?"

Cin shook her head, and a wave of silky, black hair fell perfectly into place. "I'm an actress." She made a face, and I thought that was adorable. I couldn't stand pretentious actors. This woman had a sexy, self-deprecating edge I found irresistible.

"I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for." Clearly this conversation wasn't working for me. Maybe I needed another whiskey sour?

Cindee rolled her eyes. "I'm just tired of doing theatre, that's all. It's a lot of work for little money. I want to see if I can actually make it on TV." She shrugged…adorably…"And if it doesn't work, I'll return to my parents' bookstore. That was the deal."

That got my attention. "You like books?"

"Sometimes more than acting, really. I love nothing more than to put on my silk pajamas, and sit in front of a roaring fireplace with a first edition of Tennyson." She shook her head. "Sounds pretentious and boring, right?"

My head was pounding. Bookstore? Silk pajamas? Poetry? Was this some sort of a setup? Maybe the gig was just a ruse for Liv to get me on the plane with my dream girl. I know, you're wondering why she didn't just set us up on a regular date. But the Bombays are different (and rather dangerous) that way.

"So," she continued, "I got this opportunity to be on some, stupid Bachelor knock off, and here I am."

And there it was. I had trouble returning her grin. She was one of the vapid bimbos for the show. I should've known better. I really should have.

The steward began announcing the safety procedures as the plane began to taxi down the runway. Thank God. I didn't think I could continue the dialogue. What was I supposed to say? What I thought? That she was going to share a man with a roomful of women and discover he's her true love? There simply was no way to justify that kind of rationale. It felt dishonest and wrong.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Paris," Cindee said when I didn't respond. She turned away with a small frown as she pulled out a book to read.

"You too." And I leaned back and closed my eyes. I had four hours to think of a plan. The sooner I took out the Vic, the sooner I could get back home and find a 'real' woman.

CHAPTER FOUR

"The best defense against the atom bomb is not to be there when it goes off."

~British Army Journal 1949

We landed at LAX, and I helped Cindee with her bag in the overhead compartment (Hey, I'm not a cad.), then nodded my goodbye. Within an hour, I was safe in my hotel room with my thoughts. My empty, empty thoughts. I'd never had this problem before, and I'd certainly never gone into a job cold, with no plan.

Don't get me wrong, sometimes in my business you have moments where you have to improvise because of timing. I did just fine with that. It just wasn't my preference. Like the time I'd planned for days for a hit on this Latvian terrorist. I'd spent weeks setting the job up, and he just happens to walk into the same men's room in Munich where I was washing my hands. Two minutes and a destroyed urinal later, my job was done. It wasn't pretty, and it was obviously a murder, but the Council considered it a job well done. I just would've preferred doing it my way.

You have to take pride in your work. I could take on four or five guys bare-fisted and leave them all drowning in their own blood (And yes, I actually did that in Paraguay once). But that lacked style. Each of us in the Bombay clan had our own way of doing things. Some liked to delay the deaths with poison so they could be two time zones away before the Vic fell over dead into his beluga caviar. Others preferred a swift and bloody execution that left no doubt what had happened. Still others liked their hits to look like accidents. (Hint – don't visit the Grand Canyon if there's a contract out on you.) I just wanted to leave a little elegance behind. It's a personal preference.

The hotel concierge called as I unpacked and told me there was a voicemail for me. It was from the show. I needed to be at the studios first thing in the morning for the audition. This was cutting things too close—I needed some sort of idea now. So I did the first thing I could think of…I ordered room service.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. These guys were fast. Through the spy hole I saw a waiter with a cart and opened the door.

For a second, the man looked surprised to see me, which was odd. He quickly regained his composure. "Good evening, Sir." The man nodded as he pushed the cart past me into the room.

"You can put it on the table," I said absently.

The waiter nodded again and slid the cart up to the table. I waited for him to put the covered trays there, but he hesitated. Alarms went off in my head, and I checked him out. And that's when I noticed his shoes. They weren't the black, polished wingtips this hotel chain was noted for. They were brown. And they didn't match his black pants. That, in and of itself, was a crime.

His arm came up in a second, and I saw the .45 with silencer in his left hand. How original. I charged him before he had a chance to fire. Straddling him on the floor, we wrestled for the gun. Who was this guy? Forcing his left arm to the floor with my left hand, I punched him in the throat with my right.

The guy started wheezing, struggling for breath. I usually wouldn't hit someone in the throat without asking questions first, as this tends to crush their trachea, killing them prematurely. But I hadn't been expecting an attack, and he had a gun. The man choked while I held his gun hand down. After a few moments, he died. Prying the pistol from his hand, I got to my feet and then sat on the bed.

Yup, he was dead alright. And I was very confused. Was there a hit on me? Or was this guy supposed to take out Liv—since the job was originally assigned to her? The only way I was going to know anything was to search the body.

The room was still. It always felt still after taking a life. I always thought this was because my senses were on hyper-alert. The silence seemed blaringly loud, and my skin tingled. The adrenaline high had me in its grip.

What a moron. He had his wallet in his pocket. I found a set of car keys on a Dodge truck key chain. I pulled out my cell and hit speed dial.

"Hey, Paris." Dak sounded like he was in the middle of something.

"Dak, I need you to look into something for me." I explained what just happened and got his full attention.

"He had his wallet and keys on him? Is this a joke?" Dak laughed.

"Yeah, and he also had a silenced .45. Stay focused!" I snapped. "According to his ID, his name is Luther Coswald." I paused to spell it and dictate the address. "There's five hundred dollars, cash," I sighed—wondering why so little. "Nothing else."

"You want me to run it for you?" Dak asked.

"No, I'll do that on my laptop. I just want you to put the word out to our contacts…see if Liv had a hit against her." My throat tightened. If anything happened to my sister…

"Right. Do you want me to let her know?"

"Yes, and I think you should let Gin and Leonie know too. Doesn't hurt to be extra careful."

Dak didn't answer. I knew he didn't want to involve his new wife. But she'd been in the business before retiring. Leonie could handle herself.

"On second thought," I said, "maybe Liv should get out of town for a while. Whoever did this thinks she's here, not me. And they'd be more likely to screw up."

"Let them believe she is in LA. Good idea," Dak said. "I'll talk to mom about who the contract came from and let you know what I find out."

In seconds I was on my laptop, trolling for info about the dead waiter in my room. The Bombays, thanks to my cousin, Missi, had some unusual search engines. We had complete access to DMV, census, and tax records—thanks to a long relationship with some government shadow agencies.

Luther turned out to be on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted List for murder and counterfeiting—something I found ironic. How had he evaded the feds but couldn't get past me? The fact his face was hanging in every post office in America was odd. Usually the guys who come after Bombays are off the grid. Seemed a bit unprofessional to use this guy.

His address was actually just a few blocks from the hotel, in Beverly Hills. And I had his keys. Perfect. Now, what should I do with the body?

Luther was a little heavier, but his jacket and white gloves fit me. I'd use my own shirt, tie and pants, and the RIGHT shoes. The room service cart worked perfectly to smuggle out the body. It took a while to cram him in there so that a stray ankle or hand didn't pop out, but I managed. The dark green tablecloth covered everything but the back, but I'd be pushing it there so would probably be okay.

I'd have to avoid the service elevator. I didn't want to run into the staff or end up in the kitchen. None of the guests seemed to think it strange that I was using the guest elevator. Hotel staff were usually invisible to most people. I made it to the parking lot easily enough.

Finding his truck wasn't even hard. All I had to do was hit the unlock button on the key remote, and a navy blue Dodge truck flashed its lights. After unloading Luther into the vehicle, I started up the truck and made my way to the address on his driver's license.

I pulled up into a set of elite condominiums in Beverly Hills. A row of carefully manicured hedges kept the door from view. After changing back into my own suit jacket, I made my way to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. I tried again. No point in letting myself in if there was a Mrs. Luther at home.

When several minutes passed, I inserted the key into the lock and turned. The key to breaking into a house that isn't your own is to look like you belong there. Once the door was shut behind me, I let out a breath.

The condo looked more like a showroom than an actual living space. There was no dust, no wrinkles in the upholstery, nothing to indicate anyone had lived here. The cupboards and drawers in every room were empty. Nothing was plugged into the outlets. Whatever this address was, neither Luther nor anyone else had ever lived here.

The condo was clean—devoid of any information at all. Even the computer was a prop. Now I had a different problem. Do I leave the body here? That was my original intention. Someone would eventually find him here and think he died at home. But now, with this being a false address, a dead body would only make it very newsworthy.

But maybe that wasn't a bad idea. The local news might find out more than I could. Besides, I was running out of time. I waited in the condo until darkness fell, and smuggled the body in through the sliding glass door out back. After arranging the body on the bathroom floor, to look like he'd fallen and hit his neck on the sink, (and planting his wallet back on him) I slipped out the back door.

Leaving the keys in the truck, I took side streets back to my hotel. Back in my room, I checked out the gun. At least I had a weapon now. But I still didn't know how I was going to kill my target in the morning. Fantastic.

CHAPTER FIVE

"She grinned at me. 'You got types?'

Only you darling—lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."

~Dashiell Hammett, The Thin Man

"This is your front desk wake-up call…" the computer-generated voice sang in my ear, waking me to a sunny and hazy LA morning. After a quick shower, I turned on the news. There was no mention of a body found in a condo in Beverly Hills. I sighed as I suited up for my audition. This was good and bad. Good, because Bombays don't like to attract notice.

But it was bad because I had no new information on the guy. I had no idea why he tried to kill me, or even if I was the target. I could always call in a tip to the police, but that had an element of risk I wasn't ready to assume.

Besides, I had to audition for and kill one of the most obnoxious producers in Hollywood. First things first, I thought as I tucked Luther's .45 into my jacket.

Getting the audition wasn't hard. And I had no intention of passing it. In fact, I was pretty sure that once I killed Plimpton, there wouldn't even be a show, which was a good thing—maybe even a service to the television-viewing public. And then, in a few hours, I'd be jetting back home. Granted, there was this strange attempt on my life, but I'd have more resources and time to deal with it later.

A Lincoln Town Car was waiting for me outside, complete with a chauffeur holding a sign that said, PARIS BOMBAY. The driver was a woman. She was kind of hot, actually. Short, curly brown hair with light blue eyes and a sad sort of smile. I liked that but didn't welcome the distraction. Was my need for companionship making me look at every woman as a possible soul mate?

Once I was settled in the sleek, black sedan, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.

"All set, Mr. Bombay?" She asked.

I nodded. "Please, call me Paris."

The driver smiled. "Alright, Paris, you can call me Teri." She started the car and pulled out into traffic.

"Do you want the privacy screen up, Paris?" she asked.

"No. I hate those things." And I did. It made me feel like I was entombed. I wanted to see what was going on ahead. An assassin should always be prepared.

"It should only be about an hour to the studios. Just sit back and relax. There's satellite radio, and the fridge is stocked with sparkling water."

An hour. Was that all I had? In LA traffic? How was I supposed to come up with something between now and then? It wasn't like I could ask Teri to stop at a hardware store so I could pick up piano wire and duct tape. (I didn't want to just rely on the .45 if I could do it cleaner.) Leave no trace was the idea. Okay, well now I just sounded like the Boy Scouts.

I was one though. An Eagle Scout. My project was to set up a handgun class for female victims of domestic violence. It worked pretty well too, that is, until one of them gunned down her ex husband at a Tastee Freez in front of a middle school jazz band. But that happened five years after the class, so I still consider it a success.

The car entered the freeway, and I stared at the miles of concrete barricades under a smog-riddled sky. I never really understood the lure of Los Angeles. Too much pollution, too many cars, and the people all looked like they were molded out of plastic. Especially the women. Why did they do that, anyway? So what if they had a wrinkle here or a frown line there? I liked it. It gave them character. It gave me the creeps when I saw a woman whose face had been "ironed" by Botox.

I stole a glance at Teri through the rearview mirror. She seemed like a natural beauty to me. And the crease between her eyebrows told me that she had lived—that she'd had emotions and knew how to express them. Her eyes caught mine, and I realized I'd been staring.

"Are you staring at me?" she asked.

"Sorry." To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. Why was I acting so desperate? "It's just that you don't look like most women here."

Teri laughed. "I don't know if you meant that as a compliment, but that's how I'm taking it."

"It was a compliment," I insisted. She had a nice laugh. I could appreciate that too.

"Well good. Then I won't let you off here and make you walk downtown," Teri answered. "I hate those stupid, vapid Barbie dolls."

"So you aren't from around here, then?"

Teri shook her head, her eyes returning to the road. "I'm from Chicago. And I'd wear a T-shirt that said that every day, if I had one."

I looked out the window just in time to see a blonde in a convertible pull up next to us. She had oversized sunglasses that were only surpassed by her oversized lips. Her breasts were huge—maybe a quad D, if they made them that large. And she, and the car, were pink. I shuddered and turned my attention back to Teri.

"I could never live here. I'm partial to real people." I hadn't realized I said that out loud.

Teri stared at me for a few moments, and I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I talked too much. Maybe I should close the privacy screen and focus on what I had to do next.

"What line of work are you in, Paris Bombay?"

My mind went into the smooth, well-traveled back-story I'd used for years. "Marketing. I'm a consultant."

"Is that right?" Teri looked back at the road. "And what is a marketing consultant doing auditioning for a reality show?"

That caught me off guard, and I withdrew automatically. I'd already said too much to make her remember me. The last thing I needed was to have her tell the police all about me because I was stupid enough to stand out.

"It wasn't my idea…" I said.

"It wasn't your idea? Unless the process has changed, you have to apply to audition for a show like these." She shook her head. "Maybe you're just as vapid as the idiot women on this show."

That burned. I'm not vapid. I was nothing like the others auditioning today. I didn't even want to be on this stupid audition. And where does she get off? She's paid by the same company to drive me around.

I punched the button, and the privacy screen went up between us. And then I sulked the rest of the way to the studio.

We arrived at the gate faster than I thought we would. After a brief pause at the security shack, the Town Car crept through the lots until pulling up in front of Stage Six. I heard the driver's door open and shut, before Teri opened the door for me. I got out quickly, handing her a tip before spinning on my heel and going into the building. Before the door shut I could swear I heard a chuckle behind me.

It suddenly occurred to me that I'd made a mistake. Oh, I was in the right place. I just wasted the drive here fuming about my chauffeur, when I should've been working on my plan of action. Now I was here with nothing.

"Mr. Bombay?" A young, skinny kid with a cheap suit, pimples, and clipboard stood in the hallway ahead of me. I nodded and followed him as he led me to a waiting area and motioned for me to join the other men auditioning. Skinny Kid left the room, presumably to collect more guys like us.

I was pissed off at myself. There were five other "Bachelors" sitting on nondescript sofas about the room. Each one looked like the other. In fact, they all sort of looked like me. Dark hair, brown eyes, tall and lean…if it wasn't for the clothes, you'd be unable to tell us apart.

No one had searched me. That was odd, but maybe I expected too much. This was Hollywood, after all. Chuck Plimpton probably thought actors were too stupid to attack him. He just never figured an assassin would be among the mannequins in the waiting room.

And with all these actors looking just like me, I had another advantage. I was pretty sure Skinny Kid wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup with these guys. I'd have to do the job immediately and flee the scene unnoticed…

My brain was racing as ideas actually came to me. If I could get into that room, behind the two sided glass, I could kill the Vic and his staff and maybe escape before it was even noticed. I was back in business. This gig was looking more like a cakewalk.

"Paris Bombay?" Skinny Kid's voice squeaked. "You're up!"

Already? I stood and straightened my silk, Hermes tie. I felt Luther Coswald's semi-automatic pressing into my ribs. It gave me the confidence I'd lacked since taking on this assignment.

I opened the door to the room Skinny pointed to and shut the door behind me.

"Mr. Bombay," a voice said from a speaker on the table in front of me, "please have a seat."

As I sat down, I took in the whole room. It looked more like a police interview room than a studio audition site. Across the table, facing me was a large, two-way mirror—just as I'd thought. On the right was a door. One of two—including the way I'd just come in. The door didn't look like it had a lock on it. But I couldn't be sure. And there was no way of knowing how many bodyguards were behind it.

The table was about six feet long, with a white cloth and a red skirt around it. I tried to hold back a grin. I knew just what to do. Planning was so overrated.

"Mr. Bombay," the disembodied voice said, "tell us a little about yourself that we didn't see in your application."

I tried not to roll my eyes. Standard, textbook interview crap. I rattled off a generic reply about growing up in the Midwest, wanting to meet a woman I could make a life with, my thoughts on jazz and literature…that kind of thing. There was no way of knowing if my interviewer liked it or not. And I really didn't care what he thought because within minutes, he would be dead, and I'd be out of here.

"Mr. Bombay," the voice said, "you are at the top of our list even without that empty answer. What I want to hear from you, is whether or not you can sustain a whole season of dating one hot mess after another. I don't really care if you read, rescue puppies from house fires, or like long walks on the beach. You are extremely attractive, and you don't stutter like an idiot who forgot his lines. You fit our standards."

I leaned forward to respond. "I can…I…" I sat back, my face twisting with pain. "I…" I stammered again, then fell sideways, out of the chair to the floor.

The sound of a doorknob turning in front of me, not behind me, made me smile as I got into position on the floor, rolling under the table, hidden by the table skirting.

"Mr. Bombay!" A voice shouted as I saw a pair of shoes come around to where I'd been. The guard got down on his knees and lifted the cloth as I punched him in the temple and pulled him under with me.

