USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

CHAPTER TWO

 

Still can’t get used to paying twenty bucks for a sandwich. A la carte, no less! But Noelle has no qualms. In fact, she’ll likely order another “to go” to avoid cooking dinner.

 

“So?” she says and sips her six-dollar-a-bottle water.

 

“So I took your advice,” I grumble.

 

She smiles. “Got yourself another date, hmm? And on such short notice.” Her perfectly arched eyebrows bounce. “I’m impressed, Adda.”

 

I shake my head. “Not that advice. I got some sleep.” No need to mention that most of it was had face down in a little black book.

 

Noelle rolls her eyes. “You’re a hopeless cause.” With a pitying purse of her lips, she takes a long drink of water—about a dollar’s worth. “So who’s the poor sap that took you out for a nice dinner and, for all his trouble, was rewarded with—” she shudders “—Pride and Prejudice?”

 

Feeling the tips of my ears begin to warm, I tell myself to not take her dislike of my favorite movie personally. Still, I’m tempted to retaliate by holding out on her.

 

“Adda?” Noelle waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello, Adda. You there?”

 

“Jake Grainger,” I blurt.

 

“Ah.” Noelle’s eyes brighten. “Grainger has been after you since he joined you on that publicity tour a couple years back.”

 

Not that I could forget. Jake had modeled for each of the covers of my Winds of Change trilogy—once with black hair and moustache, once with blonde, flowing hair, and once with red hair. Always the same bod readers drool over. Much as I hate to admit it, I probably wouldn’t have sold half as many books at those signings if he hadn’t added his autograph to mine.

 

“Is he a good kisser?” Noelle asks with a suggestive leer.

 

I stare at her brightly painted mouth and realize I’ve never seen it any other way—not even after a three-course meal. Though I’ve heard of tattooed makeup, surely it’s not done with the lips? Perhaps some new lipstick that actually lives up to its claim of being long-lasting and smudge-proof?

 

“Adda?”

 

“Hmm? Uh, yes, a really good kisser.” I frown. “Not at all what one expects from a man who snores.”

 

She does a double-take. “Snores?” Suspicion narrows her lids. “You didn’t say anything about snoring.”

 

I did leave that bit out when we spoke in the wee hours of morning. However, before I can explain away any lascivious conclusions she might draw, she gives a snort of disgust. “Let me guess—he fell asleep in the middle of your movie.”

 

Why do I feel sheepish? “Yeah.”

 

Her eyes go rolling again.

 

Don’t take it personally, I counsel and say, “Can you believe Jake Grainger snores?”

 

Noelle waves a dismissing hand. “In my experience—and it’s extensive, darling—most men snore.”

 

I frown. “Not my heroes.” Nor my ex. Of course, he cheats, doesn’t he?

 

“Which is why it’s called women’s fiction,” Noelle reminds me.

 

Her remark pulls me back to last night and the e-mail I sent Birgitta. Did I really do that?

 

Never let them know how you feel, my mother had drilled into me from a young age. Think what you want, but act the lady and smile, smile, smile. And I’ve aspired to make her proud, but when I learned Birgitta was “entertaining” my husband… Well, I haven’t been the same since.

 

“Excuse me, Ms. Sinclaire,” a male voice speaks beside me.

 

I look up. It’s Brad, our regular waiter, a plate balanced in each hand. I’ll just bet he’s hoping Noelle picks up the tab. Her 30 percent tip beats my 15 any day.

 

I sit back and fix on the plate he sets before me. Grilled veggie sandwich. And as usual, it’s gussied up with sprigs of this and that—all of which are inedible and merely meant to make one feel they got their twenty bucks’ worth.

 

I glance at Noelle’s plate, and Improper peeks out to gaze lustfully at her triple decker that spills over with thinly sliced prime rib, avocado, cheese, and mayo.

 

Ludwig will be proud of you, I assure myself.

 

“Anything else, Ladies?” Brad asks.

 

“Another water, please,” Noelle says, though she’s barely halfway through the first.

 

She’s definitely picking up the tab. “I’m fine,” I say and continue to stare at the forbidden sandwich as Brad drifts away.

 

“Want a bite?” Noelle asks.

 

I meet her knowing gaze and, throwing pride to the wind, say, “Yes!”

 

She chuckles and slices off a third.

 

“So what are you going to do about your deadline?” she asks as I sink my teeth into juicy, medium-rare prime rib. I sigh, roll the bite around in my mouth, and get a taste of…horseradish?

