by Bird, Peggy
And on the table in front of her was a nameplate reading “April Mayes.” His mystery woman finally had a name, one he recognized even if he didn’t read steamy contemporary romances. No wonder she looked like sin walking.
His plan to slip out the back door as soon as he had finished his recon now abandoned, he settled into a seat in the last row and waited for her to speak. He had no idea what the other women said. He was too busy watching her. She was a much more considerate listener than he was. She paid attention to her colleagues, her body language supportive as she leaned on her arms on the table, her head nodding in agreement with certain points and her mouth smiling at amusing anecdotes.
When it was her turn to speak, her voice matched her looks—low pitched and soft, it hinted at sex and a trip to paradise. Or maybe that was wishful thinking combined with knowing what she wrote. Interestingly, the sensuous voice still had the ability to carry all the way to the back of the rather large room. He was impressed with her skill at public speaking. She must have been doing this for a long time.
When the six women had finished their formal remarks, the floor was opened to questions. If she’d impressed him with her presentation, her stage presence as she fielded questions with meaty, informative answers blew him away. She never looked or sounded like she thought the question inappropriate, repetitive, or off the subject, although a couple were all three. His favorite exchange, however, was the one she had with a man who was clearly skeptical about her skills.
The audience member led with, “So, you’re saying you don’t write porn. You’re writing sensuous fiction for readers who are looking for a story with explicit sex. Okay. I guess I accept that. But what makes you an expert on the subject?”
“Thank you for listening closely enough to hear how I described my work,” she began. “Not everyone does.” Then when the laughter died down, she added, “I wouldn’t say I’m an expert on the subject, but I am—”
He interrupted. “So you’re saying you haven’t done all the things you write about?”
“I didn’t say that. I was trying to say—”
“Well, are you saying you have done all the things you write about?”
She paused for a moment. Brad thought he saw a small smile fight to make an appearance. Then, instead of answering directly, she said, “Let me ask you a question. Do you assume P. D. James, Elizabeth George, or Ngaio Marsh wrote from their experience murdering people? And before you answer, I’m willing to concede Jessica Fletcher knew a lot about murder from her habit of stumbling across a dead body every week for however many years she was on television. But she’s a fictional mystery writer. I’m asking if you believe the real women who write mysteries are like her.”
“Of course I don’t,” the man said. It was obvious he was annoyed with her.
“So, you give mystery writers credit for being creative and talented enough to write realistically about something they have not experienced, but you don’t extend the same courtesy to romance writers?”
The questioner looked like he was about to reply when he shook his head, made a sound of disgust, and stalked to the rear of the room. Brad fought the impulse to say “Way to go, asshole” to him as he left.
Paying no attention to his departure, April continued, “The question the gentleman asked illustrates a problem I believe writers of all genre fiction, romance in particular, have. We don’t get much respect within or outside the writing community for writing creatively or skillfully. We’re assumed to be hacks, or worse—writers who can’t make it in the world of literary fiction.”
She stopped to take a drink of water. “Well, in my opinion, good writing is good writing, whatever the category. We shouldn’t dismiss a book or an author because the work is shelved as ‘romance,’ ‘mystery,’ or ‘science fiction’ any more than we should embrace bad writing because it’s labeled ‘literary fiction.’ And we shouldn’t assume the writers of commercial fiction are any less talented or creative than the authors who write other kinds of fiction.”
Brad was about to give her a standing ovation, but she wasn’t finished yet.
“Every one of the authors presenting here at this conference has worked her tail off to make her book the best it can be. Like other authors of commercial fiction, we want to give our readers a place to escape to, a heroine they can admire, a hero they can sigh over, and a story to make them think. We want to give our readers a happily-ever-after, just like mystery writers want to reassure their readers good wins out over evil and sci-fi authors want to reassure their readers the aliens can’t defeat the earthlings. And, if it’s well written, as much of it is, we deserve the same respect the author of a mid-list literary fiction book gets.”
Although what he really wanted to do was yell, “Go, April!” Brad stood and clapped, which brought the rest of the audience to its feet. She was not only sexy but Bambi … ah … April … was smart. Now that he knew more about her, he was even more intent on getting to know her.