He was a big guy, but I managed to get him under the table as I crawled out the other side, which was directly under the window, where they couldn't see me. I screwed the silencer onto the gun as a voice barked into the speaker.

"Nils! Nils! How is he? Is he alright?"

Awww, he was worried about me! How nice. Too bad he didn't worry about the terrified people he trafficked.

I crept through the now-opened door before they realized what had happened. A lone bodyguard stood just inside the door, staring stupidly at me. I took him out and put a bullet between the eyes of Chuck Plimpton himself. I didn't normally kill the paid help. But "No Witnesses" is our family motto, and it wasn't a reach to think these guys didn't help with his little 'hobby.'

With them dead, I dragged Nils into the room and shut the door. After making sure there were no cameras and shooting Nils in the head, I began to search for a way out. The only way out was the door I just entered. I was just about to make my exit when the door to the interview room opened and nondescript-Paris-look-alike number two came in and sat down in the chair.

Well, that sucked. I'd planned to just walk out and let everyone think my interview was over. I figured they might not discover there was a problem until I'd escaped the building at least. But now, there was a guy, sitting where I'd just sat, waiting for his interview to begin. Why did Skinny send him in, knowing I hadn't come out?

I shoved the body of my Vic out of his chair and pushed the red intercom button in front of me. What was I going to say?

"Please say your name, age and tell me about any acting experience you've had." I lowered my voice, hoping to match the deep timbre of the dead guy near my feet. I also hoped that this sounded like the kind of question you'd ask someone trying out for a reality show.

The guy relaxed. "Ted. Ted Rockland." He launched into a litany of non-speaking roles and appearances such as "hobo number five" in Vampire Zombies, IV. I couldn't really tell you what he said, because I was too busy dragging the bodies of three dead men over to the far wall. The room had no exits, windows, or other helpful escape routes. Basically, I was trapped until all the interviews were over.

"Um," I said as I interrupted Ted, "thanks. We'll be in touch." The sooner I got these clowns out of here, the better.

Ted nodded as if he was used to this kind of abrupt blow off (And he probably really was.), and left the room. I was just wondering if I could slip out when the next one came in and sat down.

I gave him the same question and listened vaguely as I tried to focus on a plan. My cell phone was vibrating. It was Liv. I really didn't have time for this, so I ignored her.

There was no sound coming through the speaker. Apparently, this candidate didn't have much to talk about. He stared expectantly at the window, waiting for me to say something else. My cell started vibrating again. Knowing Liv, she'd keep this up until I answered her.

I hit the red button again. "What are your thoughts on women?" I asked, hoping he'd go deep and give me some random philosophy.

"I love women." he said, and stopped to wait for the next question. For some reason, Cindee's face popped into my head. She didn't deserve to have a loser like this asshole, treating her like a plaything he could toss away. I remembered what Teri had said in the car about me being vapid. That's just how I treated Cindee. I felt a little bad about that.

"Could you expand on that, please?" I asked with my low voice. I ignored the buzzing in my pocket. It was like I could feel my sister seething with rage because I wasn't answering.

The jerk flashed a toothy grin, making me think of a shark. "What more is there to say? I love the idea of being spoiled by a bunch of hot chicks."

My blood began to boil. "You can go," I snarled, "and you should think about how you treat women."

The dude shrugged and left. My cell was actually vibrating harder and louder. I wondered how Liv was able to do that.

"What?!" I shouted into the phone.

Liv really was pissed. "What's going on there? Dak says I have to leave town and keep a low profile?"

The third candidate came in and sat down. I froze as he ran his hands through his hair and then smiled at the window.

"Look, Liv, I don't have time for this right now," I whispered. Without depressing the red button, this guy couldn't hear me, but I still felt the need to keep my voice low.

"I'm not hanging up without answers," Liv said steadily.

"Please give me your name, age and acting experience," I said quickly into the speaker, forgetting to lower my voice.

"My name is Ted Rockmand."

My antenna went up. "Weren't you just in here?" I asked before thinking about it.

Ted the Second looked confused. "No, this is my first time in here." He cocked his head to one side as if he needed to do that to think.

"Paris! Who are you talking to?" Liv hissed in my ear.

I shook my head. There was no way Ted could see me, but it felt necessary. "No, you were just here! Ted Rock…something." It irritated me that he thought he could come in here again. Maybe that was his thing—a sort of do-over. Hell, in this town, maybe no one's ever noticed before. Well, not on my watch, baby.

"Dammit Paris! Pay attention to me!" Liv screamed this time.

Ted's eyes rolled up to the right hand corner. "I don't get it. People say that to me all the time. But this is my first time in here! I swear!" He looked confused and upset.

I pushed the button, "The second guy in here had the same name. Are you telling me you're not him?" Did he really think I'd fall for that?

"PARIS BOMBAY ANSWER ME!" Liv shouted.

"Dammit Liv! I'm in the middle of the hit!" I snarled into the cell, then hit the red button. "Honestly, do you think I was born yesterday?"

Ted looked stunned. It was hard to imagine anyone being more confused than he looked at that moment. Maybe he was right?

"THAT'S IT!" Liv barked, "I'M GONNA…"

I hung up on her and turned the cell off, wondering why I hadn't thought of that earlier. Multitasking was not my thing.

"Okay," I said into the speaker, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." Maybe I was just too mixed up to know how many Teds had been through here. I gave him the same question I'd given the others. Once he answered them, I told him "we'd" be in touch.

No one else came in, and after fifteen minutes passed, I thought I'd make my break for it. Slipping into the waiting room, I was surprised and relieved that no one was there. Turning left into the hallway would mean the possibility of running into Teri, so I went right. After finding an exit into another generic parking lot, I relaxed and tried to find my way out of the studios.

Hailing a cab a few blocks away, I was back at my hotel in no time. It was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and my flight didn't leave until morning. I changed out of my clothes and wiped down the gun and silencer.

This job sucked. And once I was brave enough to turn my cell on again, I'd tell my sister that.

CHAPTER SIX

"Hollywood is like Picasso's bathroom."

~Candice Bergen

I was having this dream. Teri was driving Cindee and me to dinner at an Ethiopian Fusion restaurant in Wisconsin. Halfway there, Teri pulled over to the side of the road, and she and Cin got out of the limo and went off together, leaving me alone. I guess I kind of deserved that. I'd treated Cindee like a bimbo and had completely abandoned Teri in the studio lot.

A phone was ringing nearby. I must've turned my cell back on at some point. Sitting up, I shook off the haze of sleep and realized it was, in fact, my in-room hotel phone.

"Yes?" I answered. Not a man of many words in the morning.

"Paris Bombay?" a familiar, squeaky voice asked.

"That's right." Was it the kid from the show? Why in the hell was he calling me? Oh, right. The producer was found dead…by me. He's probably calling to say the show has been dropped. I guess I expected that.

"You have been selected to be our bachelor on The Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever," the kid's voice squeaked again. "Congratulations."

"Wait, what?" I asked in shock. The show should be cancelled! Why would the network continue with it with Plimpton dead?

"A packet will be delivered to your hotel today." The kid ignored my question—or possibly never heard it. "A car will pick you up this evening to take you to the house we're using."

I shook my head. This wasn't happening! "No, that's impossible!" Was all I said into the receiver.

"Bye," the kid said, and the line went dead.

What the hell? I called the front desk, and sure enough they had the packet and agreed to send it up with some very strong, black coffee. I answered the door in boxer shorts. I was so distracted. The woman from the front desk looked me up and down, smiled suggestively, and started to say something before I shut the door on her. There was no time for that.

The packet was a box full of itineraries, information about the show, and a questionnaire about what I liked to eat, wear, etc. I found the number for the director and dialed.

"This is Mel Abernathy…" the Director said.

I started before he could finish, "Paris Bombay. I think there's been some sort of mistake."

"Ah, Mr. Bombay! Congratulations and welcome to the show!"

"About that," I said, then paused. I couldn't very well ask how the show could go on since Plimpton was dead. I assumed it was all over the media, but I didn't know for sure.

"Mr. Bombay?"

"Sorry, I was distracted for a moment. What I mean is, I haven't confirmed anything. I didn't agree to this or sign a contract." There you go—I'd get off on a technicality!

"But you did sign a contract!" Abernathy insisted.

"No, no I didn't. I just came in for the audition."

"Mr. Bombay," the director sounded weary. "When you submitted your application online, you agreed that if you passed the audition, you would be on the show." He paused for a moment to let it sink in. "It's an ironclad contract."

I sat there, on the bed, in my boxers, staring into the receiver as if the news would change somehow if I held it long enough. I can't be on that stupid show! I don't want to be on it!

"If that's all Mr. Bombay, the car will pick you up at six tonight. Don't worry about checking out—we'll do that for you." Abernathy hung up.

I was on my laptop in seconds. Once I found the online application, I scoured it for any chance that what the director said might be true. My heart sank as I read the line, in tiny print, at the bottom of the fifty-two page agreement that I was stupid not to have read. By submitting this application, you are agreeing that if you pass the audition, you will commit to Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever for the two-weeks necessary for production.

Shit. Reaching for my cell, I hesitated before turning it on. That would open the door to Liv chewing me a new one. I depressed the power button and waited. It couldn't be helped. The Bombays kept some of the best attorneys in the world on retainer. One of them could get me out of this mess.

There were thirty-eight voicemails—all from my sister. I deleted all of them without listening. I had more important things to do. Vincent Vincenza, the nearest attorney available told me he'd look into it and get right back to me.

Meanwhile, I turned on the TV to see if the news had anything on the demise of the show's producer. I scrolled through every news channel available, but there was no mention of the murder of a prominent producer and his bodyguards.

I checked the internet next, hitting everything from Entertainment Tonight to TMZ. Nothing.

This day wasn't working out for me. I took a shower, hoping it would give the media time to report the story. I even ironed my shirt and pants and shined my shoes before checking again. Nothing.

What was going on? By now I knew it wasn't a dream. No one has a nightmare this bad. Right? At least, not without forcing themselves to wake up.

The cell ran, and I checked to make sure it wasn't Liv before answering.

"Mr. Bombay?" Vincent's voice asked. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but the contract is legit. I'm not sure we could fight it without drawing a lot of publicity, and I know your family likes to avoid that."

I sunk down on the bed. He was right. It was far more dangerous to pull out of the show. Even though the show would be watched by millions of viewers, it would draw a lot more attention to the Bombays if I broke the contract. And the Bombays do NOT like drawing attention to themselves—especially when they just killed the show's executive producer. In their minds, two weeks of my public humiliation was nothing compared to years of a drawn-out lawsuit. I thanked Vincent and hung up. Damn.

Like it or not, I, Paris Bombay, was the new Bachelor.

And apparently, the death of their producer wasn't going to stand in their way of making me go through it. Why was that? And why wasn't it on the news yet? And what about Luther Coswald—the dead waiter? And was there really, in Hollywood, two Ted Rock…whatevers?

My head was buzzing, and I wanted a drink. Briefly, I toyed with the idea that when the car showed up for me, I could be wasted and obnoxious. Maybe if I was a total ass, they'd fire me?

The idea had merit. I bet I could get myself fired within a day. Scooping up the packet from the bed, I turned the news back on and sat at the table with the paperwork. Eventually, they'd have to tell us Plimpton was dead. Right?

Let's see, favorite food…I turned my Mont Blanc pen in my fingers. My guess was they wanted to plan the menus at the house and make the reservations at restaurants for the "dates." I'd have to pick something difficult for them to get. Ah, how about Mongolian goat meat—must be flown in daily? My needs also included a very specific diet regimen of pureed tulips, Swiss cheese without the holes, and seafood only found off the shores of North Korea. I indicated that I was deathly allergic to all alcohol except that which came from a still in the foothills of West Virginia.

I must have a private yoga master from India living in the house—and he must only be able to speak Hindi. By the time I was done with the list of personal preferences, I'd insisted that all dates be at county fairs in Iowa and that the TV had to be on in the background constantly showing episodes of F-Troop. Let's see them have fun with this one! I sent the packet via messenger back to the director and made my way to the revolving restaurant at the top of the hotel for lunch.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water."

~Carl Reiner

"Where did you say this house was?" I asked as I stared out the window of the limo. We'd gone up a winding road in what I assumed was the Hollywood Hills, but I wasn't sure. It really didn't matter, because I didn't want to go to the house, be on the show, or even talk to this kid.

"Not much farther," squeaked the kid. He was going through my questionnaire. "You know, this might be hard to get…"

I cut him off, "according to the contract I signed—you have to make me happy." I pointed to the clause where I demanded a mud bath every day. "And that's what will make me happy."

He looked like he wanted to say something more but closed his mouth. I watched his pronounced Adam's apple bobbing as he read the rest. Besides, why argue with him? He didn't make any decisions.

The car pulled into a long driveway leading to a Spanish mission-style house. It was huge and very tacky—like the builder wanted to incorporate every single detail he'd ever read about this style. I scowled. I despised bad architecture.

The door opened, and with a start I realized my driver had been Teri! How had I missed that? I guess I'd been too distracted when I left the hotel. I think I just marched up and climbed in before waiting for the chauffeur.

"Teri, um, hi," I said while running my hands through my hair.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Bombay." Her frown held more than a hint of contempt—and I didn't like it. "Congratulations on making the show."

"Oh. Thanks." She was pissed. I'd left the audition through the back door of the studio and found my own ride back. She'd probably been waiting a long time for me. I'm such a jerk.

"Look," I started, "I'm sorry I didn't come back out to the car after my audition."

Teri cut me off, "It's no problem. I got paid for a round trip whether you were in the car or not."

"Well, okay then…" Why was I trying so hard? What did I care what she thought of me?

"Have a nice day," she said as she made her way back to the driver's seat. I struggled to come up with an apology or something, but she drove off before I could say anything.

"Mr. Bombay?" The kid stood in front of me, trying to guide me toward the house.

I followed him, feeling like a first-class jackass.

The entryway was ridiculously elaborate. Who built this house anyway? I cringed at the overdose of gilt frames and fresh flowers. The coral tile floor clashed with the garish, flowered wallpaper. Knockoff paintings by Grand Masters covered the walls next to brass sconces filled with scented candles. I shuddered.

"Can I redecorate?" I asked.

The kid did a double-take. "I don't know. I'd have to ask…"

"It's just that this place has some potential. And I think I'd commit suicide if I had to spend more than ten minutes in this foyer." That wasn't a lie. It was awful. Stupid Hollywood types. I'd yet to see a house out here that had any elegance or class. The word "garish" was a grotesque understatement.

A thought occurred to me. "Why don't you ask Mr. Plimpton?" I literally held my breath, waiting for him to say that the producer was dead.

Instead, he shook his head. "Mr. Plimpton's not available right now." He turned away and started up the stairs.

I sighed and followed him. So they weren't admitting he was dead yet. Or the word hadn't gotten this far down the chain. Either way, I'd actually have to carry through with this. I didn't really pay attention as Kid showed me around. My heart wasn't in it. Not only did I not want anything to do with this show, I'd pissed off Teri—a woman who might be worth knowing. Now I was sentenced to this absurd excuse for a house.

"And this is where you will propose to whomever you pick." Kid's words startled me back to reality. We were on a deck overlooking the woods.

"Wait," I held out my hands. "Did you say 'propose'?"

He nodded, looking a little exasperated with me. "Yes. Propose. This is The Bachelor. What did you think you were auditioning for?" Apparently, I'd pushed his limits.

His cell rang before I could explode. "This is Kevin." He listened for a while, then said, "Okay," and hung up. "Mr. Abernathy will be here soon. I'll show you to your room."

My brain was swimming as I followed him. Propose? I forgot all about that part! I'd gone through this whole process thinking my involvement with this program would be miniscule. But the point of The Bachelor was to find a woman from the batch pre-selected for me and propose to marry her.

This is NOT what I wanted. I never wanted to meet a woman this way. The only reason I did this was to kill Liv's Vic. I would NEVER do a job for her again.

The door closed, and I realized I was alone in what appeared to be my bedroom, with my luggage. The room was hideous. Some sort of pseudo-manly theme with wood paneling, sailboats, and equestrian paraphernalia. In moderation, it might have been nice. But every bit of wall space was covered with pristine oars, polo mallets, and saddles. This did not include the framed paintings of horses and boats.

I couldn't do anything about being on this show, about having to propose to a woman I didn't want to marry, but I could do something about this. Carefully, I took off my jacket and hung it up in the closet. After making sure there were no cameras or hidden mics (We Bombays are nothing if not paranoid.), I moved around the room taking crap off the walls and stashing it in the same closet.

I'd never redecorated a room in anger before. It seemed to suit me. After an hour, I paused to survey my efforts. The room had a little charm now. I'd left a set of crossed polo mallets and one sailboat model on the walls. Everything else was stashed. I'd removed the ridiculously dark drapes, leaving only the blinds. That added some light to a room darkened by paneling. The whole thing made me feel slightly better, so I unpacked my luggage.

There wasn't much. I'd only planned to be in town a couple of days at most. I would need more clothes to make it two weeks.

Two weeks. With a fiancée at the end.

Dak answered on the first ring. "Where are you?" he asked. "Liv's driving us all nuts trying to get hold of you."

"I happen to be on the veranda of a huge and ugly mansion. And in two weeks, I have to propose to some bimbo hand-picked by the studio."

There was no comment on the other end.

"I'm on the damned show, Dak. I'm the Bachelor."

Laughter burst from the receiver. "What? Are you serious? Quit bullshitting me!"

