She exchanged glances with Lando. He looked back to the clerk. “Please evacuate the fourth-floor rooms and shut down the elevators.”
The man burst into action and twenty minutes later Lando stood in front of the door to Room 410. Justine had insisted on staying and stood next to him, her heart thumping.
He rapped and said, “Housekeeping.”
There was no answer, no sound from within.
He slipped the key into the door and turned the lock. “Housekeeping,” he repeated loudly, then the door caught on a six-inch chain—someone was definitely inside the room.
He drew his gun and gestured for Justine to go to the end of the hall—unnecessary since she was already moving in that direction.
He stepped back and kicked the door open with a blam, then disappeared inside. A few seconds later, a muffled noise sounded, then a shot. Justine screamed and ran toward the room. Along the way she yanked a tall lamp off a table and hefted it, fringed shade and all, like a weapon. Not exactly lethal, but it might distract the Crane woman with laughter.
“Lando!” she yelled, then rushed into the room, poised to strike.
“All’s clear,” he said from the rumpled bed where he straddled a facedown Lisa Crane and handcuffed her hands behind her back. The minibar stood open, ransacked of food and drink.
“Who fired?”
He pointed to a small black hole in the wall. “She did.” He radioed to the lobby to send up the EMTs he’d requested.
The woman didn’t fight him but focused on Justine as he placed her under arrest and recited her rights. “This is where you did it with my husband.” She sounded like a child.
Justine bit down on the tip of her tongue. “Mrs. Crane, I’m very sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. I know it doesn’t change things, but I am very, very sorry. I’ll help you… I’ll speak to the DA on your behalf.”
Lisa Crane closed her eyes and seemed to lose consciousness. Indeed, she was as limp as a rag doll when the EMTs transferred her to a gurney. They checked her vitals. “She passed out,” one of them said. “But her pulse is strong.”
They wheeled her out, and Justine collapsed into a chair, floppy with relief and despair. She stared at the bed where she and Randall had humped away their lunch hours, and her stomach rolled. “I destroyed that woman’s life.”
Lando exhaled noisily. “You were the one who said the woman’s husband took the vows, not you.”
“I seduced Randall,” she said. “He wouldn’t have come on to me if I hadn’t initiated an affair. I’m not exonerating him, but I’ve learned a big lesson about myself.” She shook her head. “No more married men.” And no more empty affairs, even if it meant being alone.
“Glad to hear that,” he said. He dropped the woman’s gun into an evidence bag and scanned the scene, taking notes. She sat in silence, watching the big man move around the room. What he must think of her.
He relieved her of the lamp. “What were you going to do with this?”
“I hadn’t thought it through exactly.”
He smiled. “Seems as though you do a lot of that.”
She squinted. “Do you think a person can change, Lando?”
“Sure,” he said. “If they get tired enough of their old self.”
“I’m tired.”
He nodded toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”
She pushed herself to her feet.
Lando scratched his temple. “By the way… my name is Kevin.”
She smiled.
Chapter 39
DO have a Plan B.
Mica pasted on a smile for the imposing group of reporters, executives, gossip columnists, and philanthropists that Everett had brought together for a combined breakfast/press conference. Only a handful of people in the room knew the details of the “exciting charity challenge” that was about to be announced. She sat holding a gold foil box, her head and shoulders swathed in a long scarf. She focused on Everett, who had claimed the microphone. His presence had become so dear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, consumers all over the world identify Mica Metcalf’s face and long gorgeous hair with Tara Hair products. Today I’d like to announce that Mica and the wonderful folks at Tara have come up with a way to pool their resources to support the efforts of a precious children’s charity. Mica?”
She joined Everett at the podium and began to unwind the scarf. Since she’d returned to LA, she’d kept a low profile that involved hats and head wraps. When her cropped hair was revealed, the audience gasped. Cameras flashed.
Everett spoke into the microphone. “Mica has generously donated her beautiful hair to Care About Kids, an organization that makes wigs for child victims of diseases who lose their own hair during medical treatments.”
The room erupted into applause, and Mica beamed. While Everett had been agonizing over how to break the news of her shorn locks to Tara, she had shared an observation she’d made while walking the halls of the hospital during Justine’s recovery. The patients in the children’s wing had broken her heart—some of them had little or no hair, and she had plenty at home in a box. It hadn’t seemed fair. So she’d asked Everett if, regardless of the future of her career, he could look into the possibility of her severed braid being put to good use?
To put it mildly, he had run with the idea. She wasn’t accustomed to her suggestions being taken seriously—Dean had always dismissed her out of hand. She still marveled at the way the idea had gained momentum.
Before the applause died, Mica removed her long braid from the gold box and presented it to a representative with the organization. The room sparkled with camera flashes. Mica’s braid, the woman announced, would provide wigs for several children who simply wanted to look as normal as possible as they recovered from their illnesses and returned to school. The marketing director from Tara Hair followed up with words of support and confidence in Mica—they’d just re-upped her contract to kick off a new ad campaign. The executive also extended a charity challenge to any models or other celebrities willing to crop their hair and donate it to the organization. Top stylists all over LA had volunteered their services to make “The Big Cut.” Industry buzz was high. The charity drive had all the makings of a phenomenon.