• • •
Claudia … damn it, April … was stunned by the reception she’d gotten for her emotional response to the idiot’s question. Thanks to her experience with bizarre questions from her years of teaching, the man who clearly didn’t have much respect for her work hadn’t thrown her. She was quite pleased by what had come out when she started talking about the subject. It certainly wasn’t something she’d prepared, but it was heartfelt. In fact, there may be a way to expand it and make a journal article or a presentation out of it. The subject could spark an interesting discussion with her colleagues at Portland State. Or form the basis for an article in a journal after she had tenure. As soon as she got back to her room, she’d write down what she remembered of her response so she could work on it. Maybe on the plane on her way home.
When the applause ended, the moderator thanked the panelists and declared the session over. Claudia and the other speakers gathered up their papers and prepared to leave. Before she did, she took one more look out into the audience to make sure there was no one she knew who might be waiting to speak to her. After spending much of her time at the conference looking around in halls, meeting rooms, bars, even ladies’ rooms, to see if she recognized anyone and not seeing anyone familiar, she was beginning to believe she was going to carry off her masquerade.
This room appeared as safe as all the others had been, although, to be honest, there weren’t many people left in the room. Most of them had already gone to get ready for the afternoon and evening activities. Only the man who had led the applause for her defense of commercial fiction was still there. With the audience in the dark and the stage lights on her, she hadn’t been sure at first it was a man. But now she could see broad shoulders and a male stance, which confirmed his gender. Whoever he was, she appreciated his response to her words.
Seeing it was safe for her to leave the stage, she picked up her papers and her messenger bag and went out the side door to the auditorium.
• • •
What the hell? Brad had waited at the back of the room for April to leave through the door behind him only to watch her exit through the door at the side of the room. The door cut off his view of an ass he wouldn’t mind holding as closely as the short skirt she wore did. But both the ass and the skirt were now absent from the room, and he was back to running after his skittish wildlife.
Hadn’t she seen him? She must have. He was about the only person left in the auditorium. It didn’t seem likely she was trying to avoid him. She didn’t know him well enough to want to do that. What did he have to do to get her to stand still long enough to introduce himself?
However, now he knew her name. Which meant he had a much better shot at finding her. He was sure she’d be at the book signing beginning in two hours, and it was likely she’d be at the dinner that followed. She may have slipped through his fingers for now, but she couldn’t escape him forever.
Chapter 4
An hour later, Brad was in the ballroom where the book signing was taking pl
ace. He was early for the event and armed with a way to corner Bambi, assuming he had one thing go his way. It did. Lucinda Pennington, the young woman who had greeted him when he’d first arrived, was in charge.
“Lucinda,” he said, presenting her with his winningest smile. “Could I ask a favor of you?”
“If I can do it for you, I will,” she said, grinning up at him.
“Can I switch my table around so I’m next to April Mayes? I’ve never met her, but we’re from the same part of the country. I’m from Portland, and she’s from Seattle. I’d like to have a chance to talk to her about …” Oh, hell, what would we have in common to talk about? “About her interest in …” Come on, Davis, think of something. “Well, maybe putting on a conference like this. You’ve done such a great job, I think it would be interesting to have something similar in the Northwest.”
Lucinda was beaming by the time he finished his stumbling explanation of why he wanted to be next to April. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. It makes all the work worthwhile.”
“Yeah, I imagine putting on something like this for a crowd this size is time-consuming. I bet it cut into your writing time.”
“Badly. Not to mention my social life.” She looked hopefully at him as if to ask him to make up for her lack of a social life.
“I hope you’ve kept good notes. If we decide to try to imitate you, I’d like to be able to contact you for advice.” He winked and gave her his panty-melting smile again.
She giggled. “Oh, Mr. Davis …”
“Brad, please. Can you help me out?”
“Brad, then. I’d love to, but I can’t move authors from one table to another. It might confuse the readers who depend on the map we give them. And with fifty authors here …” She let her words trail off, looking very unhappy she couldn’t comply with his request.
“Well, can you at least tell me where she’ll be?”
“That I can do.” She rifled through a thick notebook until she came to what appeared to be a seating chart. “Oh, wait. Actually, you and Ms. Mayes are already close together. In fact, the author who was assigned to the table in between you canceled at the last minute.” She looked up from her notebook with a huge smile. “I can help you after all. We’ll just make sure the unoccupied table’s been removed, and you’ll be able to chat with her between book sales.” She motioned to him to follow her. “The tables are right over here.”