I took a deep breath. "I'm serious. I'm not happy, but I'm serious." Dak listened quietly as I told the whole story. I didn't come right out and admit to taking out Plimpton. We Bombays have secure lines—maybe the safest in the world. But we never, ever took chances. So we spoke in code.

"So you took out the garbage, then?" Dak asked. Okay, so it wasn't a great code, but it served our purposes.

"Yes. And I haven't heard ANYTHING from waste management." More code.

"Well then, what are you worried about? You're in a Hollywood bach pad with a bevy of beauties! Enjoy it, Man!" Dak said.

"Except that I have to ask one to marry me when it's over." I was really counting on my anger coming through on that one. "This is NOT the way I wanted to woo a woman."

Dak laughed, "Would you just listen to yourself? Who says 'woo' anymore?"

"That is beside the point," I said through clenched teeth. "I don't want to meet a woman this way. What kind of women try out for something like this anyway?"

"Hey, you can't judge them like that. I'm sure there are a couple nice girls in there," Dak chastised.

My thoughts turned to Cin. I'd liked her up until she told me about being on this show. Was he right?

"Besides, these engagements never turn into actual marriages. The couple always breaks up once the cameras are off."

Okay, he had a point. "It isn't like I have a choice anyway."

"Dude, you really should read things more carefully," Dak said, knowing he was the only person in the world who could get away with calling me on that. "Just relax and enjoy it. Think of it as a vacation."

We hung up, and I thought about what he'd said. I may have been legally bound to do the show, but I wasn't necessarily legally bound to go through with a wedding once the cameras were off. I'd definitely have to check the contract again.

"Mr. Bombay?" a voice asked at the door after a short knock. It sounded like Abernathy, the director.

"Come in."

A short, intense man with curly, brown hair and a slight limp burst into the room. He crossed it with his hand out. "Mel Abernathy, Director." Mel shook my hand vigorously before stopping and checking me out.

"We are happy to have you join us," Mel said as he walked in a circle around me. "You are a handsome man! Yes, very attractive." He seemed pleased with his assessment and motioned for me to sit at a small table near the bed. Abernathy took the other seat.

"I got your survey, and we are trying to fulfill it to your satisfaction." Mel's eyes actually twinkled. I'd heard of that before but had never seen it. This man loved his job. "We will spend the rest of the day shopping for your clothes, toiletries, whatever you need. And tonight, the girls will arrive."

"Tonight?" I thought I'd have more time than that.

"Oh yes. You see, we are on a tight schedule. We usually get a month to shoot, but this time we only have two weeks."

I seized the opportunity. "Oh, is Mr. Plimpton busy with something else? I was really hoping I could actually meet him…face-to-face."

Mel shook his head. "He's left the country for a brief trip. You'll have to meet him in a few days." There was no evidence that he thought otherwise. Clearly, no one had told him yet that his boss was dead.

"I see." I didn't really. How could they keep this quiet?

"He never really comes to the house for these things until the end, you see." Mel nodded, and I got the distinct impression he was waiting for me to nod too.

"In the meantime," Mel hit a button on his cell phone and spoke into it. "Send him in, please."

Before I could ask what was happening, the door opened, and a young man with curly, red hair and dark, brown eyes entered. He smiled at me. I think our Armani suits matched.

"This is Roberto, and he will be your personal valet for the next two weeks." The director introduced us.

"My valet?" My interest piqued. I'd always wanted a valet. I rose to shake hands with the man. Roberto walked around me the same way Mel had. I was beginning to feel like a side of beef.

"Not a lot to work with…" Roberto mused. "He's already almost perfect." He reached up and cupped my chin. "I can do some manscaping, but he's yummy as is."

"Excuse me?" I didn't need manscaping.

Roberto pulled out his iPhone and dialed. "I'm calling Omar at Nordstrom's. You're what, a size 46?"

"How did you know my size?"

"I'd suck at this if I didn't." He turned away. "Omar, Darling! Here's what I need." Roberto listed off a litany of designers in machine gun style.

"Mr. Bombay," Mel started.

"Paris, please." My head was spinning. This was really happening. I heard snippets of Roberto's order and for a second, wondered if they'd let me keep the Bruno Magli loafers he was ordering.

"Paris," Mel smiled. "The girls arrive this evening. We'd like you to meet them at the door as each one emerges from her limo."

I stopped him. "Women."

"What?" Mel looked confused.

"If I'm doing this, we're doing it right. They aren't girls. They're women. I'm not treating them like trash, and I don't want them showing up in slut-wear. I'd like this season to have a little dignity and elegance."

Mel froze as if I'd asked him to cut off his own arm and eat it. "But the ratings…Mr. Bombay…"

"Paris." I steeled myself.

"Paris," He pulled himself up to a full five feet, four inches in height—the best he could do. "This whole show appeals to young men and middle-aged women. The guys want to see hot, young girls, and the women want to feel superior to them."

I shook my head. "No deal." I even folded my arms over my chest to look intimidating. And that's when I realized Roberto was stripping me and measuring my inseam. You may not realize it, but it's very hard to look intimidating with your pants down.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away."

~ Raymond Chandler

I spent the rest of the day being groped and measured by Roberto and Omar, while Mel gave me the rundown on that evening's events. Staff ran around the house, moving furniture around and getting the women's rooms ready.

Since the show was going to be shot in two weeks, they only had twelve women who would be vying for my attention. It occurred to me that with Plimpton dead, they were trying to wrap the program before the network knew about his untimely demise at the hands of yours truly.

But this was ridiculous. How long could they keep a murder quiet? I tried to ask (subtly, of course) when I'd get to meet the producer, but was brushed off every time. I was beginning to think I'd imagined killing him and his bodyguards.

Maybe if I ferreted the truth out, the program would come to a screeching halt, and I could go home. Hmmm…this idea had merit. I just needed to get the word out that the producer was dead.

"Um," I stammered, "I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass, Roberto, but do I need to be naked to try on neckties?"

"You know, Paris," Roberto said as he ignored my question, "I'm getting the distinct impression that you don't really want to be here."

"Why do you say that?" I hoped I sounded sincere. I'm sure I didn't.

"You don't seem very excited to meet a group of gorgeous women." He looked at me and cocked his head to the left. "Are you gay?"

I cocked my head to the right. "Wouldn't you know that?"

"Yes. My gaydar's pretty fabulous. But maybe I'm wrong, just this once?" He arched his eyebrow suggestively.

I pulled on my boxers. "No, you aren't wrong. I'm straight. I'm just not into the kind of women who would go out for a reality show."

Roberto snapped his tape measure shut. "Why are you here then? Don't get me wrong…I like you much better than the jackasses we usually have on this idiotic program. But what possessed you to audition?"

Because I needed to kill the executive producer. "I'm wondering that same thing."

Roberto didn't say anything for a moment. Then he nodded and handed me my suit for the evening.

"Paris Bombay—you may have just what this show needs," he said as he made his way to the door.

"What's that?"

"A little class." He smiled and left the room.

Mel stood in front of me on the front porch. The first limo would arrive any minute, and the cameras were lining the sidewalk.

"We'll focus on the limo first," he said, holding his hands up in front of him as if they were a camera lens. "Then we will follow each girl…" he caught himself, "woman, as she walks up to you. You hand her the rose and introduce yourself." Mel indicated the tray of roses on a small table beside me. "Then she'll go inside, and the next one comes."

I'd had a small victory earlier when I'd insisted they exchange the red roses for yellow roses. This was an introduction, after all. A yellow rose symbolized friendship. Red roses seemed too insincere for a first meeting.

I felt stupid arguing for the roses, because I still didn't know why I was here. Chuck Plimpton was dead. They had no show! And how does a dead man pick me from the lineup? And how did they get three, bloody bodies out of that room without anyone noticing? Well, it is Hollywood. Maybe people thought they were carrying fake bodies out.

It didn't really matter because the bodies were most likely disposed of, and I was under contract to do the show. Whether I liked it or not, I had to pick a woman out of a group of shallow actresses and propose to her. On TV. While my family laughed at me.

We stood in the dry, warm air as the sun set behind the house. I had to give Roberto and Omar credit. This was one luxe suit. I wore nice clothes as a rule, but this felt like butter and had a nice sheen to it. The silk socks and Prada oxfords gave me a little lift. I won't go into the 600 thread count Egyptian boxers and T-shirt.

A white, stretch hummer pulled up to the end of the sidewalk. How tacky. Oh well, I only had to go through this weird meet-and-greet twelve times. Hopefully, the mansion had a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

The chauffer opened the door, and a petite blonde with elfin features and a lot of makeup stepped out. She was wearing stilettos and a dress that barely sufficed as a slip. She leered at me and sashayed over. My stomach turned.

"I'm Paris Bombay," I said, following the script. "Welcome." I handed her the yellow rose ,and she leaped into my arms, kissing me on the lips. Her tongue was halfway down my throat before I could push her off.

"I'm Leila, and the pleasure is all mine," she said in a husky voice as she pulled away and slinked into the house.

"Cut!" Mel shouted as the door closed behind her. He raced over and wiped a red smear of lipstick off my mouth.

"What the hell was that?" I hissed under my breath. Leila assaulted me. I've killed men for doing less. Leila—if that was her real name—was trying too hard and as far as I was concerned, would go home tonight if possible.

"No! That was great!" Mel said. "I just wanted the lipstick off before the next gir…woman gets here. I hope they all do that!"

Bile rose in my throat. It was bad enough I felt like a side of beef. But women like that were only out to win. She didn't know me. Kissing me like that…hell, even dressing like that, meant she was doing it all for the cameras. No wonder none of these shows ended in real marriages.

"Don't punch them," Roberto whispered behind me. "At least, not in the face." How did he get there?

"How did you know that's what I was thinking?" I whispered back.

He laughed and stepped back into the shadows of the porch. Of course he was there. What if something happened to my wardrobe? What if the next woman ripped off my clothes and tried to screw me right there on the porch? Okay, so that wasn't such a horrible idea—on the surface. But I'd be full of moral outrage, right?

Limo number two arrived. I stiffened, waiting for the worst. The door opened, and a redhead stepped out. She was almost as tall as me and dressed more demurely in a little black dress that covered up her shoulders and thighs. She actually walked normally toward me in short heels. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders at an unnaturally long length. But that was the only bad thing about her.

"I'm Gloria," she held out her right hand for me to shake. Now this was more like it. A real woman.

Taking her hand in mine, I introduced myself. This might not be so terrible after all.

Gloria stepped a bit closer and whispered in my ear, "I like threesomes. You will too." She said, before smiling and making her way into the house. I sighed. Did they recruit these women from porn sets?

More limos came and went as woman after woman introduced herself, made some crude remark (including a few suggestions I wasn't sure were even physically possible) and went inside. Other than the fact they were different heights and hair color, they seemed all the same to me. Each woman seemed kinkier than the rest. It was sad and a little creepy.

The last limo pulled up and stopped at the curb. This torment was almost over. I just had to smile through one more introduction…if I could without killing Abernathy that is. The director was beaming as if he'd gotten footage of all the women naked. I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them tried to get away with that.

The door opened and a foot with a closed-toe, black pump stepped out, followed by a knee-length hemline. I tried not to get my hopes up. I'd been so very wrong before.

Cindee stepped out of the limo and onto the sidewalk. She looked a bit startled to see me, and I found that adorable. I wondered if I could make her look like that every day. That would be worth something. Cindee quickly recovered with a smile as she made her way toward me. For the first time that evening, I was grinning.

She walked up to me, and I took her in. Same gorgeous figure, silky black bob, and big brown eyes. I felt my hostility softening. She really was beautiful.

"Hello," she said with a faint smirk. "I'm Cindee."

"Paris Bombay," I replied, handing her the last yellow rose.

She pulled in closer. "I didn't expect to see you again," she whispered. She smelled like vanilla. I loved vanilla.

I tried to control myself. It wouldn't look good to finally be happy to see one of the girls. "I didn't expect to be here. But it is nice to see you again."

She searched my face. "Really? I guess that surprises me."

My heart sank. I'd hoped she'd forgotten what a jackass I was on the plane. "I deserve that. And I'll make it up to you."

"We'll see," Cindee nodded and went into the house.

"Oooh," Roberto whispered behind me somewhere. "I like her!"

So do I, I thought to myself. So do I.

CHAPTER NINE

"Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die."

~Mel Brooks

I regained my senses and entered the house. Kevin the Kid stood in the foyer, ready to escort me to the den, where I'd meet the women as a group. This would be the end of the taping for the night. I had my own suite of rooms, but the ladies had the run of the house. We were not supposed to run into each other except for dates and the part where I decided who was leaving the show. And I was perfectly okay with that, until I saw Cindee.

"We have F-Troop playing on the TV in the den, but I muted the sound. I hope that's all right," Kid said.

It took me a moment to realize that I'd requested that the '50s show be on in the background in my contract. Apparently, they didn't think all my unreasonable demands were, well, unreasonable. "Oh, I suppose I can live with that."

"It'll be on in all rooms of your suite at all times," he added. "I managed to get the whole series. The sound dude's a fan."

I wasn't originally nervous about the group meeting—that is—until Cindee showed up. For some reason, I wanted to impress her. But I couldn't remember what exactly I was supposed to say next. My mind scrambled to remember what Mel had told me, but I was drawing a blank. Preparation had always been important to me. I didn't kill a third world dictator without floor plans, firsthand knowledge of his habits, and an introduction to his mistress and tennis coach. And yet here I was, unprepared.

"This is it." Kevin opened the door for me.

Eleven women stood in an arc around the room, smiling in various degrees of insincerity. Cindee stood out. And not just because she was watching me warily. She couldn't help standing out like a flower among weeds. She just did.

I felt like I was on trial and this was my jury. And my jury was already flirting with me. Across the room, there were multiple pairs of lips being licked and eyebrows wiggling, and one of the women was doing something with her two index fingers that looked, if it was what I thought it was, obscene. This shocked me into remembering my lines.

"Welcome, ladies, to The Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever. I'm Paris Bombay," I shouted over the F-Troop theme song.

The women giggled and one blew me a kiss. Obscene Finger Girl started stroking her elbow while leering. I steeled myself and continued.

"Over the next two weeks, I will get to know each and every one of you." To my credit, I didn't wince at how suggestive that sounded. "At the end of each night, I will invite all but two of you to stay another day. I wish you the best of luck. Good night."

The cameras went off, and I tried to turn toward the door. I say "tried" because I was suddenly surrounded by women. They were all trying to mark me, like male cats at a feline orgy. I'd like to think that simply meant they were trying to impress me or get me to notice them. But unfortunately, it meant I was groped and fondled…and it pissed me off.

I couldn't help but notice that Cindee remained standing near the wall. She wasn't part of the mob, and I liked her even more for it. Even if, a little voice inside my head wondered why isn't she trying to impress me?

Roberto managed to slip into the middle of the fray and extricate me from what had become a mosh pit. He pushed me out the door and shut it behind me. The ladies must've calmed down, because I could hear Kevin-the-Kid giving them their instructions.

We made our way to my suite, and after checking to make sure the door would lock behind us, I sank down on my bed. Roberto stood in the doorway.

"Are you alright?" he asked, barely concealing a grin.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I undid the button on my jacket. "That was bizarre."

"It happens every time. Word gets out that you have to work fast. Two weeks isn't a lot of time."

I rose to hang up my jacket and loosen my tie. "Why is that? Don't most of these shows last a month or so?"

"This time it's shorter," Roberto said. "The ratings suck, and there are rumors the funding has gone south."

I perked up. Maybe Plimpton's death had finally been announced? "So the show could be cancelled?" That wouldn't be awful.

"Perhaps. They don't tell me anything." He stood in the doorway with a grin. "You might want to wedge a chair up under this doorknob after I leave." He promised to lock the door to the suite behind him and left.

I pulled out my laptop and ran a search on the deceased executive producer. Nothing. How was this possible? What did they do with the body? This was only Hollywood—not some third world country with and an inconveniently dead despot. I've hidden bodies hundreds of times, but they were always found in a few days. And I was a professional.

This town was a joke. So was the show. And these women! At least Cindee was different. She didn't seem to have the same pack mentality as the others.

I got undressed and went to turn off the TV. That's weird. It wouldn't turn off. I couldn't even turn the volume down. Ken Barry was going on and on about some silly bullshit, and I couldn't turn him off. A note on top of the television explained it:

Mr. Bombay—per your request, we have F-Troop programmed to all the TVs in the house. It will be the only program on and will run on a loop 24/7. The set will remain on at all times—in accordance with your instructions. Sound will be controlled by the crew—and only while taping. Have a nice day!

I yanked the plug, but it wouldn't budge. Upon closer examination, I found it was cemented to the outlet. They took my contract a little too seriously. I covered the TV with the bedspread and slept with a pillow over my head. And I didn't hold out much hope that tomorrow would be any better.

"Mr. Bombay! Mr. Bombay!" Some sadistic bastard was beating on my door. Daylight flickered in through cracks in the blinds. I struggled to my feet and put on a pair of boxers before opening the door.

Kevin stood there, poised to knock again. He pushed past me into the room, followed by a housekeeper pushing a covered cart.

"Here's your breakfast," Kevin squeaked as the housekeeper left.

I pulled the cover off the tray and grimaced. "What is it?" It looked like some kind of gray, boiled meat and a glass of yellow and red fluid.

Kevin pointed at the meat. "Mongolian goat meat. And the glass is full of pureed tulips." He looked at me as if I had an arm growing out of my head. "Why would you want that stuff? It smells awful."

