Angels And Elves. Joan Elliott Pickart
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“I won’t argue with you about that,” she said, opening the car door. “All I can think about is getting into my bed.”
Interesting thought, Forrest mused, as he got out of the car. More than interesting.
Jillian went to the front door, yawning as she inserted the key in the lock. Forrest pulled the luggage from the car, managing to tote the four pieces in one trip, and followed Jillian inside to set the suitcases in the entry hall.
He swept his gaze over as much of the interior of the house as he could see. Jillian had decorated with a Southwestern flair in muted tones of salmon, pale turquoise and creamy white, creating a soothing, cool atmosphere.
“Nice,” he said, nodding. “Your home is very nice.”
“Thank you. I’d give you a tour, but I’m so tired I’d probably get lost.” Jillian yawned again. “I’m a total wreck.”
“Would you like me to carry forth your luggage to your chamber, Lady Jillian?”
Jillian giggled, then blinked as she realized she’d made the ridiculous sound.
“No, knave,” she said, with a flip of one hand. “Leave it be.” She smiled. “Thank you for the ride home, Forrest. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I apologize for my odd behavior at the bookstore. When I’m this exhausted, I’m not myself.”
“Well, Miss Whoever-you-are,” he said, smiling, “I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“Dinner? Oh, sure. Fine. Bye.” She turned and started to walk away.
“Jillian?”
She stopped and looked at Forrest over one shoulder. “Hmm?”
“Don’t you think you should lock the door behind me when I leave?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course I should. Perdition, where is my mind?”
“Already in your bed asleep.” He went to the door and Jillian shuffled forward to grip the doorknob. “Seven-thirty.”
“It is?” she said, appearing confused. “No, it’s not that late, is it? Well, maybe it is.” She shrugged. “Who cares?”
“No, no, I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty tomorrow night for dinner.” He paused. “Are you going to remember having this conversation?”
“Of course. No problem.”
Forrest took one step back into the house and dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you then.” Excellent. His Angels and Elves assignment was officially launched. “Sleep well, Jillian.”
Jillian closed the door slowly, then locked it. The fingertips of one hand floated up to touch her lips. They still tingled from Forrest’s kiss.
“Merciful saints,” she mumbled. “Oh, Jillian, go to bed.”
Ten minutes later, she slipped between the cool sheets on her king-size bed, and was asleep the instant her head met the soft pillow.
* * *
At 1:00 a.m., Forrest closed the book he’d been reading since he’d arrived back at his apartment, and stared at the cover.
“’Midnight Embrace,‘” he read aloud, “‘by Jillian Jones-Jenkins.’”
It was an extremely well-written novel. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he had said he would read it.
To his surprise, he’d become completely engrossed in the intricate plot, found himself cheering on the hero and heroine, and eagerly turning the pages to discover how their dilemma would be solved.
He’d razzed Andrea for years about the sappy romance novels she read. Well, he’d have to eat crow. Big-time crow, because he intended to ask Andrea if she’d loan him Jillian’s other novels so he could read them.
Jillian, he thought, turning the book over to look at the photograph on the back. Lord, she was beautiful. The black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to her incredible gray eyes, her silky, dark brown hair, or her peaches-and-cream complexion.
His gaze moved to Jillian’s lips.
Oh, yes, those kissable-looking lips were very kissable, indeed. He’d never done anything quite so impulsive and pushy as kissing a woman he’d just met. He hadn’t thought about doing it, he’d just suddenly kissed her. And it had been a quick little kiss. No big deal.
Wrong. The moment his lips had touched Jillian’s, an explosion of sensations had rocketed through him. He’d wanted to haul her into his arms and deepen the kiss, savor more of her sweet taste, feel her respond to him, woman to man. Heat had thrummed through his body with a nearly staggering intensity.
Miss Jillian Jones-Jenkins had certainly had an impact on him, both physically and mentally. She was endearing and enchanting, with her fatigue-induced old-fashioned vocabulary.
There was a fiery temper there, too, evidenced by her threat to ink him to death with her mighty pen and her volatile reaction to his derogatory remark about romance novels.
Forrest chuckled, placed the book on the table next to him, and got to his feet. He stared down at the glossy photograph.
“Good night, Lady Jillian,” he said. “I am definitely, most definitely, looking forward to our dinner date.”
Well, one thing was beginning to become clear—his Angels and Elves assignment wasn’t going to be a study in misery. Spending time with Jillian Jones-Jenkins, helping her get her life back on track with a better balance of labor and leisure, wouldn’t be hard to do. Not at all.
He yawned.
“Perdition,” he said aloud, “I need some sleep.”
* * *
Early the next afternoon, Jillian stirred, opened one eye and wondered foggily what hotel she was in. In the next moment, she opened both eyes, smiled, then stretched like a lazy kitten as she realized she was at home.
“Dee-lightful,” she said.
But an instant later she frowned, as she became fully awake.
She’d dreamed about Forrest MacAllister. It had been one of those jumbled dreams that made absolutely no sense, and had no real plot, per se; but Forrest had been there, no doubt about it.
He’d been dressed as a member of the English ton in the late 1800s, complete with ruffled shirt and frilly cuffs, and thigh-hugging trousers tucked into shining leather boots that came to midcalf. His rich auburn hair had been caught in a queue with a black velvet ribbon.
Jillian narrowed her eyes, concentrating on details of the dream.
She had been decked out in a gorgeous ballgown of green velvet with bows drawing up both front halves of the skirt to reveal a paler-green satin underskirt. The bodice had been cut low to expose just the tops of her breasts, and her hair had been arranged in an elaborate, upswept creation threaded through with narrow green ribbons.
She and Forrest, she realized, had appeared like characters who had stepped from the pages of one of her books. They were the hero and heroine in all their splendor.
That much was clear, but from then on the dream had been a bit wacky. They had been dancing at a crowded ball, swirling gracefully around the floor. In the next moment, though, they’d been waltzing in Deedee’s store, and then later in Jillian’s own living room.
“Heavens,” she said, throwing back the blankets, “what nonsense.”
Leaving the bed, she started across the room, only to stop after going a few feet. She placed the fingertips of one hand on her lips, the sudden remembrance of Forrest’s quick but unforgettable kiss causing a shiver to skitter along her spine.
Now