 

My eyes bulge, throat closes, and nostrils flare as the offensive muck burns my nasal passages.

 

“Adda?”

 

I stare at Noelle, wanting to spew the nasty mouthful, but painfully conscious of the dining accommodations we share with Manhattan’s finest. My napkin! I fish around my lap but, as usual, the crisp white linen has gone south.

 

Just swallow. Get it over with and wash it down with water. But I can’t, and a moment later Noelle is coming around the table.

 

I shake my head, but she keeps coming. Then she’s behind me, dragging me up, pressing a clasped fist beneath my sternum, and giving a sharp, upward thrust.

 

I clench my teeth, but the pressure is too great and I cough up the ugly little offender. It lands in Noelle’s glass of bottled water.

 

“Did I get it all?” she asks, whipping me around to face her.

 

The room breathlessly silent, my face hot, I nod. Man! Did she break a rib?

 

Noelle heaves a sigh of relief. “Whew! You made my bank account flash before my eyes. Scary.”

 

Did I hear right? Did she really say that? Of course she did—a sharp reminder that as friendly as an agent or editor may be, they are not your friend. It isn’t your best interest they’re looking out for, but theirs. You are nothing more than a dollar sign to them. The moment you take on water, they toss you the bucket and tell you to bail. Been there, done that, thank you!

 

I grab my glass and drain it. “I was not choking,” I hiss.

 

“Oh?” Face creasing into confusion that not even her latest plastic surgery can deflect, Noelle steps back.

 

“Horseradish,” I rasp, wincing at the ache in my lower-left rib. “I hate horseradish!”

 

She flips her hair back. “You could have saved me the embarrassment by simply spitting into a napkin.”

 

Why didn’t I think of that?

 

I glare at her as she strides back to her chair.

 

As I lower to mine, I glance around. Though conversations are beginning to resume, I remain the object of interest. And disdain.

 

I can see the headline now: BESTSELLING AUTHOR, ADDA SINCLAIRE, COUGHS UP HORSERADISH SANDWICH AT POSH MANHATTAN EATERY. HOW ROMANTIC.

 

Brad appears. “Are you all right, Ms. Sinclaire?” he asks as he wipes up the mess without so much as a grimace.

 

“Better now, thank you,” I manage, wondering what shade of red I am.

 

“Another water’s on the way, Ms. Parker,” he says, “and I’ll put in an order for a replacement sandwich.”

 

I look at her plate. It seems my mess didn’t confine itself to her water.

 

“Thank you, Brad.” She waves him away.

 

He hurries off bearing all evidence of my humiliation. Maybe he is worth 30 percent.

 

“So?” Noelle says.

 

I rub my ribs. Gosh, for fifty-something, the woman really packs a punch. “So what?” I gripe.

 

“Your deadline! What about your deadline?”

 

I sigh, push the grilled veggie aside. “I’ve never asked for an extension, but that’s what I’ll have to do—the full three months allowed by contract.”

 

She’s quiet a long moment, then leans forward. “You know it will push everything back. Artwork, advertising, editing.”

 

And her cut of the second half of my sizable advance.

 

“You might even lose your June slot—prime time, you know.”

 

Trying to calm my resentment, I take a long drink of my free ice water. “Look, Noelle, I’m on chapter twelve. As in barely halfway. As in have been on chapter twelve for two months. As in six weeks to deadline. Even if I could get through this blasted love scene, the chance of turning in the manuscript on time is nil.”

 

Brad appears, sets another glass of ice and six-dollar-a-bottle water in front of her, and as quickly disappears.

 

Noelle pours her water. “If you weren’t so obsessive, you wouldn’t be in this jam.”

 

I know what’s coming. We’ve been through it several times these past months. “I don’t write like that, Noelle.”

 

She lifts her glass. A long swallow later, she sets her water down. I stare at the rim—not the faintest smudge of lipstick. And her mouth—as perfectly painted as ever.

 

“Other writers do,” she says. “Hit a block, move on, and come back later.”

 

Just had to emphasize “block.” I square my shoulders. “As your bank account can attest—you know, the one that flashed before your eyes—I am not other writers. For me, everything has a flow.” Though vaguely aware my voice is rising and heads are once more turning, I can’t stop myself. “What happens in the bedroom between my hero and heroine affects every scene thereafter. If the heroine makes the first move, BIG difference, especially if it turns out my hero isn’t as adventurous—”

 

Never have I seen Noelle’s eyes so round. In fact, I would have sworn it was an impossibility considering how many times the skin alongside them has been stretched and stitched into her hairline.

