I still couldn’t believe it. First, the damn sight of an out of control horse and buggy coming straight at me had been a surprise, and I’d just stared as it came careening in my direction. Then things began to slow as the rest of the events played themselves out.
The woman stood and a dog barked.
The horses balked, jerking away from the yipping animal.
The buggy swayed.
A scream.
The woman falling.
I’d sprang into action, reaching out, and by some miracle, had gotten my hand on her arm. When she tumbled out, I drew her to me and rolled until her landing was softened by my body. It had hurt like hell, and I still wasn’t sure that I hadn’t fractured a rib or two. But once we’d stopped rolling… it was her. Lydia.
And every cell in my body had been firing on all cylinders ever since. It had to be the adrenaline rush of saving a woman’s life. It had to be. Because if that wasn’t it, then it was the fact that I’d held her in my arms, soothing her fears while her terror–filled tears had dampened my shirt. Her hair. God. That lush, thick hair had been as soft as angel wings, and her body had curved into mine so perfectly that it felt as if we were two pieces of a puzzle interlocking to complete a picture of perfection.
I’d taken her home and bandaged her scrapes, placed a bag of ice against the bruise on her elbow. I’d made her a cup of tea, then… left.
Well, my body had left her, but my mind had been held hostage ever since.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you here for the book signing?” An employee had crept up behind me. Well, probably not crept since I’d been so lost in my repeating fantasy of Lydia in my arms. Smelling her. Feeling her.
Wanting her.
I felt a twinge in my groin as I glanced at the high–school age employee. She pointed, and I noticed she’d cleared a little room toward the back of the store with a makeshift stage. A crowd already gathered around it, sitting in folding chairs. No wonder I’d had to dodge so many people on a weeknight. I’d heard that print books were dead but now it all made perfect sense. Shit. It must be someone really famous judging by the number of people already here. James Patterson? John Grisham? I knew I had chosen this bookstore for a reason.
I caught myself staring at the stage. No way was it James or John. Women – and they were almost all women – found their way to seats in front of the stage, typing on their phones and talking to each other in giggling whispers. E. L. James? I felt the anticipation rising as they sat and texted, Facebooking and Instagramming their little hearts out.
Knowing I stood in the wrong section, I moved to the side and hovered around a tall shelf filled with travel books about how to fly first class for free and how not to get killed by large game on an African safari. I pressed my stiff back against the spines of the hardbound books, waiting. I felt a deep compulsion to stay, to get a glimpse of this famous author who could have so many women in a twittering tizzy.
As I waited through the opening speeches, I could feel the tension in the room mounting.
Then she stepped onto the stage. Whoosh! All the breath left my body as if I’d just been imploded by an errant wrecking ball. When I managed to suck in a ragged breath, my cock came to life in my jeans, straining and engorging with blood. Jesus. I’d never had a physical reaction to a woman like this before, and she wasn’t even my type. Well, the killer curves were my type, but I normally preferred dark brunettes like Charlie Banks. Accompanying Lydia was a tall, leggy redhead who picked up a microphone while at the same time holding up a perfectly manicured hand.
“Hello, everyone,” the redhead said, her chiming voice filling the small bookstore, “I’m Poppy O’Toole, and I’m here to introduce the reason we’re all here tonight. She’s smart, and she’s funny. She’s so talented, it’s been said she’s the best writer this side of Austen’s century. Of course, I’m her editor and her best friend, so I’m not biased.” Poppy paused to allow the giggles to fade into the dark mahogany wood paneled walls of the old store. “My incredible friend and the person you follow on all things social media, Lydia Singleton.”
Lydia rose from the seat she’d just taken with a brilliant smile. Her eyes lit up as if she’d just sprinted down the stairs on Christmas morning to find a pony. She clutched a stack of printed pages, and her beauty struck me again. I let out a little cough and covered my mouth with my hand in case anyone had noticed me. I must have looked like a perv, standing in the shadows, lurking and struggling to breathe. She wore a pair of black trousers with a red blouse, probably to cover the scrapes on her arm. Red was definitely her color. I wanted to paw my foot on the ground like a Spanish bull might do when preparing to charge. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and willed my erection to abate.
