GATED ENTRANCE. High walls. Armed guards. Maximum security.
Welcome to Camino Real, the most exclusive country club in Orange County.
From a safe distance I watched the guard wave Gwen’s Jag in. I wondered what she was doing there, stopping by for a round of golf? I quickly discarded the thought. It wouldn’t make sense if I were supposed to wait two hours, two days, or two weeks for Gwen Danner to do something evil. The Universe was more efficient than that.
Something was going to happen soon.
Gwen wasn’t there to lob tennis balls with the tennis pro or issue rude demands to the help.
She was there to do something very, very bad.
And I had a feeling it was far worse than pouring old mayonnaise into the shrimp salad.
I drove slowly up to the gate. I was about to call the goddess but the guard looked like your average man. Maybe a heady dose of beauty and charm would convince him to let me in.
Fifteen minutes later I was still at the gate, having giggled, flirted, and cajoled to the best of my ability. The guard continued to stand there, arms folded, offering nothing.
I lowered my Gucci sunglasses and widened my dark brown eyes at him. “Honestly, do I look like someone who would try to sneak into a country club? I have better things to do. Gwen Danner really is expecting me.”
He continued to stand there, unmoving.
I threw up my hands. “For God’s sake I drive one of the most expensive cars on the market!”
“Yeah,” he said. Then reached out and gently caressed the fender.
“Listen.” I rummaged through my purse until I came in contact with the slim silver card case. “Here’s my card. Anytime you want to drive it, you can, and I’m not talking customary humdrum test drive. You can burn rubber—but only if you let me in.”
He took the card. “How ’bout now?”
“No. There’s no time. It’s an emergency.”
“Gwen Danner’s invitation to the ball get lost in the mail?”
I sighed. “Something like that.”
He hit the remote and the gates swung open. “Go on in. And I’ll be calling for that ride.” He grinned. Wouldn’t want to miss another opportunity to stroke your fender.”
Ha. Ha. Double entendre. I get it.
I wasn’t about to lay down my dating rules right then and there. “Thanks,” I called out, and hit the gas.
I was speeding so fast up the long, cemented drive I barely noticed the exquisite grounds.
Okay, maybe I noticed.
I hated country clubs. I despised their homogeneous membership, their backward, narrow-minded thinking, and their superior air.
But mostly I resented not being a member.
My parents were in the upper tax bracket but didn’t exactly hang with the “right” crowd.
Personally I didn’t mind restrictions, provided I was the one doing the restricting.
I parked and ran to the entrance, rather difficult in my Bruno Magli slingbacks, and stopped outside.
I wouldn’t make the same mistake I did at the convenience store.
No way was I taking one step inside without calling the Goddess Within.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Lightning split the sky.