The Virgin And The Vengeful Groom. Dixie Browning
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It didn’t sound like the voice she’d heard on the phone, but voices could be disguised.
Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t have spit if her pants were on fire, but she forced herself to look him in the eye. Coolly, graciously she said, “I beg your pardon?”
Two
I beg your pardon?
Lily was tough. She had grown up tough. In the neighborhoods where she’d spent her formative years, toughness was a prerequisite to survival. Over the intervening years she had moved countless times, to different cities, different states. She had learned how to dress, how to speak, which fork to use for oysters, which to save for cake. The one thing she had never quite managed to do was lose the urge to slip away rather than confront trouble head-on.
And this man, whether or not he was actually her crank caller, was trouble.
“I said, you have something that belongs to me,” he repeated, never breaking eye contact. Her fingers tightened on her Montblanc pen, the one she had treated herself to after her first book went to number two on the bestseller list and stayed there for three weeks. As a weapon it was slightly better than car keys. As a reminder of who she was and how much she’d accomplished, how far she had come from the skinny kid who had scrounged for food from restaurant garbage, worn clothes snagged from backyard clotheslines because she didn’t dare risk getting caught shoplifting, it served well enough.
She opened her mouth to beg his pardon again, snapped it shut and looked around for mall security—for anyone bigger and tougher than the man towering over her.
“If you’d like to buy a book, I’ll be—”
“I’ll pay you whatever you laid out for them.” Unblinking. She’d heard of unblinking eyes—probably used the phrase herself a time or two. This was the first time she had actually been confronted by a pair of deep-set, intensely blue, unblinking eyes.
How the dickens could a man make her feel threatened and dithery at the same time? She’d been threatened by experts. The crank caller who insisted on telling her in detail what he’d like to do to her made her want to kick him where it would do the most damage. The creep who had actually invaded her home, leaving disgusting things in her underwear drawer!
But dithery? The last time she could remember feeling dithery was when she’d been offered her first three-book contract after her first book had gone back to press five times. Getting a grip on herself, she said in her best Masterpiece Theater voice, “I’m sorry, but you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.”
He glanced at the nameplate: Lily O’Malley, Bestselling Author. His unblinking eyes shifted to the newspaper clipping mounted on a poster along with one of her publicity stills. He said, “I don’t think so. Look, you’ll be finished here at two? Why don’t I come back later, and we can settle things then?”
Totally confused, Lily watched him turn and walk away in that odd, gliding way he had of moving. In a woman it would have been called graceful. He could have balanced a book on his head. In a man it was something else altogether. Subtle? Scary? How would she describe it as a writer?
She knew very well how she would describe it as a woman. In a word, sexy. He might not be the weirdo she had first taken him for, but any dealings with a man like that could definitely be classified as a walk on the wild side, and what woman hadn’t been tempted at some time in her life to walk on the wild side?
Not Lily, though. Thank you very much. She’d been there, done that.
Turning her attention to the woman who was examining one of her books, she eased into her famous-author mode. “What do you think of the cover?”
“Well, it’s real pretty, but I’d rather see who the story’s about,” the woman replied with a faint frown.
They discussed covers. They discussed her last two novels. By that time a line was forming, and Lily tucked the dangerous-looking man into a compartment of her mind and shut the door. It was another of her talents—compartmentalizing—that had stood her in good stead over the years. Some doors had not been unlocked in years.
A few never would be.
So that was Lily O’Malley, Curt mused as he sought out the food court and ordered a pastrami on rye with horseradish. She didn’t add up. Classy didn’t quite say it all. Neither did sexy. Yet she was both of those and more. Intriguing was a word that came to mind. He reminded himself that he wasn’t here to be intrigued, he was here to get back what she had stolen from him, legally or not, and get the hell back to the island, where he could take his own sweet time going through it.
The more he thought about it, the more important it became, now that he was the Powers in residence at Powers Point, even if only on a temporary basis. As far as he knew, he was the last of the lot, and while the concept of family had never meant much to him personally, the least he could do for those responsible for his existence was to hang on to what they’d left behind. For a professional rolling stone, it was a pretty heavy responsibility, but what the hell—he’d shouldered heavier loads. He could do that much before he moved on again.
Lily signed a respectable number of books. She’d done better, but she had also done a lot worse. She accepted a number of compliments—graciously, she hoped—and one or two criticisms: there wasn’t enough sex; there was too much sex; did the guy in her last book, or did he not, ever pay for that apple? She hadn’t said.
She answered each critic seriously and wished the stint would end. Fourteen minutes to go. After that, a few more minutes spent thanking the staff, and she’d be free to leave.
Idly she wondered about the dark-eyed stranger with the sexy way of walking. He’d claimed she had something of his—which was absurd, of course. She’d heard just about every pickup line in the books. Some people said the most outrageous things in an effort to grab her attention.
A few went even further.
Ten minutes and counting. “I’m so glad you liked it. It was one of my favorites. Shall I sign it for you? Adella…that’s a lovely name.”
Seven minutes to go. No one in sight. Lily reached for her purse, capped her pen and felt around with her feet for her shoes.
And then, there he was. Those same slashing eyebrows, several shades darker than his streaky tan hair. She hadn’t imagined the intensity of those eyes, nor that odd, sexy way he had of walking, as though his legs moved independently from his torso.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I beg your—”
“You’ve already begged it. If you’re about finished here, why don’t we go someplace where we can talk?”
“Look, Mr….”
“Powers,” he supplied. “The name ring any bells?”
Powers. The voice might not have rung any bells, but the name surely did. What have we got here, Bess?
“If this has something to do with those old papers I bought at the auction—”
“I figured it might come back to you.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. It was a legitimate business deal. The things were up for sale—I bought them, ergo, I’m the—”
“Ergo?”
“What is your problem?” she demanded, rising to her full height, which was almost five feet eight inches, now that she had her shoes on again.
The store manager appeared, a questioning look on her round face. The man who claimed his name was Powers towered over both of them. “Just trying to decide on where to go for a late lunch,” he explained with hard-edged geniality.
Ignoring eyes that sliced through her like a welder’s torch, Lily forced a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wash the ink from my hands.”
There