“It’s so exciting to be here with you. How is everyone tonight?” Lydia asked.
Due to the lights, she probably couldn’t see me from the stage, so I lingered, indulging in the ability to stare at her undetected and anonymous. I was still half–hidden from the shelves of books. She beamed, and her hands flew through the air with her vibrant words.
“I thought I would start off the evening with an excerpt from my next book.” She paused, flipping the pages. “It’s so new that it’s not even bound yet,” she joked and cleared her throat. “Once I’m done, I’ll open the floor to your questions and then I’ll be available to sign copies of any of my books you have with you or that you purchase tonight. Rest assured, I’ll stay here as long as it takes.”
I wanted to clear the shelves of every book bearing her name, take them to the counter, and buy every single one. Anything to support her and get her attention. Her melodic voice carried to my ears, and I leaned forward, waiting to hear her words.
“The winter almost killed her. So cold, that Lucy Lorde retreated to the confines of her apartment, lighting her antique fireplace and spending the frigid evenings watching the dancing flames. Lucy had long ago realized that she preferred her apartment to the harsh realities of the city. She’d just allowed herself to indulge in a deep fantasy when a knock rang out…”
After a few minutes, her enchanting voice swept over me in such a way that I became almost hypnotized. I didn’t even care what she said, I just wanted her to continue speaking. The ladies perched on the edges of their seats, listening in rapt attention. The phone and other devices were stowed away, everything forgotten but the story that was being woven before them. After Lydia finished, applause rang out from the audience and it broke the spell. I snapped my head up and shook the cobwebs from my brain.
I watched through the question and answer period. Lydia oozed happiness and passion for her work, legitimately glowing as she and Poppy talked and joked with the readers in attendance. It came naturally to her. I had to learn how to speak in public, give speeches and presentations, but it was as if she was born to be the center of attention. Lydia’s class, poise, and grace under fire had me mesmerized.
“There she is.”
Shit.
I would have recognized that voice anywhere. Tristan. After what he’d just pulled, why the fuck would he even think he’d be welcome here? After I’d seen Lydia safely home in my cab, she’d made it pretty clear any budding feelings she’d had toward Tristan had blown away on the savage wings of the runaway carriage.
A shocked expression crossed her features before a cool mask replaced it. He’d interrupted her, and she didn’t appreciate it. It appeared that for once maybe Tristan’s theatrics and acting skills might not get him what he thought he wanted. Lydia rose to her feet as my brother, weighed down with a massive bouquet of stunning red roses strode toward her. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I waited, interested to see how she’d handle the unwelcome intrusion in front of prying eyes ready to upload photos and video to social media.
“Why, Tristan Markham,” Lydia said hesitantly. “I didn’t expect to see you this evening.”
She made a tentative step forward, hands clutched at her sides as if reaching out and receiv
ing the bouquet would cause it to turn into a thorny mass of brambles sans blooms. Her eyes darted around the room, and it was clear the women in the audience were eating it up. This type of antic was just the kind of bullshit manipulation that Tristan thrived upon. Create a scene, knock ‘em dead, then take your curtain call. I’d seen him do it to my parents since my earliest memory. He walked onto the stage, planting a gentle kiss on her flushed cheek. The women in the audience ooh’d and ah’d as she took the flowers and he presented her with a tiny box.
“You spoil me,” Lydia said through gritted teeth. She yanked the red silk ribbon from the black box and opened it, holding up a beautiful fountain pen for everyone to inspect. “What a thoughtful gift.”