 

Stomach clenching, I look around and find that, once more, I’m the main attraction. The expressions of other diners range from disbelief to disdain, startled to stumped—as in, why doesn’t management throw her out?

 

Too far gone after last night’s failure, and now this meeting with my unsympathetic agent, I press my hands to the table and stand. As Noelle hisses at me to sit, I paste a smile on my face. “I’m a romance author, okay?” I address the stuffed shirts and bras. “A best-selling romance author. Who, here, has a problem with that?”

 

“Oh, bleep,” Noelle moans.

 

Some of my fellow diners raise their eyebrows, but most look away. Satisfied, I resume my seat, but as I look toward Noelle, a man sitting alone at one of three coveted tables against the windows catches my eye. He’s staring at me, though not with disgust. Amusement? I narrow my gaze on his mouth, the corners of which are tilted. And there’s a sparkle in his deeply dark eyes. He’s laughing at me!

 

I stick out my tongue.

 

“Oh, bleep!” Noelle gasps.

 

The man raises his eyebrows and smiles, revealing brilliant white teeth and a left cleft dimple.

 

My heart lurches, and I blink as attraction punches me in the gut. Not that he’s young and flawlessly gorgeous like Jake, but he’s a breath-stopper. Probably tops six feet, broad shouldered, jet black hair silvered at the temples, early forties.

 

Resisting the urge to check his left hand, I avert my gaze. It’s been a long time since any man turned my insides to goo, and why this particular one does, I don’t understand.

 

Arrogant jerk.

 

“Brilliant, Adda,” Noelle says as she looks around, having followed my gaze. “Real brilliant.”

 

I shrug. “It’s not as if I’ll see any of these people again.”

 

Something leaps in her steely, narrowed gaze that sends flutters of uncertainty up my spine. “You’re probably right about that, especially where Nick Farnsworth is concerned.”

 

My skin prickles. Farnsworth of Farnsworth Publishing? But before that sinking feeling gets a grip on me, I recall he’s no longer with my publisher. The black sheep left the family-held company years and years ago—and not on amicable terms. Okay, then, I’m all right. I think.

 

She nods in the direction of the recipient of my juvenile gesture. “As in the new president of Intrepid Books.”

 

Not all right.

 

“As in the publisher who has been courting you in hopes of outbidding Farnsworth Publishing on your option book,” Noelle plunges the dagger deeper.

 

I sink into my shoulders, grip a hand over my face, and peer at her from between my fingers.

 

“As in the one talking seven figures, Adda dear,” she delivers the final blow with a smile so saccharine it’s hard not to dislike her. Sure she helped rebuild my career when practically everyone pronounced me a goner, but she can be such a meanie, which is probably the reason she’s so successful. Sometimes I really hate this business.

 

Determined to salvage my pride, I lower my hand, sit up straight, and force a smile. “Well, can’t say this is the best day of my life.” I keep my voice low. “But the good news is that Nick Farnsworth probably has no idea Intrepid even has a romance line.”

 

“Wrong.” Noelle leans forward. “It’s Nick Farnsworth who has acknowledged what his predecessors would not, in spite of all the industry statistics—romance is where the money’s at. Thus, he’s personally overseeing the overhaul of Intrepid’s romance division in order to make them the publisher of fine romance.” She pats my hand, and though the gesture might appear motherly, I feel the condescension down to my toes.

 

My stomach is ready to revolt, but I hold steady. “Well, at this point, my little scene has no bearing on my career, does it? I mean, if I can’t finish this book, what are the chances I’ll finish the option book for anyone to bid on?”

 

Noelle sighs, and her sarcastic demeanor slithers back into its hole. “Look, what if you just put this one aside and start fresh?”

 

“Start fresh? Six weeks, Noelle!”

 

“Eighteen if we opt for the extension.”

 

I shake my head. “I’ve never written a book in under six months. You know that. I am not prolific.”

 

“Not at one hundred thirty-thousand words a book, but if you pare down—”

 

“I can’t.” As she well knows, the reason for the blip in my career was a zealous, tree-hugging editor who was more concerned with the amount of paper it would take to print my book than the story I had to tell. Thus, Whispers In The Night had been put on a diet and forced to shed thirty-thousand words. It had been cruel, and the reviews even crueler. The book squeaked by with a three-star rating. Of course, the publisher blamed me and declined the option book. I won’t go that route again.

 

“All right,” Noelle says and pauses as Brad appears with her water and replacement sandwich.