I had to admit, it did. And I was worried. They actually got me what I'd asked for. Now, I'd have to eat it or starve to death. I wondered if Roberto could smuggle me in some eggs and bacon.

"That's right, I did." I had to distract him. What if he expected me to eat in front of him?

"What's on the agenda today?"

Kevin looked down at his clipboard. "Well, you are having lunch with the girls by the pool. You'll meet with them in groups of three."

Lunch poolside. That sounded good. I doubted they'd make the contestants eat this swill. Now I just had to survive until then.

"And tonight you'll take one group out to dinner to get to know them better," Kevin continued. "The group you give the lowest score to will go home."

I turned to him. "What? So soon? I thought I let one or two go each night."

He shook his head while his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He looked like an optical illusion. "We might be cutting down to a week and a half."

"Really?" That sounded good. "What's going on?"

Kevin snorted. "Like they'd tell me."

I sighed. "Fine. Come get me when it's time for lunch." At least by then I'd find a good way to dispose of the goat meat. I was pretty sure I could flush the pureed tulips down the toilet. Maybe there were bushes under my bedroom window? I'd be making some coyote very happy.

"No, it's time for your yoga session." He tapped his clipboard.

"My what?"

"You're lucky this is Hollywood," Kevin said. "There are two hundred fifty-five yoga instructors who speak only Hindi. It was the easiest thing on your list."

Oh. Right. The yoga.

Twenty minutes later, I was wearing what appeared to be a large diaper, in a room where the temperature had to be 104 degrees, trying to understand a man who spoke a language I didn't know. And I speak five languages. Hindi, however, isn't one of them.

It was important to note that I'd never taken a yoga class in my life. My sister, Liv has taken yoga for years—in fact that's how I knew to ask for it. But I didn't really think I'd have to go through with it.

"This is Dushyant," Roberto said as he entered the room. He was wearing a black T-Shirt and pressed, linen pants. I sighed a sigh of relief. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"You speak Hindi?" I asked him.

"A little. I worked for Calvin Klein once, and he took me to India for a year when he was working on an idea to bring back the Nehru jacket."

Dushyant mumbled something.

"He says you need to take up the Salutation to the Sun pose."

I stood there, looking blankly. "I have absolutely no idea what that is."

Roberto rolled his eyes and pushed me to the floor, where he proceeded to mold my body in directions my body didn't want to go. We spent the next hour like that. Roberto abusing my limbs and me trying not to scream out in pain. It may be the worst thing I've ever done to myself— second only to the time I had to hide inside a UPS box for ten hours. Was it possible to kill someone with yoga? I'd have to think about that, once I got my mind off the excruciating pain.

Dushyant finally bowed and left, and Roberto helped me to my feet as the F-Troop theme started playing in the background.

"Wow, you're really bad at yoga," he said with a smile.

"Do you have some medical grade pain killers?" I asked.

Roberto nodded as if he heard that question every day. "I'll get you some. Do I need to carry you to your room?"

"No," I lied. "I'm fine. By the way, what does the name Dushyant stand for anyway?"

Roberto grinned. "Destroyer of Evil."

That made sense. Although after a week and a half of this, I was pretty sure it would mean "Destroyer of Paris."

"Go take your mud bath. You have lunch in thirty minutes," Roberto said as he left me in my room.

Mud bath?

CHAPTER TEN

Nora said: "I love you, Nicky, because you smell nice and know such fascinating people."

~Dashiell Hammett

The mud bath turned out to be my tub, filled with bubbling, brown ooze. One of the housekeepers glared at me as I came in. He didn't look happy to have to clean the tub after me, and I wasn't sure how he'd do it. I mumbled an apology as he left, because even my tongue hurt.

Roberto delivered two, large white pills while I was undressing. I did this very, very slowly. Every millimeter of movement felt like I was pushing that muscle through broken glass coated with lemon and salt. All of my concentration focused on simply removing the diaper.

Roberto watched for a while, then winked at me as he left. I swallowed the pills and stepped (again, very slowly) into the mud bath. It took half an hour to sit. I'm not kidding.

To my surprise, it was soothing. As I lay there, completely helpless (and hoping the women didn't know about it) the warm, thick sludge felt like a moist, hot hug. I soaked in it, feeling my muscles go slack. After thirty minutes it started to go cold, but it was hard to tear myself away. I'm serious. I could barely move, and now I was covered in cold mud. After a Herculean struggle, I stepped out of the tub and into the shower. The hot water gouged out rivulets of mud on my skin, and I just leaned against the wall.

Steam rose as the mud slid off my skin to the floor. All the pain from my yoga session was gone, and I was totally relaxed as I got out of the shower, clean at last. Unfortunately, I was completely weak from no breakfast, the pills, the mud, and the shower. How much time until lunch? I was starving but really felt more like a nap. A brief one wouldn't hurt, right?

I didn't even bother dressing. I just slid between the expensive sheets and was out before I knew it. And it felt good. Like that moment where you can't even feel your body anymore good.

"Is he dead?" a voice was saying, far, far away.

"No, he's alive," said someone who sounded like Roberto. "You go stall them. I'll get him up."

I heard the door close. My eyes refused to open. Maybe I was dead.

"Paris," Roberto's voice urged, "you have to get up."

"I know." At least my mouth was working. "I can't open my eyes." At least, that's what I was thinking. What I heard myself say was "Mmmmmmmth."

"You didn't take both of those pills I gave you and then take a mud bath, did you?"

"Yethhhh I thid. And it was wunnnnnerful."

There was some shuffling going on. I still couldn't open my eyes. Why couldn't I stay here?

"Time to get up," Roberto said.

"You go. You can be the Bachelor," I replied a little more clearly. And that was good because I was starting to think the yoga caused brain damage.

I could actually feel him shaking his head. "I don't think I qualify. Now get up before I molest you."

That did it. I sat up and opened my eyes. Maybe I did it too soon because the room got all wavy.

Roberto helped me dress and led me out to the pool. I was wearing a white, buttoned down oxford with chinos and loafers. My arms and legs still felt like rubber, and my stomach was screaming for food.

The women were standing around the pool area wearing dresses. Each one of them had a glass of wine. Roberto was arguing with the bartender.

"I don't think that's a good idea. He just had two horse tranquilizers and a mud bath. He's practically comatose!" Roberto said.

Horse tranquilizers?

The bartender shook his head. "It's in his contract, and I'm not about to break that." He shoved a glass of clear fluid into my valet's hands and walked away.

"Is that for me?" I could really use a drink now.

Roberto held it out of my reach. "Did you seriously ask for grain alcohol from West Virginia?" He looked a little pissed off.

I pulled him aside and tried to pull my mushy thoughts together. "You know what? I think I did."

Roberto steered me to the buffet. "You'll eat this first. Before you drink anything."

I filled up my plate. It took all I had in me not to just start stuffing food into my mouth with my hands. After about two thousand shrimp and steak kabobs, I was feeling a little more myself. That is, until Kevin appeared.

"Everyone's ready for you." He pointed to the chaise lounges. Four clusters with three women each sat around the pool, waiting for me…staring at me as if they were eating me with their eyes. I spotted Cindee immediately and realized that no matter what the other women did, she'd always be the first one I noticed. It was impossible for me not to seek her out.

Kevin continued, "You only have a few minutes with each group. Then you'll make your choices." He pointed me to the first group.

As soon as I sat down, the women closed in around me. I actually had a hand on each thigh and one on my arm. Then all three pairs of hands were stroking me. It felt like being seduced by an octopus…an octopus with hair extensions and a weird absence of frown lines.

"Hey Paris," said a brunette named Wanda. "I really like you! You're so deep."

Deep? Why would she think that? I've only given her my name and a stupid, yellow rose. I opened my mouth to say something when Brunette number two spoke.

"I think you are more like a poet," she said. "We've only known each other for twenty four hours, but I can tell."

I'd barely known her for five minutes, and we hadn't spoken yet. I opened my mouth to ask her if her knowledge of poetry consisted of Eminem lyrics but was cut off.

"No," said the third woman—who I vaguely remembered as something like Monterrey. "He's more like a philosopher. He has a sensitive soul."

"I…" I protested. Time to call these women out. They were doing whatever they could to go to the next level, and I was concerned about what they considered the next level.

"Thank you, Ladies," Roberto interrupted. "He has to move on now."

"Wait, what?" I said as he pulled me away. "That wasn't even enough time to get their names."

Roberto stopped and looked me in the eyes. "Oh, my apologies. Should we go back and let them get to know you better?"

I pushed him forward. "No way. Let's just keep going."

The second group was no better than the first. Gloria, the redhead with a penchant for threesomes, didn't let the other women talk. She told me her astrologer thought we were perfect for each other and suggested we have couples acupuncture and go fire walking for one of our dates.

The third group wasn't timid either. They actually got into an argument over the proper way to massage a man's genitals. And while I found the subject matter intriguing, I wasn't thrilled with the cat fight that broke out. Impressed, and possibly aroused, yes, but not thrilled.

At last we came to the fourth group. I shouldn't say "at last" because each interview was only five minutes. I barely spoke during any of them. But this group had Cindee. My stomach jumped a little when I saw her smile. Unfortunately, this group also had Leila, the blonde who tongued me the first night.

"How are you holding up?" Cindee asked. Wow. Not one of the women had asked about me.

"Oh, I think he can hold it up just fine," Leila interrupted. She touched my ass as she spoke.

Cindee rolled her eyes. I had to admit, it was really cute.

The third woman, whose name was Bridget, smiled but didn't speak. Instead, she ran her carefully manicured hand up and down my thigh. This was a new strategy—the Just Go For It.

I removed Bridget's hand and turned to Leila. "I just want to get to know you." And then I uttered words I never thought I'd say to a woman who wanted me. "I have no interest in sleeping with you."

Cindee burst out laughing. Bridget and Leila froze for a millisecond, as if re-evaluating their strategies. Then, not knowing what else to do, they resumed their suggestive smiles.

"Time's up," Roberto said.

I rose to follow him. "I think we found our winner for tonight," I said.

"I like that brunette with the bob. But the other two…"

"Are just like all the other women on this show." I stopped at Kevin and told him that the last group would go to dinner, and followed Roberto back into the house.

"I just don't get it," I said to his back. "I thought these women would like being treated with respect. Am I wrong?"

Roberto stopped and turned to face me. "Come on, let's get out of here." He escorted me to the garage and into a sleek little black Corvette.

"Wait, should I be leaving like this?" I hesitated. "I mean, shouldn't I stay at the house?"

Roberto shrugged. "You can if you want to. But basically, it's the girls who are being filmed twenty-four seven. You just have to be there for the dates and the elimination round at the end of the night."

I got into the car. He was right. I'd never seen cameras following the guy on these shows. "So where are we going?" I asked.

Roberto smiled as he pulled out of the garage. "Somewhere safe."

"Thank you. I think we have everything we need," I told the waiter at the quiet club we were at. He nodded and left.

"I can't figure you out, Paris," Roberto said as he sipped the last of his cognac. "Most straight men would love an opportunity like this. You sure you're not gay?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I just never really enjoyed the whole lady-killer thing." I savored the last drop of the thirty year old single malt scotch I was drinking and picked up the knife and fork for another go at my steak. It was good…real good.

Roberto had taken me to a small club, hidden away in the hills. It reminded me of those old-school men-only places in London. Between the quiet atmosphere and Iowa corn-fed beef, the company and the excellent bar, I was feeling a little more like myself.

"Why not?" he asked.

"My cousin is like that. Or at least, he was. He's married now, and his priorities have changed."

Roberto pushed back from the table, wiping his mouth on a silk napkin. "So you hang out with men like that, but you're not like them."

"He's my best friend. I was his wingman. I probably scored as many hits as he did. But I didn't enjoy it as much."

"You've always wanted something special," he said.

"I always wanted something special," I agreed.

"So why haven't you found it? Is that why you're on this show? To find love?"

I choked on a bite of steak. Once I cleared my throat, I continued. "I'm on this show by accident. As to why I haven't found the right woman yet—I have no idea. "

"By accident?" Roberto laughed. "That's a new one."

"It's my sister's fault," I said. That was all I could come up with. I couldn't tell him the real reason.

"So, what exactly do you look for in a woman?" he asked, politely ignoring my lame excuse.

I sat back and pushed my steak away. "Someone smart, funny, that kind of thing."

Roberto laughed. "You sound like you're auditioning for the show." He pointed a well- manicured finger at me. "You'll have to do better than that, or I'll think you're just like the ladies back at the house."

He was right. "I want a real woman. A woman who is intelligent, who can make me laugh—I do want those things. But there's more to it than that." I fiddled with my scotch. "She should be able to put me in my place but understand my flaws. And she should not be afraid of wrinkles or the stray gray hair. She should be confident enough to be okay with that. I find that very sexy."

Wow. I'd always felt that way, but never said it out loud. Maybe that was because Dak would've laughed at me. At least, back in his playboy days. And mentioning it around Liv would've been…what? Unsatisfying. Why was that? Why didn't I have anyone other than this valet to talk to about it? That bothered me.

"Paris, you're a great guy," Roberto said. "You're gorgeous, smart and a true gentleman. And I wish you were gay."

I looked at my watch. "I think, and I can't believe I'm going to say this, that we should get back."

Roberto signaled for the bill. "Yes, we don't want to miss your little date tonight."

I threw some cash on the table and mumbled, "No, we don't want me to miss that."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"There's an old saying in Hollywood: It's not the length of your film, it's how you use it."

~Ben Stiller

Teri was again my chauffer, and she ignored me as I got into the car with three women. I guess I deserved that. She dropped me, Cindee, Leila-the-tongue, and Bridget-the-mute, along with a camera guy, off at a sushi restaurant in Beverly Hills. I opened the door for the three women, and after introducing myself to the maitre d, I followed them to our table.

We had our own room, which was good because the cameramen were embarrassing in public. They all looked like homeless men dragged off the streets, handed a camera, and given an assignment. And they filmed everything from every angle possible. And I mean every angle possible. It was difficult to ignore them.

After we ordered, I decided to make another attempt to get to know these women. It wasn't their fault they only had seconds with me at the pool. They deserved the benefit of the doubt.

"So, Leila, tell me a little about yourself." I asked, hoping she'd go into a monologue about her work with orphans or something like that. This was an opportunity to tell the world that she was a real person.

Instead, she treated it like an interview for a gig as a Playboy centerfold.

"I'm a thirty-six double D," she began. "I like puppies and rainbows and my favorite movie is Titanic." She ended with an ear-splitting grin.

"No," I said, trying to give her one more chance. "I mean, who are you really? What are your interests?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cindee trying hard not to laugh. I was really in danger of liking her.

Leila struggled with an answer. She kept cocking her head to the side and stammering. Finally, she gave up. "What is the right answer?" she asked.

I shook my head. "There is no right answer," I said gently. "Just tell me what you're passionate about." I meant, does she fight for animal rights, or is she interested in women's rights.

What I got was, "I'm passionate about you, Paris." Her eyes were huge, and she was licking her lips.

I sighed and turned to Bridget, who was once again, smiling silently. "How about you, Bridget?"

"Don't listen to Leila," she said. "She's brain-dead from years on the pageant circuit."

"You can talk!" I sputtered.

Bridget giggled. "Of course I can talk. What are you, stupid?"

I suddenly didn't want to talk to Bridget anymore. Unfortunately, she wanted to talk to me.

"I have goals in life," she continued. "I want to pursue a professional career. Not like that." She pointed at Leila, who actually hissed at her—something I didn't think women actually did.

"Okay," I said slowly, "what do you do?"

Bridget grinned as if she'd just one some sort of challenge. "I want to be a porn actress."

I didn't say anything for a moment. This woman went from telling me I was stupid, to informing me her biggest dream was to have sex with men (or possibly women) on camera.

I turned to Cindee. "Why are you here?" I asked.

"I believe I told you that already." She really looked amazing tonight, in a Chinese, red satin dress that hugged her ample curves. It was hard to take my eyes off of her.

"Thank God," I said to her. "You're not just trying to make it as a centerfold or in direct-to-video pornography?"

"No. And I'm starting to wonder why I'm here." She glanced at her two date-mates (who were arguing about who had better tits—their word, not mine). "These women are all nuts. I wish I'd never come here."

"I'm wondering about that too," I said.

"Why are you here then?" Cindee asked. "I got the impression you didn't think much of this kind of show."

I winced. "Can you blame me? You are the only woman here I find interesting."

Cindee frowned. "I don't really know how to take that. Am I just an exception to what you think is the norm? Or are you trying to cover up for slighting me on the trip here?"

"Yes. And no. You are an intelligent, thoughtful woman. And I haven't found anyone else like you among the contestants. You're the only one who will do well here."

"I guess I should be happy about that. It sounds like you think I have a better shot at you than the others."

I stared at her. Was I wrong about Cindee? Or was she mocking me? Her face was impassive. She wasn't letting me have any clue.

"Maybe you should pay attention to Leila and Bridget? They are your dates too," Cindee said, and then I knew she was upset.

"Why does this have to be so difficult?" I asked her. "Why can't you see I'm paying you a compliment?"

Cindee's frown deepened. "Oh, so now you'd rather I giggle and swoon when you speak? Like you think the others are? Which is it, Paris? You can't have both."

This was not going well at all. I turned to Leila. She was scowling at me with her arms folded across her chest. Bridget had four empty rocks glasses in front of her and was nearly passed out at the table.

