“Worked like a charm,” she whispered.
“Smart girl.”
Ashley wiggled appealingly over top of him, and winked. “Now let’s have our own Pleasure Party.”
Hell, yeah. He could do that. Lucas planted his hand on her backside. “Sell it to me, Ash. I’ll buy anything.”
THE CUPID CURSE
Jen Nicholas
Prologue
December 15, 2003
Tasha’s Apartment
“I’ve decided what I want for my birthday.” Valentine Lewis scooped up another bite of blueberry cheesecake and almost shivered at the delightful taste.
Tasha glanced up from her strawberry low-fat frozen yogurt and eyed her sister with apparent wariness. “Uh-huh. And that would be what?”
Val smiled and wiggled her eyebrows up and down a few times. “A man.”
Tasha choked and made a grab for her water glass. “A man? Valentine Lewis wants a man? Are you insane?”
Val laughed and went back to the cheesecake. Using her fork like a conductor’s baton, she proceeded to make her point with her sister. “Look. My birthday is on St. Valentine’s Day, right? And my name is, of course, Valen-tine. Granted, the name makes me sick. But not much I can do about it now, is there? Anyway,” she continued, scooping up a huge glob of cake and stuffing it in her mouth, “it’s been, what, two years since I’ve had sex? I think it’s a damn fine birthday present.”
Tasha had stopped choking, but was now staring at her sister as if an alien had invaded her body. “I’ve got all that. But Val, you hate men.”
Val snorted. “I don’t hate men. I just happen to think that they’re stupid, Neanderthal creatures who only think with one thing, and it’s not their brains.”
“Exactly.”
“And,” Val continued, watching Tasha roll her eyes, “most men are, in fact, a whole hell of a lot like Ziploc bags.”
“Oh, dear God, Val, another analogy between men and totally obscure, inanimate objects?”
Val grinned at her sister. “Yep, but this one is the most apropos yet. Men, like Ziploc bags, are not only see-through, but they each claim to have a tight seal, and then willingly open wide for anyone who fiddles with their zipper.”
“You”—Tasha said, waving her spoon at her lovable yet totally crazy sister—“are a certifiable man-hater.” She stared closely at Val, wondering if she’d taken some type of medication recently and forgotten to tell her. “So why in God’s name would you want a man for your birthday?”
Val sighed the sigh of infinite patience. “Because it’s time. Tasha, I’m twenty-seven years old, will be twenty-eight in just a few more weeks. I haven’t had sex in two years. Because, believe it or not, I do want a home and a family some day. And if I don’t get my butt in gear, and soon, I’m going to die a dried-up old maid with only myself and my younger sister for company. Not that you’re bad company, mind you,” she added with a smile.
“Val, I understand that. I really do. But darn it, Val, for the last time, you hate men! And if that wasn’t enough, just how do you expect to conjure up a man in time for your birthday? Not to mention that it’s the most romantic time of the year.” Tasha grabbed her sister’s hand, trying to make her understand the craziness of the situation. “Internet dating? Singles bars? What!”
Val smiled her sassy smile and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Relax, Tasha, I’ve got it all figured out. I’m simply going to ask Cupid.”
One
January 4, 2004 Andersonville Public Library
In about three more seconds, Valentine Lewis was going to break the cardinal rule invisibly posted in all libraries—she was going to start screaming her head off.
She’d been doing research for six hours. Six hours. She’d used the library’s massive computer system, she’d looked up every book listed in the online catalog, and she’d even, God help her, ruined her eyesight for life by flipping through thousands of screens of microfiche films.
All of that, and she’d still come up empty-handed. The library associates, she had to admit, had done their part to assist her. Everything she’d asked for, they’d brought to her with smiles. Granted, after the first four hours the smiles had started to become strained and their lips had started to take on the harshness of a Vulcan glare at the edges, but Val had to give them credit, they were still smiles.
Two more books. Two flimsy old books were now all that she had left before her to gain some vast well of knowledge. Actually, at this point, she’d settle for a small sesame seed–sized bit of knowledge. The books left for her perusal, however, didn’t look very promising as both looked worse for wear. Cracked spines, torn edges, paper that was beginning to flake in spots was now her last hope. One was about a hundred pages long and written in such small print that she was afraid that she’d go blind trying to decipher it.
The other one looked downright pathetic, in both style and length. It was only about twenty pages in length, and the writing wasn’t even typeset printing. It was handwritten in a delicate, almost feminine cursive style that, although pleasing to the eye, looked to be about the length of her grandmother’s strawberry shortcake recipe.
Val sighed and gave up on the task of flipping through the tome of munchkin-sized typeset. She dragged the forlorn-looking recipe book toward her, sparing a tired and slightly blurred glance at the title. The Cannons of Cupid. To Val, it sounded like Cupid and his cohorts had taken over a brigadier ship.
Since it wasn’t very long, she decided that this book, her last hope to gain insight into the life and times of Cupid, wasn’t one to skim through. She’d read it from start to finish, and there had better be, by God, some scrap of hope that she could grab on to.