Her voice hitched in the middle of the sentence as if she might choke on her words. Tristan, not understanding subtle nuance, didn’t get that Lydia wanted him and his ostentatious gifts to get the hell off her stage and out of her bookstore. Her safe haven. I hated watching it all unfold without stopping it or protecting her from it. But in order to do that, I’d have to call Tristan out in public and that would embarrass Lydia. Ever since seeing her for the first time, I’d felt this overwhelming urge to shield her from Tristan and his bullshit. Maybe even the big, cruel world at large. Although strong, intelligent, and independent, Lydia also possessed a soft vulnerability that spoke to the man inside me.
While Tristan played her like a weeping violin, she looked uncomfortable with his ambush, even though every other woman swooned with longing. She said something to him, away from the microphone so I couldn’t hear the exchange. I was surprised that Tristan hadn’t grabbed the mic to wax poetic to the rapt audience about his latest play. Last I’d heard, the ticket sales had been dismal after opening night.
Lydia ended pretty quickly after that, stepping off the stage to slip behind a folding table filled with stacks of her latest release while Tristan loitered a few feet away. Lydia continued to ignore him. A line quickly formed full of avid readers. I watched how she interacted with them, the consummate professional. She posed for numerous selfies, signed hundreds of books, her brilliant smile never leaving her face and her poise never waning in spite of the long evening. After about an hour, the line dwindled, and Poppy started to pack up. I couldn’t wait any longer, I had to talk to her before I left for my lonely bachelor pad.
Her eyes widened, and her sweet little mouth fell open in surprise when I finally got up enough balls to show myself. The stunned expression was quickly replaced by a smile. “I didn’t take you for the romance novel type.” It made me hard, her smile. I shifted as that traitorous organ began to harden in her presence again. I blinked a few times to calm myself, so I wouldn’t say anything stupid.
“Bumping into each other by complete coincidence seems to be our way of doing things,” I said stupidly and muffled a groan. “Actually, I heard about this place from a colleague. I’m into biographies.”
And you. I’m a big, fat liar because I wanted to read a book written by you.
As if she could read my thoughts, she raised her dark eyebrows in an unspoken challenge. I wouldn’t believe my excuse either. Sharp as a tack and intuitive too. The long list of her attributes seemed to be growing with each encounter.
“Yes, I’m certain it was,” Lydia said as her lips tugged upward, “a complete coincidence.”
“You’re really good at engaging a crowd,” I said, desperate to shift the subject, “they’re totally in love with you.” I almost groaned when I dropped the ‘L’ word. I clamped my lips shut to keep from stumbling over my next sentence to cover up my faux pas.
I watched her lick her lower lip. “It’s something that’s developed for me over time. I used to get a bad case of hives whenever I had to speak in public. For months, I only wore turtlenecks to my signings.” She gestured to her V–neck blouse, and my eyes traveled downward, following her hand until it landed on the generous mounds of her breasts. “But I’ve outgrown it now, and I love interacting with my fans. It’s one of the best parts of what I do. I’m glad you came. It was nice to see a familiar face at the end of a draining session. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m really exhausted.”
“Lydia.” My brother’s harsh call caused those lush lips to dip downward. I followed her gaze to where her friend and my brother stood chatting. His eyes narrowed as they met mine but was quickly replaced by a smirk. My hand itched to hit Tristan in his smug face, so I fisted it at my side.
“We should do dinner, gorgeous girl,” Tristan said loudly as he headed our way, stating the invitation as a fact and the outcome was already etched in stone. “You look famished. Maybe a nice bottle of wine to celebrate.”
I wanted to vomit when I heard that nickname. It was a wonder that Lydia tolerated it without slapping his smug face. I could see straight through him and his acting, just playing another part. Devoted Boyfriend was just his latest role as if it were listed in the playbill with his professional head shot right next to it in black and white glossy glory. I wondered if Lydia knew that, so I opened my mouth but then clamped it shut again. From the way her teeth ground together, the hinges of her jaw tight and shaking, I figured she knew.
Another quality to add to the list. Zero tolerance for bullshit.
Check.