Our sushi came, and we ate in silence. This wasn't very good television. But none of the women wanted to talk to me. And I was beyond confused. Wasn't it good that I was looking for a woman of substance? What did I do wrong?

"Well that was boring as hell," the cameraman muttered as he shouldered past me to the limo. The ride home was silent. I wondered how they'd spin this when it aired. Bimbo women, or idiot Bachelor?

An hour later we were all in the den for the elimination. Four groups of women stood before me. A tray of pink roses at my left. I had to send one group home.

Most people who would later watch the sushi episode might think that I would send home Cindee's group. After all, there appeared to be no attraction between me and those women. What a mess.

"Wanda, Monterrey, and…" what was the other woman's name? It didn't matter because they all stepped forward with huge smiles on their faces. They were happy they weren't the last group—the group that doesn't get a rose.

"You're going home," I said.

I ignored the looks of shock on each of their faces and handed out the roses to the other women. I fled to my suite before anyone could speak. Bad television? Probably. Maybe they'd fire me and send me home.

The F-Troop theme was blaring in the background. I'm sure the crew was pissed and punishing me for a crappy night. I didn't care. In fact, I didn't really need to be here. The cameramen would be busy dealing with three sobbing women as they packed. I had my own separate entrance to the house, so I used it.

Of course, once I got outside I realized there was no where I could really go. None of these cars were mine. Maybe I could call a cab? But to where? There might be a small chance Roberto was still around. I headed to the garage to check it out.

"Roberto?" I called out. The garage held ten cars of various shapes and sizes. The only thing they had in common was that they were all very expensive.

The sound of a metal tool landing on cement drew me toward the limo. Teri stood up, and upon seeing me, shook her head.

"Going AWOL, Fabio?" she asked.

"The thought has crossed my mind." I walked over to where she was and leaned against the car.

Teri looked me up and down. "You wear a suit to lounge around the house?"

"They didn't really give me anything else to wear. No shorts, no polo shirts, just suits."

"I guess you are kind of a slave to what the masses want to see, huh?"

Was she being a smartass, or was that sympathy I heard in her voice? "Pretty much sums it up."

Teri leaned against a grey Bentley, facing me. "I heard you screwed everything up tonight."

"Good news travels fast." I put my hands in my pockets. "I don't want to be here."

"Then why are you here?" Teri asked. Her eyes looked further into me than I thought possible. To my surprise, I realized that I liked her too. That wasn't like me, to be interested in two women at the same time. The idea embarrassed me. I'd always been a one-woman guy. At least, that's what I'd told myself. Teri was complicating things, and I felt uneasy about my interest in her.

An idea formed in my mind, allowing me a distraction. "I just auditioned as a favor to Chuck Plimpton—the producer. I wasn't supposed to win the audition—just show the others how it was done. Chuck's a friend of my grandmother."

Oh, God. Grandma Mary would roll around in her grave (if she was dead) if she knew I'd put her in the same league as this asshole. But this was a better excuse than the one I had before—and I might get some info on Plimpton and get Teri to stop looking at me like that.

"Your grandmother is a friend of that pig?" Teri looked appalled.

A normal person would've defended his grandmother's honor. But my grandmother once killed a room full of Yakuza by herself using only a nail file and a jar of mayonnaise. She could defend herself.

"I guess so." I feigned ignorance. "Why do you call him a pig?"

Teri shook her head. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"So, have you seen him around? I'd heard he likes to visit the set, but I haven't seen him."

"I heard from Mel that Chuck had gone to his house in Bora Bora." She shrugged. "I really don't miss him. He was an asshole to the staff." She gave me a little smile, and I felt drawn to her. This woman didn't mince words. She called them as she saw them. It was intriguing. Why couldn't these contestants be more like her?

Then I realized she'd said Chuck was in Bora Bora. I really was stuck on this stupid program.

"So," she said, filling in the silence, "what do you think of the ladies you have here?" Why did her questions put me on the spot? It was like going through a human lie detector. I felt vulnerable, and yet, I liked it. Teri could hold her own and call me out.

"This isn't what I expected. Some of these women come on so strong. I don't want a woman to shove her tongue down my throat the first time she meets me."

Teri snorted. "Yeah, right. They all say that. Every single one of the Bachelors. They all say they want to find something meaningful—then they sleep with half these bimbos and wonder why it never works out in the end."

Well that hurt. "I don't know about the other guys, but I really mean it. How can you honestly pick out a soul mate from a random group of women?"

Teri narrowed her eyes. "I'm trying to figure out if you really believe that."

I stood up straight. "Of course I really mean it!" And I did too. So why didn't she see that?

"Uh-huh." She rolled her eyes. "Look, I've got a lot of work to do before I go home and show up again tomorrow." Teri turned her back to me. "See you later."

And that was it. This conversation was over. And it hadn't gone well.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Who shot him?" I asked.

The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: "Somebody with a gun."

~Dashiell Hammett

"Rise and shine, Paris!" Roberto's voice spoke somewhere above me.

I opened my eyes to see my valet standing over me. "Everything hurts," I said. My whole body ached from the yoga session yesterday. In the background on the TV, Forrest Tucker was yelling at someone. Oh right. I was still in hell.

The housekeeper brought in more boiled goat meat and pureed flowers. As soon as he left, Roberto produced a sausage and egg biscuit from his very expensive messenger bag. I devoured it, dumped the goat out the window, and somehow he managed to coax me to the yoga room.

If yesterday was an experiment in the impossible, today was an experiment in pain. Just moving my limbs a fraction of an inch caused searing agony. And Dushyant not only didn't understand English, he also didn't understand my screams. Or he thought they were part of my breathing. All I know is I spent an hour begging for mercy from someone who didn't understand me.

Roberto helped me up the stairs when we were through and somehow got my knees to bend to get into my mud bath. It helped, like the day before. But this time, he refused to give me any painkillers. I don't even remember getting out, showering, or dressing. If I hadn't woken up on the floor, soaking wet, I'd swear I drowned in the mud.

We met Mel in the pool area. The women weren't there.

"Today," he started, "you are going to take another group of three on a day date."

I hoped I didn't look too disappointed. I really wanted to try to find Teri and convince her I wasn't on the make. The idea that she felt that way had kept me up most of the night. All I saw in my mind, over and over, was her disapproval, and maybe a hint of disappointment. I went over lines I could've said that would've changed everything, but it was too little, too late.

"We've gone ahead and picked a threesome for you," Mel said, shaking me out of my thoughts. "They are waiting for you at the airport."

"The airport?" I asked.

"You said you wanted your dates to be at county fairs in Iowa. It happens to be county fair season now."

Oh, shit. I didn't want to go to a county fair in Iowa. Were these idiots really going to follow every request on my list?

Roberto stood back. "I think he should change first…"

That was a good point. I was wearing an Armani oxford shirt with Chinos and Tod's loafers. None of these things look good with cow shit and cotton candy smeared on them.

Mel took me by the arm. "No time. You have to go now."

I tried to protest as he led me back through the house to the driveway where a limo was waiting. Mel pushed me inside and shut the door behind me. I hoped maybe Cindee would be there. No such luck.

"Hi!" said a woman I remembered as Destiny. The other two women, Rio and Ophelia (they said), smiled and slid toward me. This was going to be a long day.

The only thing that saved me was the fact we had to buckle into our seats on the plane. During the drive to the airport, I'd been caressed within an inch of my life. At least on the plane, the stewards insisted they remain seated. One of the guys winked at me, and I wondered if Roberto had something to do with this.

I tried to chat the women up during the flight. They spoke a little, but about nothing. I wondered if there was now a script—a way they felt they had to act on this kind of reality show. They weren't dressed for a county fair either. All three wore skin tight dresses with stiletto shoes. Between them, I figured their hair extensions were long enough to circle the fairgrounds.

Why did women do that? I just didn't get hair extensions. I could understand if they'd had chemo and lost their hair. But making long hair longer didn't make sense to me. At some point, it was just too long for anything except maybe strangling a man with it.

So the flight was quiet, the ladies looked bored, the cameraman was pissed, and I wanted to be somewhere else with Teri or Cindee. Probably apologizing. It was frustrating that I'd met two interesting women and had offended them both. What had happened to me? I was one of those guys who had women friends. I was sensitive, thoughtful, and full of respect.

But Hollywood and a reality show had turned my world upside down. I wondered how many other men were screwed up from this shit. If I did find Chuck Plimpton's body, I'd kill him all over again.

The plane taxied to a landing, and an SUV arrived to take us to the Clinton County Fair in DeWitt Iowa. Destiny, Ophelia, and Rio never stopped smiling but didn't say anything else. The camera guy had gotten nothing from the flight. For some, bizarre reason, I wanted to make him happy.

"So, Destiny, where are you from?" Lame, but functional. After all, everyone's from somewhere, right?

Her smile dazzled so brightly I thought she was wired for electricity. "I'm from New York City!"

"Great," I said, "and what do you do there?" Come on, give me something.

"Well, Paris," she said as she pulled her hair all around her head to hang down on her left shoulder, where it fell to her hips, "I'm a model and an actress."

I tried not to flinch. "Really? That's interesting. What have you done?"

Destiny frowned, and I immediately regretted asking. "Nothing yet. New York theatre is blind to true talent."

I suddenly lost the urge to talk to her anymore. I turned to Rio and asked her the same set of questions. It felt vaguely familiar.

Rio giggled and pulled a huge wad of gum out of her mouth. She rolled down the window and chucked it out. "I'm from Miami. And I'm a consultant."

"That's interesting." Well, actually it was. "What kind of consulting work do you do?" Please let it be something I can build a conversation around.

Rio seemed encouraged by my interest. "Marketing! I'm a marketing consultant."

"Okay," I said slowly, "that's what I do too. What kind of marketing?" Alright, I didn't really. Marketing Consultant was my cover, but I did have a degree from Wharton.

"Seriously? We should sooooo work together!" Rio smiled, and her violet eyes grew wider. Violet eyes? She must've had colored contacts.

"That would depend on who you consult with," I answered.

"Oh, yeah! I work mostly with pet food." She straightened up and in a deep voice said, "If your dog is fat, Purser Pet Food can help with that!"

"I remember that campaign. You came up with that slogan?" Maybe Rio had some promise.

She shook her head. "No, but I picked the font for it!"

Ophelia moved in for the kill. "Don't listen to them, Par…"

Did she just call me Par? It's not like my name is so long it's hard to say.

"I'm the only one you need to talk to tonight," she purred.

"And why is that?" I asked, in spite of the fact I really didn't want to know.

Ophelia responded by grabbing my cock through my pants and tugging. If she were a man, I'd have killed her on the spot. But just then the car slowed down, and the driver turned toward us.

"You're here," he said dully. "Meet back here in two hours."

We got out of the car, after extricating Ophelia's hand from my groin. It had taken everything in my power not to pull her arm off and shove it down her throat. The three of us stood in front the entrance to the fairgrounds. An old man was sitting at a card table out front.

He looked us up and down. "I think you might be in the wrong place, son."

The cameraman paid for our tickets and preceded us into the fairgrounds. Sawdust and dirt filled the air, covering us immediately. Kids ran past holding cotton candy, while adults openly stared.

Now, when I say they stared at us, I don't mean they just looked us over. They gawked, slack-jawed—the men stared at the three sets of fake breasts I escorted, and the women scowled. This could only go downhill from here.

"Oooooooh!" Rio squealed, "Paris! Win me a giant monkey!" She pointed at a booth to our left.

"Me too, Paris!" Destiny shouted louder.

"No, me!" cried Ophelia, even louder. The women were making a huge scene, and it was clear they loved the attention. If I asked them to be quiet, they probably would've gotten naked and resorted to arson.

"Alright," I sighed and made my way to the booth. Now I'd have to win three huge stuffed animals and probably carry them around for the rest of the night. But doing something would bring me that much closer to the end of the night. And I was pretty sure I knew which group was going home.

The carnie behind the counter grinned toothlessly as I put money on the counter. It was one of those games where you shoot the water pistol at the creepy clown's mouth to blow up a balloon until it burst. And it was likely rigged.

"Good luck, kid," the carnie said, and I realized with a start that it was a woman. The cameraman was eating it up going from the homely, middle-aged carnie to the trio of silicone ladies with me.

I took the pistol into my hand and felt the weight of it. It was plastic and smooth from years of use. The sights would be worthless. One quick squirt at the target told me immediately to aim up to the left to compensate. Within five minutes I had three enormous monkeys in my arms.

"Howdjya do that?" mumbled the carnie.

"Just lucky, I guess." And training with handguns since I was five. But that was beside the point.

"Thank you!" the three gir…I mean, women chorused.

The rest of the time, I carried three monkeys as I followed Rio, Destiny, and Ophelia around the fairgrounds as they ran from one thing to another. Apparently, none of these women had ever been to a carnival before. And apparently, none of the Iowans there had seen three scantily clad women at a fair before. I guess it was a win-win for everyone. Everyone except for me.

"Oooh! Paris!" Rio squealed. "We have to go the powder room! Wait here for us!" She planted a kiss on my cheek, somehow dodging the monkeys, and the three women fled. The cameraman knew he'd get more interesting footage with them—so he followed.

"Powder room?" some little kid asked another. He shrugged. I felt the same way.

I turned into an alley between two long tents and sat on a bench there, dumping the monkeys on the ground. I'd seriously screwed up. Between Dushyant, F-Troop, and the first of what promised to be too many dates at county fairs, I'd made a huge mess of things. Teri thought I was a con artist, and Cindee thought I was a jerk. There were only two women worth talking to, and I'd alienated both of them.

Something crunched behind me, and I was on my feet. A black blur barreled into me, knocking me to the ground. I was just about to wonder who'd let a steer loose when I heard a male voice above me.

"Gotcha now." A fist smashed into the side of my face.

Instinct took over, and soon I was up and had my attacker on his feet, heading face first into a large tent pole. He bounced off and fell down. I spun him over, face down in the dirt while jamming his arm up and back at a painful angle.

"Not looking for a fight here," I said. "You've had too much to drink. Go home and sleep it off."

Beneath me, my victim writhed. "I'm looking for you, Paris Bombay."

Well this was unexpected. Was this related to the guy at the hotel? My hesitation allowed him to kick backwards, pushing me off him. We scrambled to our feet.

"What do you want with me?" I growled.

The man snarled. "I want you dead." It was too dark to see anything more than a silhouette, but I heard the switchblade snap into place sure enough.

"Good luck." And I lunged at him, knocking the knife from his hand. This time he fell back against the same tent pole. And this time he went out cold.

"What's going on here?" A large, shadow appeared.

I swiveled. I knew that voice. "Coney! I didn't know you were working here!"

My cousin stepped into a small bit of light and broke into a grin. His arms, shoulders, and neck were covered in tattoos. His head was shaved and he sported a goatee.

"Paris!" Coney clapped me on the back. He then turned to the unconscious man at our feet. "A friend of yours?"

I nodded. "The usual. You know how it is." Bending down, I pulled a wallet from the guy's jacket and stuffed it into my pants.

"I got this." Coney threw the limp guy over his shoulders. "Be right back." And then he vanished. I was brushing my suit off when he got back.

"What did you do with him?" I asked.

"I have the perfect place for him," my cousin answered with a smile. "How about a beer?"

"Can we go right now?" I asked. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me across the fairgrounds to a beer tent.

I told him the whole story. Coney Island Bombay was my cousin, and a carnie with a Ph.D. in philosophy. He was one of the quietest men I knew. And I'd trust him with my life.

The beer tent was tucked away near the staff parking area and frequented by carnies on their breaks. We'd found a quiet corner, and I spilled my guts. He listened as I told him about Liv, Plimpton, and the two hitters I'd encountered. He said nothing for a moment when I was done.

"So you thought the first hitter was after Liv?"

"I did until now. But that attack was in L.A. How the hell did this guy know I'd be halfway across the country tonight?"

Coney flexed his fingers. "Maybe I should kill him. Let's see the wallet."

I handed it over. My dates would be looking for me. And the cameraman would capture every hilarious moment of that.

"Mac Bukowski," Coney read. He raised his eyebrows at me. "Russian?"

"No," I shook my head. "Had a Midwest accent. He might've been called by someone out West. Has to be someone involved with the show—they were the only ones who knew I was coming here."

Coney held up the wallet. "Do you mind?" I nodded. He continued, "I'll look into it. See what I can find out about him." He leaned forward. "There are three women who do not belong here looking for you."

I turned to see them, stumbling on the gravel in their heels, racing toward me. When I turned back, Coney was gone. He was always the smart one in the family.

I made my way out of the tent and walked toward them before noticing the security guy with them.

"They with you?" he asked.

"Is something wrong?" Off to my right, the cameraman seemed to twitch with glee.

"They broke into the refrigerated case and tried to lick the butter cow." The guard's name was "Tim" according to his nametag. He looked like off-duty law enforcement.

Ophelia squealed, "Paris! They have a life-sized cow carved out of butter!" The three girls giggled. This was not good.

"You have to go," the guard said.

"Sorry about that," I said as I hustled my dates away. They scrambled to keep up in their high heels. "Call the driver," I said to the cameraman as we headed toward the exit. We left a long line of gawkers in our wake.

Once inside the car, I turned to my "dates." "You licked the butter cow?" I was furious. Where did the director find these idiots?

Rio feigned a baby voice, and I hated it. "Sorry Paris. We couldn't resist…"

Destiny held out a camera. "I got a picture of it!" Sure enough, there was a photo of the three of them, clearly held at arm's length by Ophelia, licking the butter cow as a group of kids looked on in horror.