Val stretched her long legs out, resting them on top of the chair across the table from her. She pushed her long hair away from her face and rubbed a tired, ink-stained hand across her eyes. She took a deep breath, gave up a little prayer, and began reading.
She read the first seventeen or so pages in about five minutes, dreading the minute she would come to the last page. Another dead end. Another lost cause. Another…
“…so as the Cannons dictate, Cupid is incapable of turning down any plea that is deigned to be genuine and heartfelt. All requests for assistance must thus be realized, and Cupid is required, by the dictates of law, to render his full aid and commitment to said pleas.”
Val’s half-yelp of delight echoed throughout the library, and as the stunned patrons and once-helpful assistants turned to her with a look of horror, she couldn’t help but grin in what she hoped was an appeasing way. She might have broken one rule, but she’d finally found another that was destined to change her life.
January 6, 2004
Val’s Apartment
Today was the day. Val sat at her desk, an open and blank journal of white paper before her. She’d read through the book again, that font of information, The Cannons of Cupid. Since she’d checked it out from the library two days ago, she’d read and reread it at least a dozen times.
Although there didn’t seem to be anything else of importance except for that one passage, Val didn’t despair. It could be that she just didn’t understand the rest of the rules. This one, though, about making a heartfelt and genuine plea for assistance, she understood loud and clear.
And now it was time. Val had decided that she’d gleaned all that she could from those few sentences. She’d spent another day debating over whether her plea had to be spoken aloud, or if it could be written down. Everyone said that Val had a way with words. The problem was, those words had to be put down on paper. Spoken aloud, they just didn’t seem to have the same effect.
After much inner debate and rereading, she decided that if her plea was good enough, if it was heartfelt and genuine enough, Cupid wouldn’t give a rat’s ass whether it was spoken aloud or written down on low-grade paper.
So now it was time to write her plea.
“Heartfelt and genuine. Heartfelt and genuine.” She whispered the words fervently u
nder her breath.
It was her new mantra. The previous one had been “one day at a time,” and before that it was “Mr. Allen is not a bloodsucking, perverted alien from Hell.” Mr. Allen was her boss, and she’d decided he wasn’t, after all, either from Hell or a bloodsucker, but a year later, he was still a pervert.
Her mind was wandering. She was nervous. This plea, this call for help, was her last resort. Tasha had thought she’d gone crazy when, a week before Christmas, Val had stated her intention to seek Cupid’s help in finding a man.
Val twirled her pen restlessly between her fingers. Maybe she was a tad crazy. No one could grow up with the name Valentine and not be a little insane. Especially a grown woman of twenty-seven whose birthday just so happened to conveniently fall on St. Valentine’s Day.
Tasha had wondered aloud if her desire to suddenly find a soul mate had come from the dual traumas of her name and date of birth. And maybe it had. But that wasn’t all of it. Oh, Val admitted that Tasha wasn’t all wrong in saying that she hated men. For years, millennia it seemed, she’d avoided men like the plague. From her past experiences with them, she had believed for a very long time that they were all immature idiots only interested in one thing—and it wasn’t world peace.
But lately Val had been wondering if she’d been thinking about it all wrong. Granted, there would always be men who thought with a body part other than their brain. There would always be men in their forties who wanted to look and act as if they still lived somewhere back in the seventies. And there would, Lord help us all, always be men who assumed that women were complete morons, complete nerds, or complete baby-making machines.
But always didn’t mean all. Just as there were women who made a living chasing men and then wringing them for all they were worth, they were the exception, not the rule. The same had to be true for men. For every bad one, Val hoped on all that was holy that there would be a good one.
She just hadn’t found him yet.
As she doodled a heart with a matching arrow on her first blank sheet of paper, she again wished silently that her plan would work. Cupid, after all, was the epitome of love and romance. Throughout the ages people had relied on him to provide them with a suitable person to love. And when she’d done her research, she’d learned that men and women thousands of years ago had done the same, some even worshipping him as a god.
Although Val doubted that Cupid and God were one and the same, she did hope that he had some of the same abilities. Maybe they called each other on special occasions, or had powwows once a year.
But she’d put her chore off long enough. It was time. Heartfelt and genuine. That’s all she had to do, all she had to be. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help her Cupid.
To Whom It May Concern:
First off, I have to admit that I’m not sure of the proper protocol on how to go about this, so I apologize in advance for any errors that I’m bound to make. The fact is, I’m desperate, and if it weren’t for that fact, I probably wouldn’t even be writing this letter. Hopefully, my honesty will lend me some credibility.
I suppose I should start with the basics. You may already know all of these things, but since I’m not one hundred percent sure of your abilities (I know they’re great, I just don’t know how far-reaching they are) I figure that to plead my case you’ll need all of the details I can give you.
My name is Valentine Lewis. I was born on February 14, 1975, at Andersonville County Hospital in Illinois. I have wonderful parents, Don and Jaqueline, and the best younger sister, Tasha. I had a great childhood that I remember with fondness, and as far as I can tell, I have yet to suffer any great abuse or life-altering altercations.
