Buch lesen: «Angels And Elves»

One

B est wishes, Jillian Jones-Jenkins.

Jillian stared at the words she had just written with the appropriate flourish on the title page of the book in front of her.

The flowing handwriting was nothing more than a series of fancy squiggles that had no meaning. She was so thoroughly exhausted that she was beyond being able to recognize even her own name.

She blinked and shook her head slightly, striving to concentrate. She managed to produce a weak but passable smile.

“There you are.” She handed the thick, hardcover book to the beaming woman standing on the opposite side of the lace-cloth covered table. “I sincerely hope you enjoy Midnight Embrace.“

“Oh, I know I will,” the woman said, clutching the treasure to her breasts. “I’ve loved all your books, Miss Jones-Jenkins. I read them over and over. They’re such wonderful stories. So romantic, so touching, so filled with love.” She sighed. “Oh, dear, I do go on and on, but I want you to know how much pleasure you’ve brought into my life with your work.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jillian said. “I hope I never disappoint you.”

The woman moved away and another stepped forward, presenting a book to be autographed. Jillian opened it to the title page, then hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the expanse of the bright, cheerful, well-stocked bookstore.

The man was still there.

He was watching her, she was certain of it.

Jillian, stop it, she admonished herself in the next instant. Tired was tired, but this was a step beyond. If anyone looked at her crooked, or said the slightest cross word, she’d probably burst into hysterical tears like a toddler in need of a nap.

Therefore, she decided, it went without saying that she was overreacting to the presence of the man. He was the only male in the store, and each time she looked in his direction, he was watching her. She was the constant target of his scrutiny, his gaze never seeming to wander from her.

She wrote the name recited by the woman in front of her, then signed her own by rote with the usual flair. Her smile was beginning to feel pasted to her face like a plastic mask.

The man, she mused, as she vaguely heard herself thanking the woman for her loyal support, was extremely handsome. He was about six feet tall, had thick, dark auburn hair, was well tanned, and had just-rugged-enough features. His eyes were brown as best she could tell, but he’d stayed too far away from where she was seated at the table to be certain.

“You want me to write, ‘Merry Christmas, Margaret’?” Jillian asked the next patron. “But this is only February.”

“I know, dear.” The woman smiled. “I’m shopping early for the holidays in December. That way I feel Christmassy all year long.”

“Oh, I see,” Jillian said, with a mental shrug.

Whatever floats your boat...dear, she tacked on in her mind. Now where was she in her mental inventory of the tall, handsome stranger skulking in the aisles?

Oh, yes...he was in his early thirties. His nice build was shown to advantage in expensive charcoal-gray slacks and a black V-neck sweater over a white dress shirt worn open at the neck. It was appropriate apparel for Ventura, California, at this time of year.

“I hope Margaret likes the book when she reads it next Christmas,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” the woman said. “Of course, I’ll read it now. I wouldn’t dream of waiting that long for one of your stories.”

Jillian laughed. “Happy February to you, and Merry Christmas to Margaret.”

“Oh, aren’t you a sweet girl?” the woman said. “It was so delightful to meet you, dear.” She hurried away.

Delightful? Jillian thought. No, delightful would be a long bubble bath, with soft music playing on the stereo. Then she would slip between crisp sheets on her bed, burrow into the pillow, snuggle beneath the blankets, and sleep, sleep, sleep. Now that scenario was delightful.

Deedee Hamilton, the attractive woman in her early thirties who owned Books and Books, stepped closer to the table.

“Let’s keep the line moving, please, ladies,” she said pleasantly. “It’s getting late, and we don’t want to detain Miss Jones-Jenkins past regular store hours. She has just returned from an exhausting ten-city book-signing tour, and was good enough to come here before she went home and collapsed. So, let’s hurry right along, shall we? Next?”

Bless you, Deedee, you’re a wonderful friend, Jillian thought, accepting the book the next woman handed her. Jillian Jones-Jenkins was tired to the point of being numb. Jillian Jones-Jenkins was— Good grief, she was thinking of herself in the abstract, as though she were a character in one of her books. She desperately needed to crawl into bed and not reappear for at least twenty-four hours.

Ten minutes later, Deedee once again came to the table.

“I’m going to close the store now,” she announced to the remaining customers. “I’ll unlock the door and let each of you out after you’ve had your book autographed. If any of you are making other purchases as well, please step up to the register.”

Ah-ha, Jillian thought, it was truth time. The man—the Handsome Hunk, aka H.H.—was going to have to put up or shut up. His skulking-in-the-aisles routine had just been called to a halt by Deedee.