“Mica, you are a good-hearted genius,” Everett said later over dinner, his eyes sparkling. “Not only is your career back on track, but this event will help hundreds of kids.”
She smiled, pleased that he was pleased. But despite the exciting whirlwind of returning to LA, she was plagued with homesickness for her sisters. And now that her schedule had ballooned, she was afraid she wouldn’t have time to visit them as often as she’d hoped.
Everett set down his glass. “I received an offer today that I think you’ll find interesting.”
She sipped from her water glass. “Oh?”
“Cocoon Cosmetics is looking for a new model for their print ads.”
A few seconds passed before she comprehended his meaning. She grinned. “Me?”
His dimples appeared. “The job is yours if you want it. The offer is lucrative, although I suspect you’ll be able to negotiate regular visits to their headquarters.”
Her chest swelled, and on impulse, she reached across the table to clasp his warm fingers. “No woman should be this happy.”
Everett’s gray eyes reflected humble surprise at her touch. He squeezed her hand. “Or man.”
Chapter 40
DO hold out for your happy ending.
Regina blinked when a knock sounded at her office door. She glanced at the clock on her desk, dismayed to see that an hour had passed and she had nothing to show for it. She’d been blaming her inability to concentrate on the concussion she’d sustained, but after six weeks, that argument was growing a bit thin.
Shaking herself mentally, she called, “Yes?”
The door opened, and Jill walked in, holding up a piece of paper. “I thought you’d like to see this.”
“What is it?”
“O
ne of the best cover quotes we’ll get this year.”
She took the paper and scanned the text. It was a glowing review of the hairstylist’s book from Mica. She smiled. “This is good.”
“Good? You mean great. I saw your sister on a celebrity news show again last night—two supermodels and a rock diva had their hair cut off to donate to charity. I believe Mica has single-handedly made short hair politically correct.”
A secret smile curved her mouth. Leave it to Mica to turn a thorny situation into a positive experience for so many people.
“Hey,” Jill said, picking up a picture frame. “This is new.”
“My parents’ wedding photo,” she said, warming at the memories of the simple ceremony. Cissy and John stood center, with her and Justine and Mica next to them, wearing matching sundresses and hats. The hats had been Justine’s idea to protect Mica’s secret until she could return to LA.
“You look terrific without your glasses.”
After they’d been broken during the incident at the cabin, it had seemed silly to replace them. “Thanks.”
“Everyone looks so happy.”
“We were,” she said, then added, “We are.” She was. Her family had recovered. She and Justine and Mica had stayed in touch in the weeks since they’d left Monroeville. All was well.
Yes. All… was… well.
Jill returned the photo to the desk, then pointed to another new frame. “Who are those little girls?”
Regina ran her finger over the faces of the sepia-toned, chubby-cheeked, banana-curled girls. “They’re… sisters.”
Jill nodded, waiting for an explanation.
Regina experienced a pang of guilt—she knew she’d been behaving strangely since her return. Quiet, preoccupied. And Jill was a gem not to point it out.
“Have you heard from your fellow?”
She played dumb. “My fellow?”
“Mr. Brad Pitt meets Harrison Ford.”
“Oh, him. No, he’s… moved on, I’m sure.” She manufactured a smile. “It was nothing serious.”
“What was his name?”
She squinted, as if she had to dredge his name from the recesses of her memory. “Mitchell. Mitchell Cooke.”
“Nice name.”
She nodded, determined to keep mum on the subject, no matter how much her assistant hinted for details.
Jill pursed her mouth. “Do you think you might be seeing Alan Garvo again?”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. She didn’t want Jill or anyone else to think that Mitchell had ruined her for all other men or something ludicrous like that. “I mean, Alan is a great guy, but we’d never be anything more than friends.”
“Oh.” Jill wet her lips. “Does that mean it would be okay if I called Alan to go to lunch?”
Realization dawned, and she wondered why she hadn’t picked up on Jill’s interest in Alan sooner. She smiled wide. “Of course it would be okay. In fact, you two would make a great couple.”
Jill grinned. “You think?”
Regina nodded.
“And you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks, Boss.” Jill walked back to the door with a little bounce in her step. At the door, she turned. “Oh, by the way, good pickup on that I Think I Love You manuscript—it’s going to be a fun project.”
She smiled in agreement.
Jill looked down, then frowned. “I didn’t say anything earlier, but you do realize that you’re wearing two different shoes, don’t you?”
Regina’s gaze dropped to the floor and she discovered, to her horror, that she was indeed sporting one brown pump and one navy pump. She glanced back up and tried to smile. “Maybe I need those glasses after all.”
Jill’s eyebrows climbed curiously, but she exited with no questions.
When the door closed, Regina leaned back in her chair with a frustrated sigh. “Get a grip,” she murmured. “Life is good. You’re happy, remember? Happy.”
But Jill’s questions had unleashed a flood of memories of Mitchell, and as she had discovered over the weeks, if he crept into her mind early in the day, he typically stuck around until she managed to fall asleep in her “How to Sleep Alone” nightshirt.