 

Ugh. How did I miss that smell? Stomach turning as horseradish wafts across the table, I sit back.

 

“And you, Ms. Sinclaire?” Brad asks with a glance at my untouched sandwich. “Is there anything you need?”

 

I hand him the plate. “‘To go’ box, please.”

 

He nods and hurries away.

 

Pretending to follow his retreat, I snatch a glimpse of Nick Farnsworth. He’s still alone, head bent toward the newspaper open on the table before him. Is he waiting on someone? Yep, two menus. I just hope it’s not the editor Noelle has been talking to. Nor a wife or girlfriend.

 

I look to his hand on the newspaper and feel a thrill at the absence of a wedding band.

 

"So you won't leave the love scene until later," Noelle interrupts, "and you won't start over. What's left, Adda?"

 

“Left? Well…”

 

Therapy, perhaps?

 

“Maybe I’ll just drag out the option book my first publisher rejected and rework it.” Of course, I have no intention of doing so. What had my editor at Gentry Books written? As if I could forget!

 

You simply haven’t grown sufficiently in your writing for us to offer a contract on this proposal. Of course, the acquisition of books is of a subjective nature, and another editor may feel different. We wish you every success in placing it elsewhere.

 

Wished me success… Not! But who’s crying now that Adda Sinclaire is a New York Times bestseller?

 

“You might have something there,” Noelle cuts through my bitterness.

 

“Where?”

 

“Pulling out the option book.”

 

I stare at her. “I was being facetious.”

 

“Were you? Well, I’m not.”

 

Though her lips remain untarnished, there are bits of horseradish between her teeth. My stomach lurches again, and I look around to see if Brad is on his way with my “to go” box. He isn’t.

 

“If I remember right,” Noelle says, “Winds of Love—”

 

“Wings of Love.”

 

“Whatever. The story was set in thirteenth-century France—”

 

“Twelfth, and it was England.”

 

“Close enough.”

 

Hardly, but before I can argue, she’s barreling on. “The stories share the same premise—enemy forced

to marry enemy. Just swap the stories out and you’ll meet the deadline.”

 

“Maybe the same premise,” I say, “but that’s all. Wings of Love in no way resembles the proposal for The Gifting that Kathryn approved.”

 

Noelle scoffs. “Do you honestly think your editor will remember a proposal she read a year ago? And even if she did, everyone knows the finished product is often markedly different from the proposal.”

 

What she says is true, but I simply can’t imagine doing it. Wings of Love was a long time ago and still bears the weight of painful memories. Dick and I argued often during its writing, setting the stage for his adultery a year later—which in no way absolves Stick Woman of her duplicity.

 

Shameless hussy! But I won’t think about her now. If I never again lay eyes on that woman, it will be too soon.

 

“What do you say?” Noelle prompts.

 

Forget the sandwich. I snatch up my purse and stand. “Get me my three month extension.” I turn away.

 

And there is the woman I hoped to never again lay eyes upon—Birgitta Roth. And, lordy lordy, she’s lowering to the chair Nick Farnsworth has pulled out for her. Might Intrepid Books be thinking of signing her? A huge step up from Heart Core Publishers with whom she’s been since her first book.

Fortunately, I become aware of my gaping and snap my teeth closed.

 

Is there anyway I can slink out without her noticing? Without her revealing to Nick Farnsworth the identity of the loud-mouthed, haughty romance author who shot a mouthful across the table?

 

I pull my dark sunglasses from my purse and slam them onto my face. Shoulders back, head up, veering slightly right though the exit is left, I hold my breath as I draw even with their table.

 

“Adda Sinclaire? Is that you?”

 

Are you really there, God?

 

“Well, of course it is!”

 

I halt. Though I feared she might point me out, never would I have expected public acknowledgment. After all, I am the competition, and somehow she has wrangled a lunch date with the president of a prestigious publishing house. So it’s one of two things. Either she wants to rub it in my face, or she sees gain in aligning herself with a bestselling author. Of course, she can’t possibly know of the low to which I sank previous to her arrival. Poor thing.

 

I turn. Stick Woman advances on me and, to my horror, embraces me with those bony arms of hers. It’s a first. And a last, I vow as her perfume assails me. She must buy it in bulk.

 

“How are you?” she asks, drawing back to survey me.

 

Past her shoulder, Nick Farnsworth is watching. “Birgitta Roth,” I say, looking up at her where she tops my five-foot-seven by several inches. “What a lovely surprise.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Though she’s smiling and anyone watching would think we’re old friends, the daggers in her eyes tell different—something to which I refer each time I write a villainous woman into one of my books. Believe me, my heroines have battled and beaten quite a few Birgitta Roths.

