Destiny’s Chastity

Chapter VI: Sir Sneddley’s Evil Plan

The Bentley sped into the night, down the 10, up the 110, across the 210, back to the 10, headed for the Inland Empire--and trouble.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, Sir Sneddley could see the bodies of the drugged, would-be lovers tumbled atop each other, curvaceous legs and brawny biceps twisted and dangling over the ecru leather seat. Good, he thought. They’ll still be asleep when they get there. That would give him enough time to do what he had to do.

His eyes burned small and dark like two coffee beans in an oatmeal cookie as he thought about That Woman. What a tiresome twit! She had actually been offended by the sexy remarks he made to her in the office, when she was nothing but a cheap secretary, one of millions of American bimbos who thought they could snag a rich man with a faux Prada bag and a membership to Great Expectations. There might be something about her adorable ferret fixation, he thought, sneaking a peak at Destiny’s cute but unconscious face in the mirror. But make no mistake: He would win in the end, and now she had led him to Hunter Simone.

Sneddley had lost track of the handsome heir to Cuppa Joe’s Coffee Co. after that curious string of accidents that killed off most of the Simones--the biggest obstacles to his plan to control the worldwide market for gourmet coffee. When he saw Destiny about to embrace a lanky yet muscular man at the miniature golf park only an hour ago, he felt a shock of recognition when he realized it was Hunter, the last of the Simones, the only man in the world who stood in his way.

His beady eyes scanned the road ahead. The bright lights of L.A. had given way to the auto malls and multiplexes of San Bernardino, then to the rusted trailers and bait shops of horse country. When he saw the neon sign announcing “Sixteen Corners,” he pulled off, parked at a small coffee shack at a bend in the road and waited.

The bikers came at dawn. About a dozen of them, wearing black leather jackets and pointy boots, roared into the lot on shiny pin-striped motorcycles, spitting gravel into the air. Sneddley knew they were really middle-aged corporate executives, colleagues who met for weekly prayer breakfasts to negotiate mergers and refine their various and sundry plans for world domination. Surely he could persuade one of them to get rid of the couple in the car; it would be a piece of cake. He got out, pushed the Bentley’s childproof lock and followed the men into the cafe.

Meanwhile, inside the car, Destiny began to stir. She pulled herself up and ventured a peek out the window. Her cinnamon brows met over quizzical emerald eyes. The landscape seemed oddly familiar. It looked just like the place where she had found the pet dealer, the one who specialized in illegal and exotic animals, the one who sold Suzy to her.

What was she doing here now? Whatever. She was glad she had changed from the black Versace miniskirt into the pink Prada plaid pedal pushers. The salesgirl said they gave her a certain je ne sais quoi, just perfect for the country.

She turned her attention to the Greek god beside her. She loved the way his hair fell in careless corkscrews like rotini pasta around his face. She loved the way he smelled, like raisins in a carrot and marshmallow salad. She pulled up an eyelid with her cherry red talons and admired his tourmaline eyes, blank and glassy. A thread of spittle fell from his lips.

She sighed. He was to have been her Hunter. She should have been the prey, his Destiny. Now perhaps the roles would have to be reversed. It was time to take matters into her own hands.

She tried the door. Locked. The windows--tinted an impenetrable gray. She wiped the drool from Hunter’s mouth, gathered an arm around his hunky chest and with the other brushed aside his unruly forelocks. She kissed him gently on his wide, empty brow.

“No matter what happens,” she whispered softly in his ear, “we’ll always have Perris.”

Suddenly she stopped. Glinting from his downy pink lobe was something she hadn’t noticed until now. A small silver stud in his left ear. Oh, no, she gasped. Not again. But on the other hand, maybe she was overreacting. Maybe all men wore earrings now in Southern California. She racked her brain: Did it matter whether it was the left ear or the right ear?

Quickly she reached for his pocket and pulled out his wallet to look for clues. She tossed aside the ordinary artifacts of adult life in the ‘90s: driver’s license, designer condoms, business cards, money. Her heart quickened, and she sucked in her breath. A lot of money. Seven hundred-dollar bills. A platinum-plus credit card. A Swiss bank account. A photo of an especially buff Hunter with an unknown man in the rain forest. Another photo of Hunter in Speedos with a different man around the Pasadena Hunt Club pool.

Obviously, he had a lot more going besides the feed and seed! Destiny tore through the contents of his wallet, the detritus of his secret life, that she had tossed on the floor. She nearly broke a nail trying to pick up his Social Security card. Her eyes grew large, and her lips moved along silently as she read his full name: “Hunter French Roast Simone.”

Simone! Could he actually belong to the Cuppa Joe’s coffee empire Simones? The same family whose pictures Sir Sneddley had attached to the dart board in his office? Now that she thought about it, they were all lanky and muscular too!

Her breath and her thoughts were coming faster than she could handle. The windows were steaming up. Absorbed by her own confusion and the split ends in her cinnamon hair, she did not see her boss walking toward the car with the distinguished-looking man in a motorcycle jacket and chains.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Chapter VII:

“Stop!” screamed Destiny. She quickly drew the gun from her bag and sat up, aiming at Sneddley’s astonished face. Destiny couldn’t help noticing a thin line of white foam on his mustache. He’s just finished a cappuccino, she thought.

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Photography and photo manipulation by Los Angeles Times staff