She pushed to her feet and circled around to the front of her desk with the cup of bad coffee that had gone stone cold while she’d zoned out. It was silly, she knew, this lingering infatuation. Wherever Mitchell was, he certainly wasn’t pining away for her.
When she rotated the African violet to give it a drink of creamless coffee, she smiled at the sight of a tiny pink bloom emerging from the depths of the dark fuzzy leaves. “I knew you’d come around,” she said, absurdly cheered. She made a mental note to drop Mr. Calvin a card to say she was thinking of him and to thank him for the age-old plant-watering tip.
Her phone buzzed, and she reached across the desk to pick it up. “Yes?”
“There’s a man here with a book who says he needs to see you.”
“Is he an agent?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“A walk-in,” Jill said.
She sighed. Some authors thought the best way to sell their manuscript was to barrel their way through the front door. “Take down his information and have him leave his book.”
Jill hesitated. “He’s pretty insistent.”
She frowned. “He gets five minutes.” She returned the receiver and lamented the empty cup of coffee. She could sure use a pick-me-up.
The door opened and when she turned, she was nearly knocked down by a firm nudge to her crotch. Sam’s tail wagged furiously.
Disbelief and happiness welled in her chest. “Hello, Sam.” She leaned over to scratch his ears, then lifted her gaze as his master walked in. Faded Red Sox T-shirt, newish jeans. If she’d had any doubts that she’d fallen in love with Mitchell, those doubts were erased as soon as she saw his lopsided grin. She recalled a piece of advice from the manuscript she’d read. Be calm. Don’t act like a lovesick idiot.
“Hi,” she said. To her amazement, her voice sounded normal.
“Hi, yourself.”
“This is a surprise.”
“A good one, I hope.”
She nodded. “Do you have a job up this way?”
He shook his head. “No, I just got homesick for Boston.”
Her heart lifted a little. “Really?”
“Yeah, you know, Fenway Park and all.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I brought you something.”
He handed her a brown-paper package that looked like a book. She unwrapped it, and a smile claimed her as the yellow cover was revealed. The Secret in the Old Attic—the sole Nancy Drew book missing from her collection. She turned it over, stalling for time to regain her composure, then looked up. “Thank you, Mitchell.”
He shrugged. “No problem.”
No problem—don’t read anything into it. She pulled a teasing smile from thin air. “I have to admit, though, I was hoping for doughnuts.”
He stepped forward and picked up her hand. “I thought we could have those for breakfast.”
Her heart stalled out.
He entwined his fingers with hers. “That is, if you have a real hankering for… doughnuts.”
She swallowed hard. “I do.”
He pulled her close and nuzzled her chin. “Good, because I can’t seem to get you out of my mind.”
He kissed her, and she fairly groaned under his familiar touch. How she’d get through the rest of the afternoon, she had no idea.
Sam barked loudly, nudging their knees. They pulled apart, and Mitchell laughed. “Over time, I hope he’ll realize that I’m not hurting you when I do this.”
She smiled and looped her arms around his neck. “Over time?”
“Well, I was thinking I might stick around, if that’s okay with you.”
“Hm. Through baseball season?”
He pursed his mouth. “Yeah, but then the Celtics season begins, and I wo
uldn’t want to miss that.”
“Of course not.”
“And then there are the Bruins—how do you feel about hockey?”
“I’m in favor of it.”
He smiled and kissed her until Sam started up again. When Mitchell lifted his head, he looked over her shoulder to her slush pile. “Did you buy that manuscript you were reading in North Carolina?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Catchy title.”
“Yes.”
He squinted. “What was it again?”
“Relationship DOs and DON’Ts for Grown Women.”
“No, the other one.”
“I Think I Love You?”
“Really?” He grinned and leaned his forehead against hers. “I think I love you, too.”
She closed her eyes and sighed into him.
The End
Page forward for more from Stephanie Bond
Excerpt from
Our Husband
by
Stephanie Bond
Copyright 2000, 2011 by Stephanie Bond, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
“I’ll bet that trinket cost Raymond an arm and a leg.”
Dr. Natalie Carmichael tore her gaze from the diamond solitaire pendant she fingered and glanced up as her nurse, sagging from end-of-the-day fatigue, shuffled into her cramped office carrying a stack of yellow patient folders.
At the tired reference to her husband’s prosthetic limb sales job, Natalie lifted one corner of her mouth. “Ha, ha. Wait, here’s a spot.” She moved the phone to make room for the files, her husband’s voice still fresh in her mind. God, she missed him this week.
After lightening her load, Sara leaned forward and cooed at the large stone. “If you ever get tired of that generous man of yours, I’ll take him off your hands.”
Her friend’s words fed the guilt gnawing at Natalie’s stomach. Yes, the pendant was exquisite, but something about it… something about her husband over these last few months….
Oh, bother, she was just feeling hormonal and lonely. She swiveled forward in her soft leather chair and smirked. “Eat your heart out, Sara. Raymond’s a one-woman man.”
I Think I Love You Page 31