 

“You look…” She slides her gaze down me and up again. “…good. How long did it take to lose all those extra pounds?”

 

“Not long,” I say, grateful for my dark glasses. “And you look great, yourself. Finally grew out your hair, hmm?”

 

Her lids narrow.

 

“It’s lovely,” I continue, “though I think I prefer it short.”

 

As in torn from your head.

 

Her mouth twitches, but she holds onto the smile and leans near. “You know Richard. So passionate about long hair.”

 

Then she and my ex are still together. Good. They deserve each other.

 

“Richard?” I put confusion into my own smile. “Oh! You mean Dick.”

 

I declare, the woman has a tic. I stare at her right eye, the corner of which jerks spasmodically.

 

Though it’s true I could have come up with a more creative nickname for my ex—say, “Two Timer”—not only is Stick Woman’s dislike of the shortened form of “Richard” nearly as great as his, but the nickname is perfectly acceptable to speak aloud in public. Kind of like the use of a silencer whereby only the victim feels the shot, allowing the shooter to slip away unnoticed.

 

With a forced laugh, Stick Woman turns me toward her table. “Have you met Nick Farnsworth, the new president of Intrepid Books?”

 

Only over my tongue.

 

“No?” she gloats, and pulls me forward.

 

Straining backward, I glance over my shoulder, but Noelle isn’t about to rescue me. She lifts her blasted six-dollar-a-bottle water and shrugs.

 

“I…” I gasp. “I’m in a hurry, Birgitta.”

 

She looks around. “Come now, Adda, it will only take a minute.”

 

“No, really—”

 

The Amazon woman is strong-arming me! And Nick Farnsworth is rising. A moment later, I’m standing before him, Birgitta’s arm looped chummily through mine.

 

That goo feeling is back as I stare at him through my dark lenses. I was right about him topping six feet—by at least two inches. And yes, he does appear to be in his early forties, though he’s a darned good looking middle-ager. Definitely not the pretty boy Jake is. Nick Farnsworth has too many flaws for that, and I have the sudden urge to explore each one, from the tiny lines at the outside corners of his dark eyes, to the deeper grooves in his forehead, to that left cleft dimple that appears as I stand mutely before him.

 

“…Adda Sinclaire,” Birgitta’s voice squeezes into my consciousness, and I realize she has finished introductions.

 

“Bestselling romance author,” Nick Farnsworth reminds me of my earlier outburst, which causes Birgitta to startle.

 

Blushing hotly, I look to the large, long-fingered hand he extends. Nice nails—clean, clipped, cuticles trimmed.

 

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sinclaire.”

 

If it’s possible for a voice to have muscles, his does. I slide my hand into his and feel the goo invade my knees as he presses my palm. I’m holding my breath, I realize, and wonder if any man has ever made me do that.

 

“A p-pleasure, Mr. Farnsworth,” I stammer.

 

For certain, no man has ever reduced me to a speech impediment.

 

He gives my hand a parting squeeze before releasing it.

 

Disappointment curdling my insides, I tell myself to get a grip.

 

Stick Woman, still clutching my arm, pats my hand. “Adda and I go back a looong way, Nick.”

 

Nick. That familiar, hmm? Telling myself I’m not jealous—how could I be?—I wonder what Dick would think of Birgitta’s lunch date.

 

Nick Farnsworth shrugs up his jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets. “A long way. Is that right?”

 

Stick Woman laughs huskily. “Our first books were released within months of one other.” As if suddenly remembering something, she gasps. “Oh! Remember the awards ceremony the following year, Adda?”

 

It’s coming, and just like vomit, there’s no holding it back.

 

“We were both nominated for Best First Historical, Nick. Imagine that!” She giggles, and I can’t help but be embarrassed for her. She has just hit the big four-O.

 

Nick Farnsworth is smiling, but he’s looking at me—studying me, making me feel like a specimen under glass. And despite my impenetrable lenses, it feels as if he’s looking right through them.

 

Stick Woman sighs. “It was a close one, and to this day I still can’t believe I took home the award.”

 

Neither can I. Though I’ve walked away with more prestigious awards since, that one still smarts.

 

Nick Farnsworth steps aside. “I realize you were on your way out, Ms. Sinclaire, but perhaps you can spare a few minutes to join us for a drink?”