Jillian inwardly sobered, although her forced smile remained in place.

She should not be taking the presence of the loitering man so lightly. She had writer friends who had been bothered and actually frightened by mentally off-balance men convinced that a woman who wrote love scenes was automatically available to participate in real sexual encounters. Because she was exhausted to the point of being giddy, she hadn’t given the man serious enough attention. There was a reason for his having been in the store for such a long time, wandering around, and watching her. She was going on red alert as of that very moment.

She glanced up, only to realize that the man had moved again. A visual sweep of the store found him in the cookbook section, his nose in an open cookbook. Oh, dear heaven, it was upside down!

A shiver coursed through Jillian, and her smile slid off her chin, despite her efforts to keep it firmly in place. She handed the book she had just signed to the smiling woman, who grasped it eagerly. Only one more customer waited to have a book autographed.

One more, Jillian thought, then the man was going to have to do something. But what? Oh, Lord, what was he going to do?

* * *

This was it, Forrest MacAllister thought. Time had run out. He had to do it now.

He glanced at the cookbook he was holding, then did a quick double take as he realized that he was holding it upside down. Slamming it shut, he shoved it back onto the shelf.

Get it together, MacAllister, he told himself firmly. The situation was as good as it was going to get. The witnesses were pared down to the minimum. He had to do what he’d come here to do—have Andrea’s copy of Jillian’s novel autographed.

Jillian Jones-Jenkins was certainly attractive. The spokeswoman for the store, who was probably Deedee Hamilton, had confirmed what Andrea had told him yesterday—Miss Jones-Jenkins had just returned from an exhausting book-signing tour. Well, if that was what the lovely author looked like totally exhausted, she’d be unbelievable when fully rested.

Yes, Forrest decided, she was stunning, tired or not. Her wavy, dark brown hair fell gently to just above her shoulders. She had delicate features, sensual lips, and big, gorgeous, gray eyes framed by long black lashes. Those eyes were fantastic.

At one point during his vigil she’d stood, apparently to relax stiff muscles, and he’d had a delightful view of a slender, yet ultrafeminine figure shown to perfection in a dusty rose suit with a straight skirt, thigh-length jacket, and pale pink silky blouse. She was fairly tall, maybe five-six or -seven, and was, he guessed, about thirty years old.

All in all, Forrest mentally rambled on, she was a lovely representative of the female species.

He sighed.

What Jillian Jones-Jenkins did, or did not, look like had nothing whatsoever to do with why he was there, or the fact that he couldn’t stall any longer.

Then there was the nagging problem that Andrea, nutsy little sister that she was, wanted him to take on Jillian Jones-Jenkins as an Angels and Elves assignment. Andrea definitely had too much time on her hands. Her idea was crazy, totally bizarre.

He’d get the book signed by Miss She-needed-to-lighten-up-and-have-some-fun Jillian, deliver it to his sister, and tell her in no uncertain terms that her request was hereby rejected and his answer was an irrevocable no.

“Thank you so much,” Jillian said, handing over the signed book. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I will,” the woman said. “Thank you, Miss Jones-Jenkins. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it was to meet you.”

“Good night, and come again,” Deedee said. She unlocked the door and the woman said goodbye with an added promise to shop there often. “Christy,” Deedee said to the teenager behind the cash register, “off you go. You did splendidly under the gun. That was really quite a crowd we had in here.”

Gun? Jillian thought, swallowing a near-hysterical bubble of laughter. Deedee could have gone all week without saying the word gun. Oh, Lord, the man with the gun, who read cookbooks upside down, was starting toward her. He was stalking. Yes, perfect word. He had a smooth, athletic gait that was like a panther stalking his prey.

And she was the prey.

And he had a gun.

No, no. Wait. She had to calm down. The man didn’t have a gun. Well, not that she knew of, anyway. Her exhausted brain had simply transferred Deedee’s innocently spoken word into a sinister plot. No, there was not a gun. Was there?

He was getting closer, she thought, feeling another shiver whisper down her spine. His eyes really were brown. Beautiful eyes. In fact, he was an all-around beautiful man. What a shame that he was a sex maniac, who was about to kidnap her and...

Jillian jumped to her feet and grabbed the only weapon available to her—the pen she’d been using to autograph the books.

“Stay back!” she yelled, thrusting the pen toward him. “You come one step closer, you fiend, and I’ll...I’ll ink you to death!”

Forrest stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock.

“Pardon me?” he said.

“Jillian?” Deedee called out. She finished locking the door after an exiting Christy, then went to Jillian’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“This...this villain has been skulking in the aisles for over two hours.”