That said, my life sucks.
Okay, okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. It doesn’t suck exactly, it just seems to be going downhill at an incredibly swift pace. I love my family, I love the great friends that I have, and except for my perverted boss, I even love my job. (By the way, I’m an accountant, and even though it sounds boring, I like it.) So maybe I shouldn’t even be complaining. But the fact is I’m lonely.
It’s not just the sex. Well, part of it, I’m sure, is the sex. Or in this case, the lack thereof. But even though I’d like to be able to remember what sex is, the loneliness is what’s getting to me. I get up, I go to work, I come home, I eat, and I watch TV…alone. Always alone, and even though I thought that alone was what I wanted, it’s starting to wear on my nerves. And my libido.
Am I even allowed to talk about libidos with you? See, I am so messed up, that never mind that I’m writing to Cupid, now I’m telling you about my pathetic sex life.
Anyway, back on track. I’m tired of being alone, and past experience has shown me that I’m no good at finding someone to change my status. As I’m sure you know, I have failed miserably at every past relationship that I’ve been in. I even admit that the majority of problems have been my fault.
I’m bossy. I’m picky about certain things. I’m stubborn and hardheaded and often speak before I thoroughly think things through. I’m a slob at home and a neat freak at work. I talk too much, sometimes quite loudly, and I don’t have any qualms about laughing until my sides ache in public, or crying at a sad book, or burping when I’ve just eaten spicy food. In essence, I’m not exactly perfect girlfriend, lover, wife material.
That said, I also have my good points. I’m very outgoing, easy to talk to, and can keep a secret. I value my friendships and will do anything for those that I love. I’m a great cook, I actually like to do laundry, and I don’t smoke, do drugs, or sleep around. (Moot point, here, isn’t it?) I’m a hard worker, friendly and personable, and when I find a man to love, I will love him with my entire heart, body, mind, and soul.
Problem is, I can’t find a man who will do the same in return. And that, Cupid, is why I’m asking for your help. You have a certain reputation for helping those who are romantically challenged. Love-handicapped, as it were. And if ever there was someone with a need, it would be me.
I don’t even care to ask specifics in what I’d like. The old cliché is true…you can’t judge a book by its cover. Size and shape, coloring and the size of the pectoral muscles don’t matter. I just want a man who’s kind and generous, who is sensitive when it’s required but can offer me the strength that I need to complement myself. A man who’s dedicated and loving, and although I’d like him to be sexual, if you could avoid dysfunctional or perverted, it would be greatly appreciated. I’ve had enough of those to last me several lifetimes.
I’m sure you know what I mean. A man that I can be proud to introduce to my family, and then can take home for some intimate entertainment. A strong character who isn’t afraid to try new things, but who respects me when I say no.
I think that’s about it. I have to admit that I have no idea whether this will work or not, but I’ve poured out my heart to you in the hopes that you can help. Any and all assistance will be greatly appreciated, and I thank you again for being the master of romance that you are.
Sincerely,
Valentine Lewis
January 7, 2004
Cupid Headquarters
“Cupid on a comet.”
The words were spoken in a shocked voice of amazement, yet Gideon didn’t even bother to look up from the book he was reading on the desk before him.
He managed to keep his attention on the written words through the long, low whistle that followed, and even through the “oh gosh” and “oh my” that followed the whistle. It wasn’t until the man who shared an office with him stuck a sheaf of papers in front of his face that he tore his gaze away from what he was reading.
“I’m guessing you’ve gone blind, McCabe, since you obviously can’t see that I’m busy.”
McCabe’s response was to prop his hip against Gideon’s desk and slap the papers he’d been waving in his face against one thigh.
“You will never guess what this is.”
Gideon spared a quick glance at the pap
ers in McCabe’s hand, then looked up with a scowl.
“My wild guess here is going to be paper.”
“Come on, Gideon, don’t be such a winger.”
Gideon arched an eyebrow at his friend’s choice of words, attempting to control his rising annoyance. McCabe knew how much he hated being called a winger. Winger…the Cupid term for a trainee. Winger…that slightly derogatory word that implied lower intelligence. Winger…just the sound of it made him want to unfurl one of said wings and smack McCabe upside the head with it.
“I’m not going to waste time reminding you for the umpteenth time how much I hate that word. So since we’re in agreement that those are, indeed, papers, can you get on with whatever it is you want?”
“Fine. But you’re still acting like a winger. Anyway,” he continued, before Gideon could get off an appropriate response, “this, my good man, is your ticket to the big leagues.”
“What are you talking about?”
McCabe shoved the papers at him, and Gideon reached out to grab them before he suffered a paper cut to the eye.
He looked down at the papers in his hand and then tossed them onto his desk. “Well, whoopee, McCabe, it’s another RFA form. Just like the other two thousand RFA forms that you have sitting over there in your in-box.”
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