 

Stick Woman tightens her hold on my arm, squeezing it against her bony ribs—honestly, I can feel the ridges! Though tempted to tick her off by accepting the offer, and knowing how much Noelle would want me to accept, I say, “I’d love to—” Stick Woman’s arm tightens further, cutting off the blood supply to my lower arm, “—but I have another obligation.”

 

“Oh.” Stick Woman thrusts her bottom lip forward and eases up on my arm. “Pity. I was looking forward to doing some catch-up.”

 

The story of her life.

 

“Maybe another time,” I say and meet Nick Farnsworth’s x-ray vision. “Thank you for the offer.”

 

He inclines his head, and that left cleft deepens.

 

Steady, girl. Steady.

 

At last, Stick Woman releases my arm. “Lovely meeting up with you,” she says.

 

And I am dismissed. As I turn away, I see her step toward Nick Farnsworth and lay a hand on his arm. Her claws, artificial nails that obscenely extend past the tips of her fingers a full inch, sink into his sleeve with a familiarity that suggests their meeting might be other than business.

 

And I see green.

 

I swing back around, startling Stick Woman into dropping her hand from Nick Farnsworth. “Forgive me, Birgitta,” I say with an apologetic smile. “I forgot to ask after Dick. How is he doing?”

 

Her lashes flutter, and she appears to squirm inside her tacky pastel pink two-piece. “Oh. Didn’t he tell you?”

 

Beneath the cover of my shades, I steal a look at Nick Farnsworth, and his mouth curves into a smile.

He does have x-ray vision.

 

“He took a job in Houston,” Stick Woman says. “What? Six months past?”

 

I jerk my gaze back to her. Richard’s gone? Six months gone? I talk to my mother at least once a month, and she never mentioned it. As she’s best friends with my ex’s mother, she must know. Or is Stick Woman lying?

 

“Sports anchor for a local television station,” she says. “Just too good to pass up.”

 

Then Dick’s hooking up with Stick Woman and her broadcasting connections paid off? He finally attained that which had eluded him for so long?

 

If not that the position was ill-gotten gain, paid for with our marriage, and that he had been such a jerk, I’d be happy for him.

 

“I’m happy for him,” I say. “Next time the two of you speak, give him my regards.”

 

“I’ll do that,” Stick Woman says.

 

If she talks to him again. After all, it sounds as if he dumped her. In the middle of my smug revelry, I’m accosted by a memory of my beloved Shar-Pei’s sad eyes. “I assume Dick took Beijing with him?”

 

Stick Woman lifts a hand to examine her claws. “Actually, no. The dog would have been too much of a hassle with the new job, the move…”

 

My heart leaps. “Then he left Beijing behind?”

 

“Yes,” she purrs, “the little darling is staying with me.” She lowers her hand. “But once Richard settles in, he plans on sending for him.”

 

And when might that be? Already Beijing has endured six months of solitary confinement with this woman. Trampling my pride, I say, “Well, if it becomes too tiresome—”

 

“Oh, it won’t. Beijing and I have become…” She heaves a sigh of contentment. “…inseparable.”

 

I bite off a smile and say, “I’m pleased to hear it.” Resisting another glance at Nick Farnsworth, I incline my head. “Bye, then.” I turn and am barely three steps removed when Stick Woman calls me back.

 

“Oh, Adda.”

 

Feeling like a yo-yo on a dangerously frayed string, I look over my shoulder.

 

“You inadvertently posted me an e-mail intended for one of your fans.”

 

Don’t know how I could have forgotten that. With a supremely innocent smile, I ask, “Did I?”

 

“You did. I just wanted to thank you for recommending my books to the woman. I will, of course, reciprocate.”

 

“You’re quite welcome,” I manage, though what I really want is to tear out another hunk of bottle-dyed blonde hair. But not in front of Nick Farnsworth. So I nod and, ignoring the stares pelting me, thread among the tables. At last, I step out into a muggy Manhattan day.

 

Certain there will be an urgent message from Noelle when I get home—doubtless, she watched the whole Stick Woman scene—I decide against hailing a taxi. A nice, long walk is what I need. Of course, a new shade of nail polish wouldn’t hurt either.

 

Putting my chin up, staring straight ahead as I pass the window behind which Nick Farnsworth and that little tramp sit, I head for Saks Fifth Avenue.

 

Two hours later, an elegant shopping bag in the crook of one arm, I let myself into my townhouse. And halt as Nick Farnsworth’s voice, rippling with muscles, calls to me from the kitchen.