“Villain?” Forrest repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Skulking?”

“Don’t you move.” Jillian whipped the pen back and forth. “Deedee, call the police. Quickly. Go to the telephone and—”

“Hey, now wait a minute,” Forrest said.

“Jillian,” Deedee said, “sweetie, you’re so tired you’re not thinking clearly. I’m certain that Mr.—?” She raised her eyebrows questioningly as she looked at him.

“MacAllister,” he answered quickly. “Forrest MacAllister, but feel free to call me Forrest.”

“Right,” Jillian said, with a very unladylike snort of disgust. “You probably made up that name the very second Deedee asked you, you miscreant.”

“Miscreant?” Forrest said. He looked at Deedee with a frown. “Does she always talk like this? ‘Villain? Skulking? Miscreant?’”

Deedee shrugged. “She writes historical novels. The jargon of the era sort of...well, sticks to her at times, especially when she’s exhausted or stressed.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Fascinating.”

“Deedee!” Jillian shrieked. “Would you please call the police?”

“Calm down, Jillian,” Deedee said gently. “Let’s listen to Mr. MacAllister, Forrest’s, explanation of why he was ‘skulking,’ shall we?”

“Would you stop being so condescending?” Jillian said, through clenched teeth. “You’re treating me as though I’m a four-year-old throwing a tantrum.”

“Then quit acting like one,” Forrest said, glowering at her.

“Well!” Jillian said indignantly. “You’re not only a cad, you’re a rude cad to boot.”

“Cad?” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t believe this. A rude cad.” He burst into laughter, then grinned at Jillian. “You’re really something.” She was enchanting, absolutely delightful, as well as being extremely beautiful. “I’ve always had a fondness for the old-fashioned. You, however, take that premise beyond the scope of my imagination. You’re an intriguing woman, Miss Jones-Jenkins.” His smile faded, and he looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, very intriguing.”

Jillian opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it shut as she realized she had no idea what to say. A tingling sensation danced along her spine and across her breasts before settling low within her. The warm, brown pools of Forrest MacAllister’s eyes seemed to be holding her immobile, unable to think clearly, hardly able to breathe.

Dear heaven, she thought hazily, what was this man doing to her?

Not a thing, she mentally answered herself in the next instant. He was just a man, nothing fancy. He put his pants on one leg at time, just like any other man.

Actually, it wasn’t a good idea to be focusing on the subject of Mr. MacAllister’s pants, Jillian admonished herself.

But, good gracious, he was gorgeous. There was a blatant masculinity about him, an earthy aura that shouted the fact that he was male. Dear heaven, was he ever male. And those eyes, those pinning-her-in-place brown eyes were—

Jillian, stop, stop, stop! she scolded herself. She was overreacting to everything because she was exhausted. She’d had enough of this nonsense.

She tore her gaze from Forrest’s, and dropped the pen onto the table.

“Oh, perdition,” she said, throwing up her hands. “This is ridiculous. Just what exactly is it that you want, Mr. MacAllister?”

You, Forrest thought. Jillian’s big gray eyes were incredible. He felt as though he were being pulled into their fathomless depths, into a sensual fog that caused heat to rocket through his body and coil low and tight within him.

She was a spell weaver. Miss Jillian Jones-Jenkins talked like she had stepped out of the past and into his present. She was rattling him, throwing him off kilter. Well, hell—and perdition, too, for crying out loud.

“Hello?” Deedee said. “Has a truce been called? Is anyone still awake here?”

“I’m not a miscreant,” Forrest said, shaking his head. “Okay? Are we clear on that one? I’m here for a purpose.”

“Do tell,” Jillian said, crossing her arms over her breasts.

“I’m attempting to do that, madam,” he said, glaring at her. “I bought one of your books when I first came in. It’s behind the counter and has my name on it.”

“So, why were you skulking?” Jillian asked, leaning toward him slightly. “Answer me that.”

“Because the book is for my sister, Andrea,” he said, his voice rising. “Andrea MacAllister Stewart? Your friend? You know, the one who’s expecting twins and has been instructed by her doctor to stay in bed because they don’t want the babies to be born too early. She’s very disappointed that she couldn’t come here today.”

“Of course,” Deedee said, beaming, “Forrest MacAllister. Andrea has spoken of you so often, and was very excited that you were coming home from Japan. And, my, my, here you are. Isn’t this a marvelous surprise, Jillian? We’re finally meeting Andrea’s brother, Forrest.”

