Joan Pickart - Angels And Elves

“For about five seconds. Then I’ll say no.”

“Darn it, Forrest, don’t be so difficult. Look, go to Books and Books tomorrow and buy Jillian’s new novel for me. You can meet her at the same time.”

“ Then I’ll say no. Andrea, has it ever occurred to you that Jillian might not appreciate the sneaky little program you and Deedee are putting together here?”

“It’s for her own good. Deedee and I really are concerned about her. She won’t know you’re on an Angels and Elves assignment. This is a very humanitarian mission I’m asking you to undertake, Forrest.”

He got to his feet.

“I’ll go buy the book,” he said, “and meet Jillian. Beyond that? I’m not promising anything. I’m thirty-two years old. A person would think that I’d have learned by now that your schemes always spell trouble for me in big, bold letters. I shouldn’t be going anywhere near Deedee Hamilton’s store.”

“But you will, and you’re wonderful, and I adore you, and I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, laughing, “and you’ve been able to wrap me around your little finger since the day you were born.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Bye for now, brat. Take good care of the dynamic duo you’re toting around in there.”

“Bye, Forrest. And thank you.”

* * *

Andrea waited until she heard the front door click shut behind Forrest, then snatched up the receiver of the telephone that had been placed on the coffee table within her reach. She pushed buttons in rapid succession.

“Deedee? Forrest was just here. He wouldn’t give me a definite yes, but I talked him out of a definite no. Here’s the setup. Forrest will come to your store tomorrow to buy Jillian’s new book for me and...”

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.