Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

Of course, there hadn't been. What had she expected to find? Or who? The bogeyman? A murderer or rapist? This was Mandeville, for Pete's sake. What was wrong with her?

It was nerves. Over seeing Luke. Over what she would say and how he would respond.

She glanced at her watch and muttered an oath. If she didn't leave soon, her worrying would be for naught-the signing would be over and Luke long gone.

Emma calmed, Kate hurried to the closet. She grabbed the blouse hanging smack in front of her, slipped it on, fastened the buttons and tucked it into her linen trousers. With one last look at the bed, she lifted Emma and hurried out of the house.

The Tulane University bookstore manager ushered Luke and his publicist to a table set up in the middle of the store. A wide path had been cleared from the table to the store's double glass doors. Copies of Dead Drop were stacked on and under the table and racked on the surrounding displays. Off to the right, a book cart was weighted down with several dozen cartons stamped with Luke's publisher's name and the book's title.

Luke stared at their number, aghast. He'd never seen so many copies of one of his books in the same place.

"I hope we ordered enough," the manager said, looking flustered. "Some of those people have been waiting two hours already. They're not going to be happy to leave with an IOU."

Luke shifted his gaze to the bookstore's glass front and the mob of people waiting outside. All those people were here for him? He had thought they were here to buy concert tickets or something.

"Hot damn," Helena, his publicist, muttered. "I think I just creamed my jeans."

Luke laughed. The ever-raunchy, slightly cynical publicist was gazing at the glass doors and the crowd beyond, all but gloating with pleasure.

"You know what this means, don't you?" She squeezed his arm, not taking her eyes from the throng of readers. "You've arrived, Mr. Dallas. This kind of crowd only shows for a brand author-Clancy, King-those guys. Or for celebrities. This is better than sex, I swear to God."

Luke shook his head, too amazed to speak. It wasn't so long ago that he'd sat in a mall bookstore, copies of his novel piled on the table in front of him, signing one or two during the entire two-hour event and being grateful for it. It wasn't so far in the past that he couldn't remember the rush of anticipation when a customer would approach his table; then the disappointment when they'd asked him if he knew where the bathroom was. Or where Clancy was shelved. Or if the new Grisham was in.

"Play it as cool as you want, Mr. Macho," she whispered as they took their seats behind the table. "I know you're so pleased you could piss your pants about now."

Luke sent his publicist an amused glance from the corners of his eyes. "Piss my pants? Helena, isn't that a bit crude, even for you?"

She leaned toward him, eyes alight with humor. "I'm a New Yorker. So fuck off."

He laughed. Crude or not, it was true. For a writer, nothing could compete with the high of knowing your books were being read and enjoyed. Not even a fat royalty check was as satisfying as a glowing letter from a fan, though he had to admit, the checks didn't hurt a bit.

The store manager opened the door; the crowd descended. For the next hour and a half, Luke signed one book after another. Helena and the store manager assisted him by handing him books, already opened to the title page.

The crowd was friendly; Luke's only regret was not having time to chat with each reader. There was no time for such pleasantries, not if he didn't want a riot at the back of the line.

Which was in sight. Luke glanced up, trying to calculate whether there would be enough books to go around and how long it would be before he could give his hand a break. His fingers had begun to cramp.

The line shifted, moved forward, parted. And there she was, the most beautiful face in a sea of faces, instantly recognizable to him even though it had been at least ten years since he had last seen her. He caught his breath; his mind went momentarily blank, then flooded with but one thought, one stunning realization: Kate was here.

Helena leaned slightly toward him. "God, I need a cigarette. Mind if I slip away for a minute?"

Luke blinked, crashing back to the moment, where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. A reader stood in front of the table, her expression expectant. He smiled, asked her name, autographed a book to her, then greeted the next reader in line.

He looked at his publicist. "What did you say?"

"A smoke. Mind if go for one?"

"Not at all." He shook his head and returned his gaze to the end of the line and Kate. He saw that she wasn't alone. She had a baby on her shoulder. A girl, judging by the pink romper she wore. Richard's baby. He steeled himself against the way that made him feel, against the quick kick of resentment. Against the something that smacked of jealousy.

He drew his eyebrows together, mustering indignation and what he told himself was anger. Didn't she get it? There was a reason he hadn't answered any of her messages. He hadn't wanted her here. He didn't want to see her.

Liar. He'd wanted to see her too much.

Luke forced himself to focus not on her, but on the job he had to do. On this triumphant moment. He smiled, signed his name and told himself Kate was just another reader, that he would treat her as such. When she reached the front of the line, he would sign her book and send her on her way.

That moment came sooner than he would have liked. She stood before him, looking flushed and nervous and hopeful. It was the last that affected him most.

She smiled. "Hello, Luke."

"Kate." He kept his tone impersonal. The store manager slid him a copy of Dead Drop. "How would you like this inscribed?"

Her smile faltered, the baby squirmed in her arms. "To Kate and Richard, whose friendship once meant the world to me."

She had never pulled her punches; had never danced around the truth or issues. It was one of the many things he had admired about her. Now, he found himself angry at her brass. He did as she requested anyway and handed her the book.

"I'd hoped we could talk," she said, dropping the book into her stroller and jiggling her baby, who had begun to protest in earnest now.

"This is hardly the time or place."

"I know. There's a la Madeline at the corner of St. Charles and Carrollton Avenue. Could we meet there, after the signing?" The line stirred behind her, growing impatient. "Please, Luke."

Refuse and send her on her way.

He expelled a quick, frustrated breath instead. "I'll be a while yet. Another hour, maybe more."

"I'll wait for you."

He looked away from her, then back. "I'll try. No promises, though."

She nodded, and he watched her walk away, thinking of the past and promises and a time when he'd thought he couldn't live without her.

In the end, Luke couldn't not meet her. He told himself he was doing it for closure, so he could get her out of his life and system, once and for all. He told himself that after today, Kate Ryan would be a permanent part of his past.

That wasn't the way it felt, however, when he walked into the French bakery-café an hour and a half later. It wasn't the way he felt. No, as he stepped into the restaurant and sought her out with his gaze, he felt twenty again and madly in love with a girl who didn't love him in return.

The feeling rankled, and Luke stiffened his spine and crossed to where she sat, feeding her baby a bottle.

Kate lifted her gaze. "I didn't think you'd show."

He slipped into the booth across from her. "I wasn't going to."

"But you're here." She eased the empty bottle from her baby's mouth, then brought the infant to her shoulder and began patting her back. "Why?"