Ophelia nodded, "It was sooooooo cold in there!" She slid over to me and huddled against me. "I wish you'd been there to keep us warm."

I pushed her back. "I'm glad I wasn't." Stupid as they were, I thought they'd hear the edge in my voice. "What were you thinking?"

They got it. And the ride to the airport, and the flight home, was mercifully silent.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It's not denial. I'm just very selective about the reality I accept."

~Calvin Trillin

Guess who went home that night? Go ahead. Okay, it was the three butter cow lickers. I was angry, and everyone in the room knew it. Mel followed me back to my suite, begging me to take more time with the eliminations. I ignored him and slammed the door shut between us.

I sat down on my bed and ran my hands through my hair. This was getting out of control. My whole opinion of women was changing. I wanted so hard to believe these women weren't bimbos. I'd even convinced the crew to refer to them as women.

The three tonight were the worst. But I'd eliminated six others prior to tonight. So maybe none of them were any good. Which meant I'd be stuck in this hell a lot longer.

Then I thought of Cindee. She wasn't bad at all. I just pissed her off when I spoke. Something stirred in my stomach, or maybe it was the funnel cakes and corn dogs from Iowa. I really liked her. Well it didn't matter because she hated me. She knew I didn't have a high opinion of any woman who auditioned for this ridiculous show.

And then there was Teri. She didn't have a high opinion of me because I auditioned for this ridiculous show. I liked her too. All I'd ever wanted was to meet a woman I'd want to pursue a relationship with. Now, I'd found two, and they both thought I was a jackass.

I wanted to hit something. And that was weird for me. I never lost control of my emotions. I was the level-headed Bombay. At least, that's what my family said. Right now, I was not level-headed at all. I was pissed off at everything. There was no point in blaming Liv anymore. I'd brought all of this on myself. There is nothing worse than an assassin pity party.

It was a cool night. Opening the French doors to the patio, I felt a light breeze ruffling through my hair. No one was in the pool. In fact, I wasn't sure it had been used at all. Maybe all I needed was a little exercise…a stress burner.

I found the pair of Gucci swim trunks that Roberto had gotten me. He'd pushed for the Speedos, but I'd refused. After making sure no one was around, I slipped down the hallway to the stairs and stood on the edge of the pool.

I dove in, and the water rushed over my skin like a salve. It was cool and relaxing as I swam across the bottom to the other side. Emerging, I took a deep breath, and went back to the other side. Stress started to slide off me as I carved my way through the water. I tried to imagine my worries slipping away as I swam.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Cindee asked. I emerged to find her sitting by the pool. A breeze stirred her silky black hair, and she smiled.

"What are you doing here?" I asked as I jumped up and joined her.

She shrugged. "There's a major catfight going on. I couldn't stand one more minute of it. No one would miss me, anyway."

"Why's that?" As I started toweling off, I noticed her looking at my body. I worked out and was in good shape. So why did I feel nervous about it?

Cindee looked at the house, then back at me. "I don't say much. I never volunteer to trash talk. So they ignore me."

"I guess you don't like it here anymore than I do." I ran my hands through my hair to get it off my face.

Cindee sighed, "No, I guess I don't. And that makes me feel like an idiot."

"Me too."

"So," she said, wiggling her toes underwater. "What's up with you and F-Troop?"

"Oh, noticed that, did you?" I laughed. "That was a mistake."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll say. What, exactly, makes it funny?"

"It isn't. Turns out, it's just annoying. I only put that in my contract because I didn't think they would do it."

Cindee's eyes found mine in the dark, and my face grew warm. Was I blushing?

"Ah. That explains the weird yogi, and the buckets of mud. Did I actually see the kitchen staff pureeing tulips?"

"Yes. And let me tell you, none of it has been worth it." Why was I telling her this? Was it because I felt like giving up already?

"But then, I never would've met you," Cindee said quietly. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and it was very, very sexy.

"True," I added, "cuz clearly, I'm such a catch…"

Cindee silenced me by pressing her lips to mine. Her kiss was innocent, curious…and I didn't want it to stop.

"Wow," I said when she finally pulled away, "that was worth it."

"Paris!" Roberto's voice came from the house. Cindee winked before vanishing. I think she didn't want to get caught.

"There you are," Roberto said as he sat in a lounge chair poolside. "I've been looking all over for you." His smile told me another story.

"Mel's looking for me, isn't he?" I said.

"Yes. And I didn't want your lady friend to get busted."

I stared at him. "Why not?" He was hired by the show, after all. Why be loyal to me?

Roberto looked at his manicure, feigning boredom. "Because I like her, and I can't stand any of the other women here. He rose to his feet and gestured in front of him. And I headed back into the house with a smile on my face.

Mel was pacing the floor in my room. "It's just that, well," he said for the fifth time. The director was nervous about something and seemed afraid to tell me about it. "The show's being shortened. You have to pick your fiancé in two days."

What? "It is? Why?" I stammered.

Mel rubbed his chin roughly. "The crew hasn't been paid in weeks. And the landlord is throwing us out in three days. We can't afford the engagement ring…hell, we can't afford the roses!" He looked so upset that to my own amazement, I toyed with funding the show myself.

All this could only mean that Plimpton was finally discovered to be dead. Or missing to the extent that he hadn't written any checks.

My mood lightened. I threw on a robe. "So, what happens now?"

Mel stared at me. He looked desperate. I did not like that look. "Tomorrow, you have to narrow it down to two gir…women. You can do that, right?" His eyes pleaded with me.

Hell, I could narrow it down to one girl tonight. But that wouldn't make good TV. In fact, I was pretty sure the whole thing would end up cancelled before it aired.

"Okay, fine," I said.

Mel clapped me on the back. "Thanks! I'll work up a new plan tonight. You get some sleep." He left before I could change my mind.

Roberto followed him out. I took a shower and went to bed. So tomorrow, I'd pick Cindee and someone else, who would just be cast aside later. The memory of Cindee's kiss resonated on my lips. I really liked her. But could I propose to her in two days?

I'd never gotten that far with a woman before…emotionally, that is. And I was not the kind of guy who could fake propose when what I really meant was want to see where this leads us?

Suddenly, this didn't seem like a good idea at all. What was I thinking? Actually, I was thinking this wouldn't get any further once they discovered the executive producer dead. But the fact of the matter was, I didn't have any semblance of a plan from the start. And that wasn't me.

I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom for some aspirin. Upon closing the medicine cabinet, I froze when I saw my face staring back at me. I seemed to be disappointed in myself. As I looked into my own brown eyes I saw something I hadn't seen before. Fear.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"She jerked away from me like a startled fawn might, if I had a startled fawn and it jerked away from me."

~Raymond Chandler

A crash behind the bathroom wall caused me to launch automatically into defense mode. It was very late. What was on the other side of this wall? The garage. I slipped into a pair of chinos and an undershirt and opened the doors to the balcony.

There were a lot of expensive cars in the garage. A thief could make a lot of money stealing just one. Or it could be worse. There was someone after me. I hoped for the thief. If anyone got hurt in this house because of me, I'd never forgive myself. Slipping one leg over the rail, I lowered myself to the ground below and headed for the garage.

A light was on. Maybe it wasn't a thief. Maybe it was worse. Even though I wasn't fond of these women (except for Cindee, of course) I wasn't going to let anything happen to them. Where was security? Were they too broke to have any?

The main garage door was open, and I slipped inside on the right. Hugging the wall, I worked my way to the back.

"Dammit!" a hoarse voice cried out. It gave me the bearings to zero in, and I crept closer. Being barefoot, I was able to move quietly. A shadow appeared ahead of me, hunched over what looked like a body on the floor.

I took him out in a flying tackle. He was a big, ugly man with cauliflower ears and a broken nose. I hit him in the jaw with a right cross, and he crashed to the floor. The body behind me moaned, but I didn't take my eyes off the guy.

He swung heavily up at me, and I dodged it easily. One uppercut to the jaw, and he was out cold.

"Unhh," the body behind me groaned. I'd attend to whoever it was in a minute. First I had to secure this guy before he came to.

A long electrical cord snaked on the floor next to him. It only took two minutes for me to hog tie him.

"Paris?" the voice behind me said unsteadily. It was Teri. I turned to find her sitting up, holding her head. She was holding her hand in front of her, staring at the blood on it as if she didn't believe this was real. Seeing her there, hurt like that, was like being sucker-punched. How did this happen? She was just staying late, working on the cars and got in the way of a very bad man. A man looking for me. This was all my fault.

I pulled her into my arms. "Shhh. It's okay. You're safe now." I needed to get to a phone.

"He…he came out of nowhere…" she said. She didn't cry or freak out, and I wasn't sure if she was in shock.

I asked for her cell, and she handed it to me. Because of the address, the police were there in minutes. They found us and took the thug away. By then, the other women in the house had woken up and stood around the edges of the garage. Cindee came forward with a towel and pressed it against Teri's scalp. She was the only one who did anything.

I couldn't figure out if the women were quiet due to shock or was it just because there weren't any cameras on them. It was probably better that I didn't know the answer to that. The police questioned Teri and me for a while. They figured out immediately that none of the other women knew anything.

"It's probably just a break-in gone wrong," the detective named Miller told me. "I'll leave a squad car at the end of the driveway till morning though…just in case."

I watched as an EMT finished with Teri.

"I think you should come down to the hospital for a few tests," the EMT said. Teri just shook her head and waved him off. No matter what anyone said, she refused to go.

The authorities left, and the women went back into the house. Cindee offered to let Teri sleep in her room.

"I'll keep an eye on her," she said to me. "It's not like I'm going to sleep now anyway."

"Okay," I said and watched as she led Teri into the house.

I closed the garage door, and once I made sure every window and door in the house was secured, I grabbed my cell and took it down to the living room. I'd wait up the rest of the night with a baseball bat if I had to. No one was getting in, and no one would get past me.

"Coney?" I asked once he picked up. "You find out anything on that guy at the fair?" It didn't matter that it was four a.m. Bombays are used to phone calls in the middle of the night.

"Nothing. It's weird," he said, alert as usual. "The guy in Beverly Hills," Coney asked, "he had a license too, but you found out who he was. This guy, however, is clean. Squeaky. It must be a fake."

I told him what just happened, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake anyone. Coney whistled when I finished.

"Someone's after you, but it's definitely amateur night," Coney said. "Does Dak know anything?"

"He hasn't called. And he would if he found something out." I frowned at the cell. "This is getting dangerous for those around me." Teri had gotten hurt, and I felt responsible.

"Do you need backup?" Coney asked. And I knew he'd do it too. If I said the word, he'd drop everything and come out here.

"No. The show ends in two days. I can keep things going until then. But thanks." I hung up.

My instinct told me these were all attacks on me. It felt like an inside job. One thing ingrained in Bombays from birth was to follow our instincts. And they'd never been wrong. But what was the motivation? Was Mel staging this to boost ratings? Did Kevin the Kid have some grudge against the fact I'd already gone through puberty? I was pretty sure the chef hated me with my outrageous demands. But enough to kill me?

On the other hand, Bombays had enemies. That story was thousands of years old. And the only motive someone like that needed was that we were hired killers.

Daylight dusted the bottom of the window panes as I brooded. No matter how I spun the idea around in my mind, I wasn't any closer to an answer. The sounds of people moving around began as a trickle as the contestants woke up (if they'd ever really gone to sleep). I heard the garage door open and was relieved to see Mel, Kevin, and Roberto enter the house.

"Paris?" Roberto asked, taking in me, sitting in the living room in a T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet.

Mel looked around. "Something's not right," he said slowly. Kevin stood staring, stupidly.

"Mel!" One of the women screamed as they all streamed downstairs. "Paris saved us!" another one cried. They surrounded the director, each telling a taller tale than the last. By the time I left the room, I heard that I'd somehow taken on and defeated ten men and won the Medal of Honor before building a homeless shelter with my bare hands.

"Are you going to tell me what really happened?" Roberto was fast on my heels as I climbed the stairs.

"I will, if you'll just check on Teri, the chauffeur."

Roberto had a pained look on his face. "Teri?"

"She's in Cindee's room." I turned toward my suite and didn't stop until I was lying flat on my bed.

I stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Why was someone coming after me? It didn't make sense, kind of like a reverse hit or something. My head and heart were pounding mercilessly. There'd be no sleep tonight. Time floated by overhead while I marked it with bloodshot eyes and the suspicion that none of this was really over.

"What a night you've had!" Roberto said as he entered my room. "I wish I'd been here." He gave me a little weak grin.

"I wish you had too, with a .45," I said without looking at him. "How's Teri?"

Roberto sat in a chair opposite the bed. "She's fine. Thank God for Cindee. I really like that girl."

I ran my hands through my hair. "Yeah. Me too."

Roberto looked me up and down, trying to size me up. I was exhausted and sure he could see it.

"Paris, let me cancel the yoga and mud bath this morning," he pleaded. "You look like you've taken on a Colombian Cartel armed only with a thesaurus."

Interestingly enough, I have done that. And I was far better armed than I was last night. The key to taking down any cartel is to make sure their sangria is drugged a couple of hours beforehand. Oh, and ammo. Always have enough ammo, because they will.

"I don't know," I started. My adrenaline was still flowing. "I'd like to talk to Teri first, if that's okay."

"Mel gave her the day off." Roberto tossed me the keys to his car. "Why don't you take her home? I can handle things here." With a wink, he was off.

Teri agreed to the lift. She was dazed. That asshole had done a number on her.

She had a tiny bungalow in Hollywood. I followed her into the house to make sure she was okay.

"Can I make you some coffee?" I asked her as she sat on the sofa. The place was clean and homey. Worn, comfortable furniture in light, airy rooms gave the impression of a safe haven.

"Tea," she said. "Tea would be great."

I found her kettle on the stove and filled it, turning the burner on. In a few minutes I handed her a cup of steaming herbal tea.

"Thanks," she said. "I guess I could've made it myself."

"Teri, I am so sorry…" The words hung uselessly in the air around us.

She shook her head. "Why are you sorry? You saved me. If you hadn't shown up when you did…"

I deflected. "I'm also sorry for behaving like a jackass. That day at the studio, I should've come back out to the car."

Teri cocked her head to the side and studied me. "Okay. You're forgiven. But it's not all your fault. I misjudged you."

She did? Oh yeah. The Fabio comment. "I'm sure I deserved it."

"No." She shook her head. "No, you didn't. It's my problem. When you've been a driver for shows like this for a number of seasons, you tend to assume all these idiots are alike."

"Maybe we are." I'd done the same thing. Only I didn't have the excuse of working around these people as long as she had.

"Can I ask you something?" Teri looked right at me.

"Anything," I answered.

"How can you be around those women?" she asked unapologetically. "I mean, Cindee's great. She doesn't seem to be like the others at all. But the rest…"

I rubbed my face with my hands. "You know, I insisted Mel call them women, not girls. And I do think there might be real people there, underneath, but they won't even let me scratch the surface. They're too ambitious. They want to succeed at acting the part."

"You give them more credit than I do. You know, the first season, the women were nice…normal…well except for the fact they thought they could meet their soul mate on a stupid show. But after that, every batch of contestants had an angle—something they thought worked to keep them in the spotlight. We never had a normal woman after that."

"I'd still like to think they aren't like that. I'd like to meet them after they get rejected."

Teri cocked her head to the side. "What is wrong with you?"

That caught me off guard. "Wrong with me?"

"Tell me you're not like this in real life!"

"Maybe you're right." I didn't really think she was—but she had gotten hurt on my time. "Look, I've got to get back. Are you sure you're going to be okay on your own?"

For a moment I thought she was going to ask me to stay. Or maybe she was going to say something else. I'll never know, because she nodded, and I left.

The drive back gave me too much time to think. My head buzzed with too many questions. What happened to Chuck Plimpton? Why was I under siege? How did my attackers know I was even on the show, let alone, where I was half the time? Why did I have to like both Cindee and Teri?

This was a disaster of epic proportions. I pulled into the garage and stormed into the house.

"No more screwing around!" I told a startled Roberto and Mel. "I want to meet with Plimpton. NOW!" I crossed my arms over my chest to show I was serious. My sister always said when I did that, it made me look dangerous. I hoped it was working.

"Paris…" Roberto protested.

"We can't!" Mel said. "He's in Barbados!"

"Then call him back," I snarled. "I'll be in my room." Without looking at either one of them, I stormed off.

Over the next hour, Roberto and Mel alternately tried to plead with me to give up on my demand. I refused. They tried explaining that we didn't have much time left and this was eating into that time. I wouldn't budge.

Then they threatened. Roberto said he'd take all my clothes away, and I'd have to do the last episode in the nude. Mel said I was ruining his career and the careers of the women involved. I made myself clear—produce Plimpton or forget about it.

Eventually, they went away. How they were going to set me up for an appointment with a dead man was beyond me but not really my problem. They were angry, but so was I. Teri had been hurt.

I thought about that. It was becoming clear that someone on the show was giving these bastards information about me. But why? It didn't make sense.

My head was throbbing, and I needed something to eat. No point in hiding here all day. They knew what I wanted. And if they weren't going to bring food to me, I was going to go and take it.

I moved through the house, unassaulted. There was an atmosphere of death, the death of a reality show. It kind of smelled like gun oil and plastic to me. No one looked at me—or maybe they weren't making eye contact. I didn't really give a damn.