“I could…eat,” Lydia said, but she speared Poppy with a glare that said save me, bestie. She no longer looked at me; no longer acknowledged me. Tristan had done it again. It reminded me of holiday dinners at the Markham household. The moment anyone else got a word in, Tristan steered the conversation and attention back to himself, and my mom ate it up, doting on his every word, so proud of her handsome professional actor son and not of her boring lawyer son.
“Why don’t I come with you?” I asked, keeping my tone calm and measured. What I really wanted to do was to tell him to back the fuck off. Couldn’t he see Lydia wasn’t that into him? No. He thought the entire world wanted to fall at his feet, prostrated in awe of his excellence.
“Oh, we’d just love you to join us,” Tristan ground out, his nostrils flaring. “If you’re not too busy? Isn’t there something important to be done at the King James?” His voice dripped icicles. I took an instinctive step forward, but just one.
Just keep fisting your hands, Callum. Open and close. Open. Close. Then, you won’t embarrass yourself by laying your brother out in the middle of a quiet bookstore.
“It’s no big deal,” I said, ignoring the rancor and sarcasm in his voice. “I’d love to join you.”
“Yes, it is,” Tristan said and very nearly stamped his foot, “It is a big deal. You’re always doing this. Cock blocking me.”
Cock blocking him?
“Doing what?” I asked with all the feigned innocence I could muster. I wanted to hear his answer. We had made it our mission to exchange the minimal amount of words for years. I rarely saw him. The last time I remembered this much conversation between us was at our cousin’s wedding last summer, and that was only because we’d been seated at the same table and our mom forced the issue.
“Yeah, posturing yourself to invade my turf,” Tristan hissed.
Were we back in grade school having pissing matches over the slide and the jungle gym? His turf? If I were Lydia, I would have turned a few inches so I could slap his face or kick him in his arrogant balls. But she just stood there with a flabbergasted look on her face. I wouldn’t be surprised if June Cleaver beamed down out of the ethers and announced we’d reverted back to the fifties, complete with gender dynamics. He turned on me, dark eyes blazing with fury.
“When have I ever...?” I began to say, but Tristan barreled on, interrupting with all the melodramatic aplomb he could muster for his audience of three.
“You have always been jealous of me and my accomplishments and the women I date. You have always been jealous of my stardom. Sorry if you’re just now realizing that I am better than you.” Tristan said with a flourish as if he were pontificating behind a podium.
His voice carried to ever
y recess of the small store, laced with anger and bitterness. Even though I knew it was an act, my stomach flipped over. I didn’t really give a shit what he did or said to me, but he was embarrassing Lydia in her place of business. Somebody had to put a stop to him.
“Maybe we should just all go home,” Lydia whispered.
I hadn’t glanced at either her or Poppy for long moments as I stared down my brother in a visual stand–off. She’d placed her petite body between us, trying to make sure that this fight didn’t escalate from verbal to physical. Poppy pulled her back, looking slightly alarmed. Patrons stared as they browsed. Shit.
“No,” I said, turning to Lydia and keeping my voice level. “Don’t let him win.”
“It’s okay,” Poppy intervened, trying to take control of the situation. Something told me that that was her nature, with her fiery red hair and saucy attitude. She wanted to be in charge and in control. She spoke in a pleasant tone, trying to soothe it over and bring a rational perspective to the evening’s end.
“You can’t even take no for an answer,” Tristan said. He didn’t pay any attention to anyone around him, barreling on, saying what he wanted to say and thinking only of himself. “Just admit it. Just admit you’ve always been envious of me, of my life.” His anger boiled to the surface again, and he stepped past Lydia, trying to loom over me. I watched in surprise as my brother raised his closed fist, then swung, landing a good one on my jaw.
Through the haze of my shock, I heard gasps. Lydia and Poppy skittered backward, both emitting little high pitched shrieks. I didn’t have time to think about my actions when I reached up and caught his fist in an iron grip. I squeezed. Hard. Until he let out a little mewl of pain. Luckily, he finally shut his trap, knowing that, brother or not, I’d kick his ass. Tristan didn’t even work out, and I’d just received my black belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Line: Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 9
