Reluctant Goddess [NOOK Book]

Marin County, California, 2006 C.E.

Frustration dogged K.C. Berrigan's heels. Heck, Frustration had become her middle name these days. Reading over the last bit of her current work in progress, cranked out three days before, she bit her lip. Talk about writer's block. More like granite boulders damming up her creative juices. Here she was, poised to write the follow-up to her first bestseller and thus carve her name onto the marquee of Successful Authors--except she couldn't get her futuristic time-traveling heroine into the same century as her hero. Princess Appollonia, her so-called heroine, had been stationary so long she was beginning to grow moss. And the still unnamed alpha hero behaved more like an omega.

Maybe K.C., who adored anagrams, would change the name Korsawor to Strufnoirat, an anagram of frustration. And Korsawor could become the hero's name. Did Korsawor sound like a hero's name? The whole thing depressed K.C. so badly, she couldn't get out of bed. Not even having stashed her favorite chocolate nuts beyond arm's length moved her.

The phone rang. With a sigh and an unerotic groan, she put down the manuscript, dragged herself out from under her covers and raced to pick up the receiver ... well, stumbled. Hopefully, she was going to hear good enough news to justify getting out of bed.

Not. Shit. Some bozo selling another phone service. Didn't they have laws against that? K.C. slammed the phone down, stretched, yawned, and looked at the clock. Eleven. Missed breakfast. No wonder she felt starved and weak.

She went to the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of some lovely cinnamon raisin challah bread, eggs, milk, vanilla, and a touchof sherry--what the hell, it was getting on to lunch time. It was a French toast morning, and she was going to make herself her very best recipe--one she usually saved for company. If she was up to making French toast for herself, she couldn't be as totally catatonic as she'd been feeling since writer's block had descended--was it only three days ago? Or three weeks? Three months?

K.C.'s tummy rumbled, as well it should. She'd make herself four good slices of the delectable toast. And fry up some bacon for a protein boost. She got everything going, then put her special blend hazelnut coffee on to brew--full octane this morning, to rev up her creative engine. Soon, the kitchen smelled amazing and K.C.'s spirits, if not her block, began to lift. She sliced fresh strawberries from a neighborhood fruit stand--the first of this spring. Maybe she'd plant some strawberries in the garden that had come with the cottage ... the great cottage in beautiful Marin that she'd lose if she went bankrupt.

K.C. sipped coffee as she put the finishing touches on her breakfast. She artistically arranged the French toast, bacon, and berries on her prettiest plate. After sprinkling powdered sugar on the toast, she poured on pure maple syrup direct from Vermont. Then she carried everything over to the table, put her plate on a blue and yellow quilted place mat, and sat down. Though she'd resolved to stop reading when she ate alone, today wasn't the day to begin. So she grabbed a magazine and began her feast.

By the time she took her last bite, K.C. was starting to feel better about the world and her life. The phone rang again. Determined to preserve her growing optimism, she picked up.

"Magda here," a heavily accented voice said. A large and in-charge Hungarian, Magda Marki was one of K.C.'s favorite people. Stylish and well-groomed, with a manner the French would label formidable, Magda could have been anywhere from forty and seventy. Few people had the cojones to ask for the exact particulars.

"Good morning, Magda."

The other woman made a clucking sound with her tongue. "'Tis afternoon, Karlotta Carolina." Her friend insisted on calling K.C. by her full name. Magda and K.C.'s sister, Cassandra, were the only people permitted that liberty.

K.C. looked at her clock and nodded. "You're right as always, Magda. How are you? It's good to hear your voice."

"All you would need to do to hear my voice is pick up the telephone. I have not heard from you in a very long time and have grown concerned," Magda scolded in her careful English.

"Sorry." K.C. sincerely meant her apology.

"I thank you for that, but I cannot spend too much more time before I tell you the purpose of my call. Karlotta Carolina, you must come down to my shop immediately."

K.C.'s heart sank. Much as she loved Magda and her herb shop, there was no way she could unchain herself from her computer long enough to go into San Francisco.

"That is exactly why you should come," Magda insisted. "Whatever you must accomplish or rearrange in order to come here, do so. I demand this, in the name of friendship." She grew still for a moment then added the killer words, "Have I ever before given you incorrect advice?"

K.C. could hear the agitation, almost excitement, in her friend's voice. Magda usually kept all emotion out of her voice--which made this appeal all the more powerful. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

"Tsk. This is not a matter suitable for the telephone," she hissed. "Your immediate presence is demanded."

K.C. raised her eyebrows. Everything Magda had ever done or said since they'd met in the Rubenesque dress department at Starr's of San Francisco had been right on the money. She owed Magda for all her support and help in the past.

A thought struck K.C.. Maybe, hard as it would be to believe, her self-reliant friend required some help only K.C. could provide? She knew she should absolutely park her butt in her chair and work on her book. But she couldn't ignore Magda's summons. Okay. She would justify a temporary separation from her computer because it was Magda asking. "I'll shower and dress. Be there as fast as possible."

It sounded like Magda exhaled a breath she'd been holding. "I promise, you will never regret this." The word promise triggered K.C. to remember the last she'd written of Appollonia Amarosiana and XXXX's traitorous promises. She shook that thought away. K.C. was about to hang up when she heard Magda add a last thought. "Oh, Karlotta Carolina, wear something spectacular. No velour track suit today."

K.C. stared at the phone after she hung up. She had to wonder why her friend wanted her to dress up for an ordinary trip to the city. K.C. remembered a previous invitation to Magda's shop--when Magda had tried to fix K.C. up with her cousin, Zoltan. She shivered, thinking back to that disaster. That one time Magda had steered her wrong. Well, she couldn't hold that lapse in judgment against her friend forever. She'd take her at her word.

Intrigued, energized, and just the slightest bit wary, she put on a gorgeous red silk dress that swirled around her substantial butt, dammit, shapely legs like a soft cloud. Her one pair of black designer heels actually looked quite reasonable with the dress. K.C. carefully applied makeup and put her long blond hair into a good imitation of a French braid. By the time she felt satisfied with her looks, it was nearly two. She flew to her ancient car and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, into the city.