The kitchen was empty, save for some tulips and a slab of grey meat on the counter. I scooped it all up and dumped it into the garbage. That felt good. Really good. I almost couldn't wait to tell Dushyant he couldn't tie me in knots anymore.

The fridge had food. Real food. I felt a surge of adrenaline as I made a huge, club sandwich and poured a glass of milk. I carried it all onto the patio and sat down to eat.

"Can I join you?" Cindee asked. I nodded, mainly because my mouth was full of food. Sweet, sweet, real food.

"I guess you heard…" she said as she stared off toward the pool. "Some asshole is single-handedly canceling the show."

"You heard right," was all I said. I was that asshole.

Cindee suppressed a grin. "How's Teri?"

I told her about taking Teri home. I left out the part about being attracted to her.

"Thanks for looking after her," I said.

"Do you feel responsible for what happened?"

"No," I lied.

"Yes you do. You think you should've gotten there earlier. You're a man. Men always feel guilty about stuff like this."

I sighed, relieved by her explanation. I really did feel guilty. I felt guilty for being a jerk to Cindee on the plane. I felt guilty for treating Teri badly. I felt guilty for looking down on these women. I felt guilty for letting Roberto, Mel, and the crew down by refusing to do the show. And worst of all, I felt guilty for not dragging Chuck Plimpton's carcass into the light of day so Kevin and the others there would know he was really and truly dead.

Cindee laid her hand on my arm, and my heart beat a little faster. "Well you shouldn't feel guilty about being too late. You didn't know something was going on. And you got there just before that thug did something worse to Teri."

I shook my head. "It isn't just that. I've been a jackass."

Cindee laughed. "Yes, you have. But you could fix that."

I looked at her. Really looked at her. The breeze stirred her silky, black strands, and I could smell her perfume. Was I really going to let her slip through my fingers?

"A moment?" Roberto materialized next to me. Cindee squeezed my arm and left us.

I motioned for him to sit, but he shook his head.

"Are you really going through with this?" His voice was like silken steel. He was really upset. I couldn't blame him. This was his job.

"Yes I am," I answered.

Roberto sighed and closed his eyes. "Fine. Come with me then."

"Where are we going?" I asked as I got to my feet.

"You are going to help me fire the staff." And with that, he spun on his heel and walked away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food."

~Raymond Chandler

I followed Roberto down the hall to the yoga room. I knew what he was doing. He wanted me to back down once I saw how my actions affected the others. I toyed with paying everyone out of my own pocket. Bombays are born with trust funds. The reasoning was simple; if you didn't need the money—you didn't turn on the family. Well, that and the fact that killing people for money had proven lucrative.

Dushyant was meditating in the corner. And truth be told, if we were going to start with anyone, I didn't mind firing him. And the cook. Maybe he'd be next. I felt a bite of guilt inside. These people made my life miserable, but I'd asked for it, didn't I? Well, my guess was Dushyant wouldn't have any trouble finding work. He probably had other clients anyway.

Roberto leaned back against the wall, sullenly crossing his arms over his chest. He looked from me to Dushyant. No time like the present.

"Dushyant," I started as I walked toward him like a supplicant, my hands out in front of me. "I'm sorry, but…"

My yoga instructor was on his feet immediately and plowed into me headfirst. Before I knew it, I was on the floor in an impossible and painful pose as he pulled arms and legs in directions arms and legs aren't supposed to go.

"Hey!" I panted. It was hard to breathe. "No session now!" I looked to Roberto, who said nothing.

Dushyant shifted his body weight on me, rolling me facedown onto the floor. He pulled my right leg and left arm back until they met. I resisted. Well, I tried to resist. The pain was blinding. I tried to complain, but all I said was, "mmmrrgh…" This yoga session was a bit too violent. Something was wrong.

Roberto's shoes appeared in front of me. He crouched down so I could see his face.

"Can you please call him off?" I said between gasps of pain.

Roberto smiled. And that's when I realized what was really happening.

"Oh, come on Paris. You wanted to meet with me. Let's talk." His voice changed. It was no longer the effete, elegant style I was used to. This voice had an edge I didn't like. What was he talking about? I hadn't asked to meet Roberto. The only one I'd asked to meet was…oh, no.

"You're Chuck Plimpton!" I answered. Why didn't I see this before? Oh yeah, because I thought I'd KILLED HIM!

Roberto laughed. "Charles Robert Plimpton, at your service." He gave some sort of signal, and Dushyant lifted me from the floor. I was now standing and facing Charles Robert, but my arms were still held in the vice grip that was Dushyant.

"What am I going to do about you, Paris Bombay?" He tapped me on the chest. "You are costing me a lot of money," he tsked.

"So, who was that in the control booth during my interview?" I felt sick. Did I kill someone innocent? I'd never made a mistake like this before.

"Oh, just my associates," Charles waved his hand carelessly. "No one too important. But I will have to find another smuggler for my side business now because of you."

I looked around the room, assessing my options. There were a lot of weapons available, as long as Dushyant the vice grip loosened up. My anguish had been replaced with a cold wash of anger.

"And the attack in the hotel room before I auditioned?" I had to keep him talking. And I kind of wanted to know.

"There have been fifteen assassination attempts on me in the last two years. It was only a matter of time before they sent a Bombay."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I snarled. Chuck waved me off. Clearly he wasn't going to tell me how he knew about the hit.

How did he know about the Bombays? That wasn't good. The Bombays were supposed to be off the radar. But I couldn't deal with that now. I had to break free and finish the assignment…again.

"No doubt, you want to complete your assignment," he said as if reading my mind. "But first, you have to finish this contract."

"I have no intention of finishing this sleazy show for you," I snarled.

Charles' eyebrows went up. "You will. You see, I'm going to hold you to it."

"I don't give a damn about any contract I signed," I growled. "I won't make one more penny for you."

"This isn't about money or contracts, Paris." He flicked a speck off his suit. "I get so bored these days. You've finally made life very interesting. This is going to be fun!"

"I'm not here for your entertainment, and I won't do it." There was nothing he could do to make me. He'd just have to try to kill me first.

"Oh, but you will!" he said a little too happily. "Because if you don't, I'll add Cindee to my collection of playthings."

I lurched forward, causing Dushyant to lose his grip. Then I smashed the back of my skull into his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, and I lunged for Charles.

He just happened to be faster. The barrel of a Colt .45 Gold Cup was aimed between my eyebrows. But it was his words that stopped me.

"If you force me to kill you, Paris, I will walk across the house and shoot Cindee next. And then I'll drive across town and finish off Teri."

That stopped me. I'd been shot before and always survived. But there was no way I was endangering Cindee or Teri.

"Good boy," Charles said, but he kept the gun leveled at my face. "And all you have to do is finish the show. Then I can disappear, and you can go back to whatever."

"You'll let the women go, now." It was an empty demand since he held a gun to my head, but worth a try.

"Not until you make your choice and propose to one of them."

"One of them?" I asked.

Charles smirked. "Yes, I think you should choose between Cindee and Teri. In fact, I've just decided to add Teri to the show as a contestant."

"Leave her out of this." I didn't think anything could make me angrier, but that did. "Leave them both out of this." My words meant nothing. There was no way Plimpton would take demands from me. And I didn't trust him. He wouldn't follow through and let them go.

"No. I think not. You'll choose between Cindee and Teri." A giddy look came over his face. "Oh, and I just had the most marvelous idea!" Charles gave me an oily grin. "The woman you don't choose will belong to me."

"No!" I lunged at him again, but this time, Dushyant had come to and pulled me away. I should've snapped his neck.

"Oh, yes," Charles laughed, "that is exactly what will happen."

"Just kill me and be done with it. That's what you wanted. You made repeated attempts."

He looked into my eyes, and I was horrified to be met with the stare of a psychopath. "I did want to kill you, Paris. I tried over and over. But you didn't make it very easy for me. Now I think I have something better here. I get to humiliate you on TV and make you my own little puppet in my own puppet show."

Chuck nodded at his own words. "Yes, that will be fun!"

I struggled to break free as Dushyant put pressure on my windpipe and my whole world went black.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"It's like a bird. If he knew what he was doing, he would fall."

~Carl Reiner

I came to in my room, with Dushyant sitting on the bed next to me. He was staring. It was unnerving. He pointed to a tuxedo hanging on the closet door. I could try to talk him out of it, if I could speak Hindi.

The big Indian cracked his knuckles menacingly—something I didn't know you could do. As I dressed, I tried to come up with an idea to get Teri and Cindee out of this mess. I didn't really care about myself. In fact, dying would only help my chances with these women.

Dushyant didn't give me any opportunities. The minute I was ready to go, he shoved me roughly through the door, pushing me toward the den where I'd said goodbye to the other women. Chuck and Mel were arguing, breaking off when they saw me. Dushyant closed the door behind me and stood against it, his arms folded across his chest.

Chuck waved Mel off, and Dushyant moved a microscopic distance to let the director out. Then Plimpton turned to me with a chilling grin.

"Here's how this will go down," Chuck began, jumping right into the plan. Basically, he was bringing in an announcer named Perry, who'd once upon a time been a host on some obscure game show that lasted two episodes.

Perry would dictate the event so that I wouldn't try something stupid—Chuck's exact words. I would only have to announce my intentions, and the woman I proposed to would step forward, while the loser would be taken off set by Dushyant to become Chuck's victim.

"Here's the ring." He popped open a bright blue box from Tiffany's. He seemed disappointed that I didn't look at it. "It's two carats." He snapped it shut. "You will then propose to your lady friend." Chuck smiled and held up his hands. "After that, you and whoever are free to go."

"And if I refuse to make a decision?" I growled.

Chuck tsked. "I'll take both of them." He pointed at a man in the corner. I hadn't noticed him before. He was about as nondescript as he could be. A mercenary. I hated those thugs.

"My friend there, will shoot both girls if you do anything." Chuck closed the gap between us. "And I mean, anything."

He straightened my bow tie and brushed off my shoulders. "Come on now, Paris. You're almost done. You should be happy that I'm letting you and the future Mrs. Paris go."

"At the expense of the other woman," I hissed. "Why don't you just take me and be done with it? They didn't do anything to you."

"No, that won't give me the footage I need to finish the show." Chuck walked a few steps away. "This is my last hurrah in television, I think."

"That's because I'll be hunting you every day after this," I answered.

"Oh, of that I have no doubt. But you see, if I so much as smell your cologne…or one like it, I'm likely to kill my new pet."

My stomach turned thinking of Cindee or Teri as Plimpton's pet. That was not going to happen. There was no way in hell he was leaving this house with either woman. Now all I needed was a plan.

"You have five minutes to prepare before I bring the ladies in. You will follow Perry's prompts and do what I say. Then it will be over, I'll take my insurance and go." He cocked his head to one side. "I really am curious as to who you'll choose."

Mel came in and led me out of the room to a part of the house I hadn't been in before. He grumbled as he walked. Clearly he was furious. Probably because of the sudden ending of his show. Maybe because of this new announcer, Perry. I didn't really care.

The balcony selected for the proposal faced the West and was over the pool. They'd get a great sunset shot of me, offering one of the women up to Plimpton for whatever horrors await. And it would be my decision that doomed her.

"You must be Paris!" A startlingly fake man with blonde hair and capped teeth stood in front of me with his hand out. I didn't shake it.

"Sorry about this," he said sympathetically. "I know it's tough to have someone come in at the end. But I think it will make the show stronger, don't you?"

"Where do you want me?" I said through my teeth. I wasn't responsible for his self-esteem. It was obvious that Perry and Mel had no idea what was really going on. But there was no time to worry about them.

"Over there." He pointed to the middle of the balcony rail, before scurrying out of my way.

Mel approached me. "Sorry Paris. I think this is a stupid idea—bringing in an announcer at the last minute. We don't have him in any of the earlier footage! I can't imagine what Plimpton's thinking."

I grabbed the man's arm and squeezed. Hard. "You knew he was Plimpton all along? And you didn't tell me?"

Mel pushed away, shaking his head frantically. "I didn't think it was any big deal! Chuck likes going undercover on his shows. I never thought he'd reveal himself to you before it was over."

"Get away from me," I said. I must've used my "Assassin's Voice" because he skittered away immediately.

I went to stand at the balcony. The women were led in. Both seemed surprised at Teri's presence, but neither said anything. Why did she agree to this? Or did she really have a choice? Maybe it was because she needed the job. At any rate, she had no idea how dire the situation was. They were kept far away from me. I wanted to explain everything. I wanted to apologize. There was no chance for that here.

The lights went up, and the cameras came on.

"Paris Bombay!" Perry, the announcer shouted. I flinched inwardly. The rose they gave me still had thorns, and I was sweating like a fat guy in a sauna in this tux under these stage lights.

"The time has come!" he continued. "Who are you going to choose? Cin, or Teri?" I felt a clock ticking inside my head, and it made me think of the bombs my cousin Dak and I used to make as kids. How did I get into this mess? I never wanted to star on The Single Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever. Great. Cin and Teri are looking at me thinking I'm about to make a decision. How do I tell them I can't?

The vague sketch of an idea slid over my thoughts. I motioned for both women to come to me. Cindee wore a little black dress and black peep-toe heels. She was absolutely beautiful. Teri was in a blue satin dress that demonstrated she really had curves hidden under her chauffer suit. Her hair was piled up on her head, and I realized she was a knockout. She looked pissed, like she only just found out she was a contestant, let alone a finalist.

Cindee smiled nervously at me. Her silky, black bob gleamed under the lights, and her lips were full and red. She'd just gone on this show for an acting credit. Did she think she'd get this far? That she'd have to actually deal with a real proposal? I had to quit thinking about these concerns and focus.

I took both women by the hand and led them to the rail. If my idea worked, they'd both be furious with me, but they'd also both be safe. I'd have to say and do just the right thing at just the right time. No pressure there.

"What am I doing here?" Teri hissed.

"Teri, Cindee," I started, ignoring her, "this has been an impossible decision to make." I knelt before them to get some traction. Teri frowned. She was not happy. And it made me wonder why. I liked her, a lot. But suddenly I realized I wanted her to like me too. The fact that she didn't seem happy bothered me.

"You are both amazing women. Cindee, you are thoughtful, sweet, compassionate, and smart." She gave me a little nervous nod in thanks.

I turned to Teri. "Teri, you are the kind of woman who won't put up with any bullshit." I heard a gasp from the cameraman and tried not to smile. "You are wise, and funny, and amazing in your own right."

Teri glared at me. And in all fairness, I understood. She never wanted to be on the show. She despised it as being the worst that L.A. had to offer. But here she was, dressed up and forced to possibly be rejected in front of America. Well, whoever was watching. I really had to wonder what Chuck had said to her.

"Choosing between the two of you is a travesty. Both of you deserve a prince. Not someone like me." I wondered if Chuck felt he was getting his money's worth with my drama.

I took a deep breath and let go of their hands. My muscles were taut, coiled in my legs. "And that is why, I choose…"

It happened so fast I wasn't sure they understood. I leaped to my feet, each shoulder burrowing into a woman's core as I lifted them off their feet and threw them backward, over the railing into the pool below.

Angry screams came from the pool, but I had no time. I spun around and lunged for the mercenary, disarming him and punching him so hard he fell to the ground unconscious or dead. I didn't care which.

I'd counted on Dushyant going after me, and he did. Before he was able to touch me, I kicked upward at his chin. His head snapped back, and he slithered to the floor, unconscious.

Kevin started squeaking, and the crew was frozen in place. Chuck glared at me. I ran toward him as he made a break for the railing. Chuck climbed up onto the railing and turned back to give me a smile. In seconds, he'd be in the pool, closer to Teri or Cindee. Plimpton couldn't hurt both of them before he got to them, but I could see in his eyes that didn't matter. He only needed one victim to win.

I was only a foot away and reached out to grab him. Chuck staggered backwards, losing his balance. He fell. There was the sound of a sickening crack below, and Cindee started screaming.

Looking over the rail, I saw the broken body of Chuck Plimpton. He'd missed the pool by an inch and a half. Teri checked his pulse and shook her head at Cindee, who then buried her face in her hands. Teri looked up at me. I'm pretty sure that if looks could kill, I'd already be dead.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"I couldn't wait for success, so I went ahead without it."

~Jonathan Winters

The police came pretty quickly. Cindee and Teri had been wrapped in blankets and led away. Detective Miller was there again. I waited until he got to me.

"So, Paris Bombay," the detective said slowly, "what exactly happened here?"

I explained that Chuck had threatened Teri and Cindee and explained what I knew (but not how I knew it) about his white slavery activities. My goal was to sound inept and stupid—and that I was truly sorry he died. The officer nodded occasionally.

"We've been trying to nail Plimpton for years," he said to my surprise. "We think he's responsible for the deaths of at least eleven women over the past three years." Miller gave me a look that said he wasn't going to fill me in, and then he shook my hand. "I think we can write this all off as an unfortunate accident."

What? As I watched him walk away, I marveled at the fact I'd gotten away with it so neatly. Chuck jumping over the banister was a fluke. And this was probably the first time ever a Bombay was caught on film taking out his Vic.

Wait. I was filmed killing my Vic. This could be a serious problem with the Bombay Council. Not to mention the fact that I'd done Liv's assignment. I had a lot to answer for once I got home.

Then there was Cindee and Teri. I'd been a complete asshole. Cindee and Teri were all I wanted in a woman (if they'd been conjoined twins, I'd be in heaven), and now they both despised me. Hell, I despised me.

