Jennifer Crusie: The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes

Danny was trying to go inside, but Verna was still talking. ‘You sure you don’t want to give me just a little hint about what the girls’ story is?’ Verna asked, snagging Dee’s attention. ‘I know it can’t be bad. They’re such good girls. Why, they can’t even seem to shoo all those bunnies out of their yard, and them with that big garden and all. Soft hearts, you know. But you were saying…’

Don’t blow our cover, Dee silently begged. Not yet. Stupid to worry. Their cover was already blown. There wasn’t a person in town who wouldn’t find a reason to ask just what that handsome stranger had been doing at the O’Brien house at eight in the morning.

‘Oh, it’s no mystery,’ Danny James assured the little woman. ‘I’m just researching some history for a book, and I was hoping they might be able to help me.’

Verna patted him on the arm as if he were a gentleman caller. ‘Well, how fascinating. Maybe you’d like a cup of tea while you tell me all about it.’

And, of course, he smiled and offered her his arm. ‘What a lovely offer, Mrs Washington.’

Excellent. Verna would keep him talking for hours, while Dee searched his room. She quickly scanned her target. Verna had decorated the inn in Early Ruffle, all lace and chintz and vacant-eyed china dolls ranged on high shelves. Danny James was going to look like a panther at a tea party tucked under Verna’s pink sheets. His luggage sat by the door, just waiting to be searched: a backpack and a wheeled softsider, both unopened; a briefcase that sat tantalizingly open on the wedding ring quilt.

Making sure the coast was clear, Dee lifted off and slipped smoothly in through the open window.

She must not have been as smooth as she’d thought. She hardly made it into the room before there was a loud slam behind her. She turned to see that the window had fallen closed.

Oh, dear God. She was stuck. She plopped down on the quilt right next to the briefcase and tried not to panic. The door was open into the hall, but she sincerely doubted that an owl could flap right down the stairs without being noticed. Maybe she should hide in the closet until Danny James got too warm and opened the window again -hopefully before she turned back into a naked human. Of course, if she was a human, she could get the window open…

There was a big time planner on the desk. Dee tilted her head. Hmmm. Not a very modern man, with no PDA. No, he had a book with everything she needed to know about him, right there for God and the world to see. She looked toward the open door again and then the closed window. She did her best to tamp down the instinct to batter herself against the glass to get out. She had to stay calm.

She decided she could stay calmer if she distracted herself with her mission. She had turned pages before as a bird. Maybe she’d have enough time to turn these and see what she could find out. Flapping as quietly as she could, she flew over and settled on the desk.

The address book was open at the Ds. She scanned it to see only two names that meant anything: Dellwood Press and Mark Delaney. Tidy. Dellwood Press was the publisher who put out the wildly popular Mark Delaney books.

Was that who he worked for? If it was, he had a great job. Delaney was a legend. Best-selling, award-winning, as notorious for his obsessive reclusivity as his immense talent.

Easy to be reclusive if you have this many addresses, Dee thought in passing. New York, L.A., London. Detroit. Detroit? Not her idea of a world-famous hideaway. The question was, what was a genre writer who penned alternative historical novels doing researching Phil and Fiona Fortune?

Dee hopped closer. Balancing on one claw, she reached over to try and flip pages. She needed the X page. Maybe the O. She needed to know if Xan had sent him. D… E… damn, this was hard. If she’d been human, she’d be sweating. Hop, pull, hop, flap…

She was concentrating so hard that she missed the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly the top stair creaked. Dee spun so fast, she almost fell over.

‘Remember,’ Velma’s voice trumpeted up from the front hallway, ‘the window’s a little loose and can close sometimes. If it does, just prop it with that big old dictionary on the desk.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Washington,’ Danny James answered from right outside the door. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Dee had to hide. The minute Danny James turned from calling down to Verna, he’d see her. She didn’t even think about it, just swooped straight up to the top of the chifforobe, her tiny heart stumbling. She tucked herself in among the garden of silk flowers Verna had crammed onto the cherrywood top. Maybe if she sat very still she’d look like decor – if the dust up there didn’t make her sneeze. Besides, she needed to see what Danny James was going to do. He was already closing the door before it occurred to her that if she changed back, she might have a better time of it under the bed.

At first the situation looked promising. Once he was in the room Danny James walked straight to the window and yanked the sash open. A fresh breeze wafted in along with the sound of desultory traffic. Verna could be heard chattering with Mrs Phipps from next door. Grabbing the huge dictionary from the desk, Danny James wedged it in the window to keep it propped open.

She could get out now, Dee thought, shifting from foot to foot. If he’d just turn his back, close his eyes, and ignore the sound of wings. Instead, he stood right in front of the window. Stretching his arms overhead, he slowly arched his back until Dee could hear little popping noises. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he muttered, stretching sideways. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for about five hundred miles.’

Dee knew she should scrunch down so he wouldn’t notice her up there, especially with his eyes facing the ceiling. But she was terrified into immobility, an owl statue surrounded by silk flower bouquets.

Facing out the window again, Danny pulled out a cell phone and punched buttons. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s Danny. No luck so far, but I guess I expected that. I’ll call when I get something.’

And?

And he’d evidently finished with phone calls. Tossing the phone onto the bed, he shucked his jacket. Not just a leather jacket. An old, battered bomber jacket with the 390th Fighter Wing insignia. The Fighting Boars. The plain white T-shirt underneath betrayed every muscle in his chest and torso, and highlighted rock-solid shoulders.

Now, leave, she thought desperately. Give me a little space to get out the window. She sat as still as stone, terrified he’d see her. Holding her breath so she didn’t sneeze. Praying he’d take his shower.

She’d obviously prayed for the wrong thing. He was going to take his shower, all right. It was just that he was going to strip right here in the room. Sinking onto the iron bed, he pulled off his old battered cowboy boots, and Dee realized he had great biceps.

No. No time for biceps. Don’t look.

She looked. She loved biceps.

She really should go. Please turn around. Let me out.

He pulled off his shirt.

Dee gaped, frozen to the spot. It was like watching a theater curtain rise, only this one exposed the most incredible torso she’d ever seen: taut pecs and cut abs and a dusting of mahogany hair that curled at his throat and trailed right down to his waistband and beyond, and oh, God, he even wore a silver medal, the chain glinting against his tan skin.

Hadn’t she seen that this morning? When he smiled at her in that brief, tantalizing flash of fantasy in the dust? Dreaming about painting was one thing. But dreaming about painting him…

She had to close her eyes. She had to turn around. He had no idea what disaster he was courting just by shucking his shirt. He reached up to pull the silver chain over his head and dropped it on the nightstand, and Dee almost groaned out loud.