“Mmm.” Jillian lifted her chin a notch. “Being Andrea’s brother does not explain Mr. MacAllister’s lengthy stretch of skulking.”

“Well, hell, what do you expect?” he said, volume now on high. “Do you think I was going to stand in line with a bunch of giggling, fawning women to have a sappy romance novel autographed? Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.”

“Uh-oh,” Deedee muttered.

Uh-oh, Forrest thought, that had not been a brilliant thing to say.

Fury was building in Jillian like a tempestuous storm, gaining force, soon ready to explode. Eyes that had been radiating gray, pussy willow softness, were now silver daggers prepared to strike him dead. The flush on her cheeks was caused by anger, and her breasts, those full, lush breasts, rapidly rose and fell in an enticing rhythm.

She was absolutely sensational.

“You...you...” Jillian sputtered.

“Wait, whoa, halt,” Forrest said. He quickly raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “That didn’t sound right. What I meant to say is...” Think, MacAllister! He was a breath away from being murdered! “A man, any man, is out of his league in a large group of women. It’s overwhelming, you know what I mean?” He produced his most dazzling smile. “I was nervous, shaking in my shorts.”

“Like hell,” Jillian said, narrowing her eyes.

Forrest’s smile disappeared. “I don’t think they said that back in the old-fashioned days. Anyway, I’m sure your book is great, really wonderful. I like romance. Hell, I love romance. I’m a very romantic guy. Really. You can ask any woman I’ve ever— Cancel that.”

“Mr. MacAllister,” Jillian said.

“Forrest. Call me Forrest. Look, I’m in awe of anyone who can write a book and get it published. All I can do in the writing arena is make out checks to pay my bills. I’d appreciate it if you’d autograph the copy of your book I bought for Andrea. Having your newest novel to read will help take her mind off her worries about the babies.

“Listen, I’ll read the book myself, cover to cover. I’m sorry if I insulted you. I stressed out because of all those women, that’s all. Would you please sign the book for Andrea?”

Oh, perdition, Jillian thought, Forrest MacAllister didn’t play fair. There had been an endearing, little-boy quality about him as he spilled forth his sermonette.

Also evident was a genuine sincerity in his voice, and she knew without doubt that he loved his sister, Andrea, very deeply.

Ever since she and Andrea had become friends, Jillian had been aware that the MacAllisters were a close-knit, devoted-to-each-other family. When she was growing up she used to daydream, to fantasize, about how wonderful it would be to have brothers and sisters, and parents who—

“Jillian?” Forrest said.

“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be happy to autograph Andrea’s book.”

“Praise the Lord,” Deedee said, looking heavenward. She hurried to retrieve the book from behind the counter, then shoved it into Jillian’s hands. “Write.”

Jillian sat down behind the table and did as instructed. A few minutes later, she held out the book to Forrest.

“There you are,” she said. “I hope Andrea enjoys it. Please tell her that I’ll come visit her very soon.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the novel from her hand. “Thank you very much.”

Again their eyes met, and again neither moved, nor hardly breathed. Currents of crackling sensuality seemed to weave back and forth between them, drawing them close even while they stayed exactly where they were. Their hearts raced, and heat pulsed within as their startling passion heightened.

“Well, I...” Deedee started.

“What!” Jillian and Forrest both jerked in surprise at the sound of Deedee’s voice and the spell was broken.

Placing one hand over her heart, Deedee said, “All I was going to say is that we’re finished here, and you can head for home and collapse, Jillian. I wish I could drive you, but I’m due at a Women in Business meeting.”

“I’ll call a taxi,” Jillian said, getting to her feet. “Don’t give it another thought, Deedee.”

“I’d be happy to take you home, Miss...” Forrest paused. “Jillian.”

“Oh, no, a taxi will be fine, Mr. MacAllister. Thank you,” she said, not looking at him.

“Forrest. Please accept my offer of a ride. It will help make up for my frightening you while I was ‘skulking.’ At least I now know that I can ‘skulk’ in case the need for it ever arises. I’ll drive you home. Right? Right. That’s settled. Let’s go.”

“Good idea,” Deedee said. “There’s nothing to worry about, Jillian. We know Andrea, Forrest is Andrea’s brother, and that’s good enough for me. It’s fine with you, too, but you’re too tired to realize it.”

“But—” Jillian began, but no one paid any attention to her.

“Jillian came here right from the airport,” Deedee informed Forrest. “Her luggage is in the back room. I’ll let you out the front door so you can get your car. Drive down the alley to the rear entrance and we’ll load you up.”

“But—” Jillian tried again.