I stared at the pool below for a moment before taking off my jacket and going inside. The sooner I faced them, the sooner I could go home, crawl into my bed and die.

I spotted Teri just inside the door. She was arguing with someone on her cell phone but snapped it shut when I approached her.

"Teri, I'm sorry." I hung my head to let her know I meant it. "Chuck put you in the finale to make me choose between you and Cindee and whoever I didn't pick, well…" How could I explain this to her?

"I know all about it," she waved her hand at me in disgust. "What I want to know is why you threw us into the pool."

"You knew? How did you know?" The detective was still outside. He just now took my story. How could she possibly know?

Teri fished into her purse. The blue, silk dress clung to her every curve. I tried not to stare, but she had one hell of a body. She shoved a badge under my nose.

"You're FBI?" I sat down, and thank God there was a chair behind me, or I would've landed on the floor. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why should I tell you?" she answered. And then it hit me—she had no idea who I really was. Paris Bombay was just some nitwit trying to get laid on a stupid show.

Teri put her hand up in my face. "I've been on this case for two years now. The whole house is bugged, and half the female contestants were agents."

Okay, now I really felt stupid. I can usually spot a Fed a mile off. How did I miss this? Oh yeah, because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, dismissing these women as trash, and screwing up the assignment.

"Again, I'm so sorry," I started, but she silenced me again with the hand.

"Two years of undercover work ruined." She shook her head. "But at least that monster is dead."

"Teri, I…"

"Save it Romeo." She gave me a wry smile. "It would never have worked out between us. Frankly, you are just not my type."

As I watched her walk away, I realized that I'd let one hell of a woman slip through my fingers. It was depressing. If we'd met at any other time, maybe we could've had something. But then again, she was a Fed, and I was an assassin. Even with my family's connections at the Bureau, it would never work out. It had been my experience that FBI agents towed a strict line between the good guys and the bad guys. Being a paid assassin from a family of assassins gave me no chance whatsoever.

It took me a little longer to find Cindee. She'd changed her clothes, but her hair was still wet. All of her makeup had been washed away. She sat in a T-shirt and shorts in the kitchen, staring out the window and playing with a spoon that was on the counter. I'd never seen anything so beautiful.

"Hey," I said weakly. "I was looking for you."

Cindee stood and walked toward me. I froze, waiting for her to slap me or punch me. I certainly deserved that.

Instead, she threw her arms around me and pressed her lips to mine. She was warm, damp, and smelled like chlorine, and I was more than a little turned on by that. The kiss was real. Nothing staged for cameras or to achieve a desired effect. I didn't want it to end.

When she pulled away, she looked deep into my eyes.

"What was that about?" I asked. "Not that I'm complaining, that is…"

"For saving my life. Even if you had to throw me into a pool to do it."

"How did you know?" Seriously! Was she an agent too?

"Teri told me." She smiled. "She told me she's with the FBI and that Chuck was going to hurt me."

"Sorry about the pool," I answered weakly. She liked me after all that?

"I don't care about the pool. Although it did bother me having a guy die next to me. But I suppose it can't be helped."

I kissed her before she had a chance to say anything else. Maybe, just maybe, I'd get another chance with her. And that was good enough for me.

EPILOGUE

It's been six months since I threw Cindee into a pool in Hollywood. She flew home with me, and we spent a long, wonderful week together in my apartment. At the end of that week, we spent a weekend in Chicago at a very nice boutique hotel. I proposed to her by the pool, and she accepted. Then I threw her in, just for old time's sake.

The Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever did not air. I think the Council had something to do with that, but I'll never know. Shortly after we flew home, the bodies of four men were discovered in a Dumpster at Chuck Plimpton's house. I felt pretty bad about that. Even bad guys shouldn't rot in the trash in Hollywood.

Chuck Plimpton's full story came to light, and the media was still milking it for all it's worth. A couple of his captives were signed to start a reality show tracing the white slave business in America. Geraldo was rumored to be the producer. I guess things came full circle.

My contacts at the Bureau told me recently that Teri had been promoted to Captain as a result of her investigation. It didn't surprise me at all to see on TMZ that she's now dating George Clooney.

The Bombay Council was less than thrilled with me. Liv and I had to appear at a special meeting at Santa Muerta—the family's private island off the coast of South America. Liv was punished for forcing her assignment on me. I was punished for botching the original job, then killing the Vic in front of television cameras. The punishment was forty lashes dealt by Grandma Mary.

I'm kidding. The punishment was that we had to do a job together later that week. The assignment was in Kazakhstan and involved me and my sister taking out a serial killer tag team, and we had to do it with our bare hands. The sounds of Liv's thumbs puncturing the Vic's eye sockets and squishing into his brain will haunt me for the rest of my life, but the punishment could've been worse…much worse.

Cindee has moved in with me, and we are planning a wedding, looking for a house, and launching our own little private enterprise—a book store. One with an especially large and comfy poetry section.

I still have to tell her about the fact that I'm an assassin. It's a requirement that our spouses know and accept this. I've held off, because some interesting things are going on right now with my cousin Coney Island Bombay, and who knows? Maybe we will all be allowed to retire for good.

I've even developed a soft spot for reality television. That's how Cindee and I spend our Thursday nights—curled up on the couch in each other's arms, wearing silk pajamas, and drinking Harvey Wallbangers. After all, I can finally say that I really am a bachelor no more—ever.

* * * * *

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* * * * *

About the Author

Leslie Langtry manages somehow to write from her home in the Midwest, where she lives with her two fabulous kids and terrific husband. She has never assassinated anyone—and wants to make that perfectly clear.

To learn more about Leslie Langtry, visit her online at www. leslielangtry.com .

* * * * *

OTHER BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY

Greatest Hits Mysteries:

'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

Guns Will Keep Us Together

Stand By Your Hitman

I Shot You Babe

Paradise By The Rifle Sights

Snuff the Magic Dragon

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

of the next Greatest Hits Mystery

by Leslie Langtry:

SNUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON

Once Upon A Time, there was a family of Assassins, called the Bombays…

My name is Gin Bombay, and I’m a retired assassin. Because I’ve retired early and am a bit bored, I decided it was time to write down all the stories that have been passed down in our family for the last few millennia…the Bombay Bedtime Stories, if you will.

First of all, I’d like to make it clear that these stories have been passed down orally. Second, I’m not a historian or writer. So I may get some things wrong here and there. I’ve decided to write in my own voice, as if I were there, which I was not. If you are some jerk, Ivy League professor bent on pointing out all my mistakes – I may just have to come out of retirement for one more job, if you get my drift.

I’d like to dedicate this book to my wonderful daughter, Romi, who was born (through no fault of her own) into this crazy family.

These stories entertained me when I was growing up. I hope you enjoy them.

-Virginia Bombay

Bombay, The Um, First Bombay—The Minotaur

Island of Crete, 1256 BCE

I had to move carefully, I reminded myself as I knocked over a clay pot. Who had clay pots anymore? It was the Bronze Age, for the gods’ sake! Clay pottery was useless and would never again be worth more than the dirt it was mixed from.

The pot tottered precariously. My reflexes were pretty quick, though, and I caught it before it hit the stone road. After regaining my breath, I slipped into the shadows, away from the market, toward the outskirts of town.

My contact was nervous. An idiot. An Athenian. He did not like coming to Crete to meet me. But he had no choice. If he wanted me to get the job done, he’d have to come here. I wasn’t fond of sailing. Too many sea monsters and that overly sensitive Poseidon. I’ll keep my sandals on terra firma, thanks.

Let Codros take the risk. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, but he promised me a lot of money. A noise from my left gave me pause. I froze, willing my body to blend in with the wall behind me. Nothing. Probably a bird or something.

At long last I reached the crossroads. Codros was there, twitching nervously, naturally. Fucking Athenians.

“You came,” he said as he ran his hand through his thick curls. He’d been my contact for the last year. It took him that long to stop staring at my breasts. Apparently, Athenian girls covered theirs – unlike Cretan women. And also, he’d never seen a pair before. Aside from the fact he was a moron and had no clue as far as Cretan fashion was concerned, he was passable to work with.

“Of course I came,” I snapped. “What do you want?”

Codros looked left and right, as if he didn’t trust me not to be followed. I rolled my eyes skyward and asked the gods for strength.

“We want to pay you three thousand gold coins to kill the Minotaur.”

“Three thousand?” I asked. Surely I misheard him. That was a lot of money. More money than I would ever see in my lifetime. Was this some sort of trap?

Codros nodded. He looked right and left again, which pissed me off, before reaching behind a rock and pulling out a bag loaded with something heavy. He tossed the bag at my feet.

“Here is half,” he said quietly. “Once you prove the Minotaur is dead, you will get the rest.”

I bent down to examine the bag in the fading light of dusk. My fingers slid past the rough material and closed on a pile of cold coins. I stood, leaving the bag on the ground.

“The Minotaur is a myth,” I said. King Minos was always messing with the Athenians. No such half man, half bull existed in real life. Did they really believe that? This had to be a trap.

Codros shook his head violently. “We have been told that we are to send seven Athenian girls and seven boys to be sacrificed in the labyrinth to this beast. If the beast is dead, there will be no sacrifices.” He stuck his chin out as if to make his point.

“Okay, say the Minotaur does exist, and I kill him. Why wouldn’t Minos just demand the kids anyway and kill them outright?” I mean, that’s what I would do. You didn’t need a man with a bull’s head to kill people.

“If the Minotaur is dead—” Codros slammed his right fist into his left palm. “—Minos will not ask for tribute.”

On Crete, we had a lot of jokes about Athenians. Named ironically for the Goddess of Wisdom, Athenians were rubes who believed in stuff like flying horses and minotaurs. How many Athenians does it take to milk a goat? Five: one to hold each of the four legs with the fifth one running off to find someone from Crete. Believe me, that’s a howler in my village.

“I can’t be responsible for what Minos does. If I take your money, kill this Minotaur, and the demand for sacrifice continues, your people will come after me.”

“No. You won’t be held responsible. And we will pay you once we have proof the monster is dead. Minos won’t demand the tributes. If he does, then he’s a fool.” Codros spat on the ground.

“All right, then.” I lifted the very heavy bag from the ground. “I’ll do it. And I’ll get you your proof. And I won’t be responsible for what happens after. We meet back here in four days. I’ll have your proof, and you’ll have the rest of my money.”

He nodded and slipped away into the shadows.

It took me longer to get back home as I dragged an extremely noisy bag of coins through the streets in the darkness. Once inside my little house, I barred the door and dumped the bag on the table. I froze for a moment from the loud sound of coins clanking together, exhaling only after I didn’t hear anyone beating on my door.

Why was I worried? I lived alone, with no friends or family on the whole island. People never noticed me. I could slip in and out of anywhere without anyone knowing I was there.

Now, why did I take this job? That confused me a little. I’d been a thief and a spy for most of my sixteen years. But killing? My eyes slid to the bulging sack. Well, clearly that was more lucrative. Besides, I wasn’t really going to kill anything.

The Minotaur! Honestly! Those Athenians would fall for anything. There was no Minotaur. What idiots. They couldn’t even mess things up properly. Sometimes, those bastards would sneak in and attempt to ruin some festival or another by setting all the goats loose or pouring honey on the streets—you know, the usual Athenian bullshit.

King Minos kept sending our navy to kick their asses, but this crap still happened. He even told the Athenians if they didn’t knock it off, he’d demand seven boys and girls every nine years to feed to his weird, made-up, man/bull thing, the Minotaur. But he doesn’t have a minotaur. He just says that.

I didn’t feel bad in the least for taking their money to kill something that didn’t exist. Athens was filled with people who took the “short chariot” to work. Their city state would never last. I give them one more generation before they’re completely forgotten.

The only problem would be evidence. How would I prove I killed something that didn’t exist? I shook my head and filled a clay cup with water. Damn clay. But with this kind of money, I’d be able to afford a bronze cup or two soon enough.

My parents died when I was two years of age. They were killed in a strange oxcart accident involving a duck and a single olive. This old guy, Deuteronomy, took me in and taught me the fine art of theft. I stole for the two of us while we lived quietly in this house. He died when I was ten. After a while, thieving bored me, and I turned to spying. When I was thirteen, I sold the Athenians a lie that strangely turned out to be true. Who knew Poseidon really did have a Kraken? The Athenians believed me, and, as a result, I’ve been taking their money (and selling them lies) ever since. But this…killing for money, was new.

I wasn’t terribly fond of Crete either. People ignored me completely. Maybe after this job, I could disappear—see the world. I was good with a knife and knew my way around poisons—Deuteronomy believed in a well-rounded education. I could take care of myself and had for years.

First things first. I carried the bag of money to my bedroom and yanked the bed away from the wall. After tucking the bag in a hole I had hidden there, I shoved the bed back and lay down on it.

It was hot, and the night was filled with the humid stench of animals, ripe olive groves and people. Yes, leaving after the job was done was a good idea. Wait until after I get paid the rest, and just disappear. I’d probably leave Greece altogether. What would be the point of staying? Maybe I’d even turn faux assassination into a little family business…train the kids and grandkids. Then I threw up in my mouth a little because that would require getting married. Greek boys were gross—always oiling up and wrestling in the nude. What the hell was that all about?

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew daylight flooded the room and someone was banging on my door.

“Who is it?” I asked in the gruffest voice I could manage.

“Codros sent me,” the male voice answered.

I only had two options: open the door and let him in, or keep it barred, grab the money and slip out the window. But I was curious about what kind of moron Codros would send, so I opened the door and dragged the man inside.

“Who are you?” I asked, shutting the door behind him. As I looked him over, my knees grew a little weak. This was an Athenian? He looked more like Apollo. Gold hair, gold skin and eyes as blue as the Aegean. He smiled, and my stomach flipped.

“I’m Sparta.” He gave a little bow. I wasn’t used to men treating me with respect. Basically, they didn’t look at me at all.

“Sparta? Like the city-state?”

He nodded. “Yes. My parents met there. So they named me after that place.”

“That’s kind of weird,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Yes. It is,” he agreed. “No one does that.”

We stood there, staring at each other for a moment. I motioned to the table and a stool beside it. “Please, sit.” I poured him a cup of water and stood back, studying him.

Why did that idiot send someone? And why is he so cute and nice? Is he here to spy on me?

“You said that Codros sent you…”

Adorably, Sparta blushed. “Yeah. I volunteered. I thought I could help you.”

“You mean spy on me.” I folded my arms across my chest. Sparta didn’t seem so cute now. Codros didn’t trust me to kill a mythological monster? That bastard!

Sparta rose from the stool and stepped close to me. He was taller than me. And just as gorgeous close up.

“No. I came because I can do things.”

It was hard to hear myself over my heart beating. “Really. What exactly can you do?” My guard was up now. Not only did this guy notice me…he actually talked to me. That didn’t happen.

“What’s your plan for killing the Minotaur?” he asked casually.

“How I kill him is my business.” My face was hot, and I could feel that vein pulsing in my forehead. I didn’t need some stupid Athenian following me around. I moved to the door and opened it.

“I think you’d better go.”

Sparta sighed and made his way out the door, which I may have closed a bit too loudly. He wouldn’t last half an hour in the village. Everyone here knew everyone else, and we didn’t like strangers. The boy would have to return home or get fed to the goats.

If I had someone spying on me, I’d need to act quickly. Maybe I could just behead a bull and present that to the Athenians? Would they buy it? I could say that he was too large to bring back so I just took the head.

How was I going to behead a bull? I mean, the biggest thing I’d ever killed was a bird, and it wasn’t too hard cutting his head off. But a bull? What about the horns? I could get the horns easily enough. But how would that prove anything to people who thought I needed spying upon? Obviously, this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

And that stupid Sparta! He probably wouldn’t go away. If he had half a brain, he’d hide in the olive groves. His blonde hair would really stand out. I’d have to shake him somehow. Or threaten him.

He’d asked what my plan was. I didn’t have one. This job seemed so easy last night. Now it just seemed like a mess…one that would bring the Athenians down on me like a sack of…um…Athenians when I failed.

I could go now. There were fifteen hundred gold coins behind my bed. That would make it easy for me to run away and live fairly comfortably somewhere. All I’d have to do would be to wait until the middle of the night and just slip away. I could bribe a fisherman at the beach to take me across the sea, in the opposite direction of Athens.

In a few days, I’d be in Italy or Africa, and no one would miss me. No one would miss me. Wow. That idea stopped me cold. The only people who knew I even existed were the Athenian morons and Sparta. My neighbors would be hard pressed to identify me as something other than “that weird orphan girl.” Even though it would be easy to fade away, I suddenly didn’t want to.

I wanted to prove I could do this. For some reason, it mattered that someone out there would remember who I was and what I could do. Slipping away in the night had merit. But it wasn’t the right answer. I’d have to go to Minos’ palace, Knossos. Then if Sparta was following me, he had to see that I was at least moving toward a plan (one that I really didn’t have).

I spent the day preparing for the trip. Deuteronomy had left behind a worn, canvas pack that I filled with dates, olives and bread. Two handfuls of the gold coins and a wine skin filled with water took up the rest of the space. In the early afternoon, I napped. I’d have to move out late at night. By late evening, I’d sharpened my four, bronze throwing knives that I’d stolen from a sailor two years past. They were good knives, and I could throw them with great accuracy. I could use them for self-defense and hunting along the way.

The sounds of the village slowed to a stop as the night grew darker. Finally, I gathered my pack, stuffed my knives in my pockets and headed out the door toward King Minos and his ridiculous, imaginary Minotaur.

SNUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE