A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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like a brick shit-house,” Connie whispered in her ear.
Still, Jillian would have walked right by him. The city was home to lots of good-looking people, models, actors, even businessmen.
Then this man looked at them. And when she looked back, she realized that she knew him.
“My God,” Connie breathed. “I didn’t recognize him at first.”
Of course, she knew him. Or almost knew him.
She’d just never seen him so close.
Nor seen him…look at her.
She felt his eyes on her. Then, suddenly, pain seared her. Rocked her. Hit her in the chest as if she had been struck by lightning. Pain so vibrant that fire seemed to flash before her eyes.
She staggered, doubling over in sudden agony.
“Jillian?”
She heard Connie’s concerned whisper.
Then the pain radiated through her. Fire! It was as if she were on fire.
And then she blacked out.
CHAPTER 3
He was bending over her, his head slightly turned as he calmly ordered everyone to move back, give her some room.
Then his eyes fell on her again.
They were blue. Navy. The closest thing to black she’d ever seen that still carried the touch of a hue. And she wasn’t in pain anymore. Not in physical pain.
But she was in mental agony. Total humiliation.
What in God’s name had seized her?
She had been kept from falling by someone and transported to the Victorian sofa that sat just inside the main entry to the pub. Connie was on one side of her, Joe on the other. Her new friend Tip, the cop, was hovering somewhere nearby; she could hear him talking. But it was Robert Marston who was right in front of her, barking out orders, touching her forehead and her throat—checking for a pulse, she assumed.
She wished she could crawl under the couch.
She sat up, an act easier planned than managed. Marston was so close that she crashed right into him, forehead to forehead. He smiled as their heads cracked, while she paled all over again.
“I knew I wasn’t exactly welcomed by everyone in the company, but I never thought I could cause fainting spells,” he joked.
She shook her head quickly. “You had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know who you were. I—”
“Are you all right?” he enquired more seriously.
“I—I—of course,” she stammered.
Then she was aware of Connie’s gaze. “Jillian, are you sure? My God, you were white as a ghost. We were so worried.”
“I’m…I’m fine,” she protested. “Thanks, really. I’m just embarrassed and—”
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital, get you checked out,” Marston suggested, interrupting her with a note of authority.
She stared at him, wishing she could crawl away.
What in the world had caused this?
She hadn’t felt threatened by his hiring, had she? Wary, but not threatened. She hadn’t really talked to him yet, because there hadn’t really been the opportunity. A simple, normal opportunity. But she hadn’t been worried about it. She was in design, he wasn’t. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure why Douglas had suddenly brought him in, but she had neither felt threatened nor overly impressed.
But at this particular moment, he seemed extremely imposing. The man was very tall, even down on one knee the way he was now. His shoulders were broad, though he seemed as sleek and agile as a man more slimly built.
“A hospital couldn’t hurt, other than the hours you’re likely to spend in the emergency room,” he told her.
She realized that she hadn’t responded to his earlier comment; she had just been staring at him. “No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Really, I’m fine,” she protested. “Please, I just—” She broke off, aware that a sea of faces seemed to be looking on.
In the distance, she even saw the face of the tarot reader. The woman was watching her gravely, as if she weren’t at all surprised by this turn of events.
For some reason the sight of the woman was disturbing. Jillian felt uneasy again, as if something was wrong but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if the tarot card reader knew something she didn’t.
Something that she should know.
The woman turned away, and Jillian’s uneasiness dissipated. She felt simply and completely like an idiot.
“What?” Marston asked quietly, seeming to sense her unease.
“I just need to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was soft. Raspy. “I could really go for some air.”
A second later, she regretted her words, as Marston lifted her into his arms, striding from the pub. “Excuse us, the lady needs air.”
She wasn’t white anymore. Her cheeks were flushed with mortification.
Outside, she found herself seated on the hood of a silver sports car. She heard Connie’s heels hitting the pavement as she and Joe hurried out to join them, followed by Tip, still in his Carmen Miranda getup.
“Is that better?” Those uncannily dark blue eyes were on hers.
And her hands were on his arms, she realized; she had gripped him to steady herself. She snatched her hands back and grasped for some dignity. “Look, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine now. I just—”
“Had too much to drink?” he suggested.
She straightened in indignation. “I never have too much to drink.”
“No?” A spark of humor touched his eyes.
“I don’t believe your job description includes anything about picking me up from barroom floors, though I do appreciate the concern. However, I really am fine.”
“She does seem to be okay,” Tip said.
Marston turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of the big cop in drag. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you two were together,” he said briefly.
“No, no, they’re not together,” Joe said quickly, explaining. “Tip is a friend of mine.”
Jillian could have knocked him silly. She offered him a scathing glance, but he didn’t notice.
“I think I should get off this car before the owner sues for damages,” she said, starting to move.
“Give yourself another second.”
His hands were on her shoulders. Long fingered, clean, neat, powerful. She glanced down at his touch and felt a strange, warm tremor. Barely remembered. Not welcomed now.
“I’m on someone’s Mercedes.”
“It’s mine,” he said.
Naturally. The Mercedes said everything there was to say about him. Smooth, cool. Sporty but mature. Handsome, powerful, sleek.
“Maybe you should take Jillian home, Mr. Marston,” Connie said, concerned. She looked from one to the other. “We haven’t actually met,” she said to him. “I’m Connie Murphy.”
“Joe’s wife. I know,” Marston said. He smiled and took her hand, and his eyes met Joe’s. “Your husband and I have already worked together.”
“Yes, of course.” Connie looked flushed. It had been one thing for her to tease Jillian about company