Ten minutes later, Brad was arranging the display of his books on his table, which was now a couple feet closer to April’s table, as was his chair, which he’d casually placed off center and at the end of the table closest to hers. All he had to do was wait for Bambi to come out from the woods and into the clearing.
• • •
A phone call with her department head—who thought she was in California visiting relatives—about the upcoming fall schedule almost had Claudia late for the book signing. She bolted from the elevator and scurried down the corridor to the ballroom, knowing if she blew this, her agent would kill her. Mary Lynn had promised to get her table set up with the large banner in the back, and the pens, key chains, bookmarks, and candy she was handing out displayed attractively. She wasn’t sure if Mary Lynn would be waiting for her, but she did know she had to be in her seat behind the table when the doors opened.
She showed her ID to the volunteer guarding the door, found the checkin desk, and asked for her table assignment. But when she saw the chart of the authors’ tables, she shook her head at what she was reading. Davis Churchill was two tables away from her. Whether she liked it or not, she was about to meet him. And face the challenge of keeping up the pretense of being April Mayes for the three hours of the book signing next to a man who made her heart beat double time merely by smiling at her.
Unless …
She glanced at the name on the ID badge of the woman who was in charge of the event before saying, “Ah … Lucinda, could I ask a favor of you? A friend of mine is here, and I was wondering if I could change tables so I could sit near her? We haven’t seen each other in a while, and it would be so nice to catch up.”
“Oh, Ms. Mayes, I’d love to help you out, but we can’t change tables. Everyone has a chart of where the authors will be, and it would really mess things up to move people around now. Besides, Mr. Davis wants to talk to you about organizing a conference like this one in the Northwest.”
“Mr. Davis?”
“Davis Churchill. That’s a pen name. His real name is Brad Davis. He asked to change his table so he could be next to you, but luckily, you were already assigned to the table near him.”
Interesting. Mr. Hot and Handsome wanted to be close to her. Well, close to April Mayes. Her pulse spiked at the thought, then settled back into a normal rhythm. Of course he’d want to meet April Mayes. She wrote steamy romances. She dressed provocatively. What man wouldn’t want to meet that woman? However, if he was attracted to April Mayes, he wouldn’t be likely to give Claudia Manchester a second look.
“Thanks anyway. I guess I’ll go see if my agent got my table set up.”
“Oh, yes. She was here over an hour ago. Your table looks … well, hot is the only way to describe it.”
Hot indeed. Centered on the deep crimson banner on the wall behind the table was a blowup of one of her covers, featuring a woman, her head thrown back in obvious ecstasy, and the back of her lover’s head as he nibbled, sucked, or otherwise played kissy-face with her neck. Emblazoned on it was the April Mayes tagline: Classic love stories with a sensual twist. Although it represented exactly what her stories were about, it still took her somewhat aback to see it so prominently displayed.
The table itself had been artfully arranged with a half dozen of her books in stands. At the front of the table, easily accessible to marauding readers, were baskets containing the freebies she was handing out, all with her name emblazoned on them. With any luck at all, everything on the table would soon be in the hands of the women who were waiting in the hall for the ballroom doors to be thrown open, and she would be a bit better known.
As she approached the table, the man from the airport rose from his chair, which was as close to her table as it could be and still be in his space. He was wearing the Aran knit sweater again with black trousers. Up close, his blue eyes were even more intense. And his shoulders more impressive. He must have played football at some time in his life. It would be nice to run her hands over those shoulders. Have him run his hands over her …
Stop. She had to stop. It was really inappropriate to be thinking about his shoulders or any other part of his body.
He grinned at her, an expression that warmed parts of her she hadn’t realized had been chilly, and held out his hand. “We meet at last. I was beginning to think we really were ships that pass in the night. I’m Brad Davis, or, as my sign says, Davis Churchill. Although if you want me to actually pay attention, you’re better off calling me Brad.”
She took his proffered hand, quickly withdrawing hers when she felt a tingle moving up her arm to her breast. The man had more sex appeal than any ten men she’d met put together. “I’m Cl … April Mayes. Nice to meet you. I hear you want to talk to me about organizing a conference in Portland. I’m not sure I have the time …”
“Don’t worry. It was the only reason I could come up with to ask to have my table next to yours so I could meet you. Turned out, I didn’t need an excuse. We were already assigned here. Fate, I’d say.”
“That’s a relief. The last thing I need right now is another project. Between work and my writing, I don’t have a lot of spare time.”
“I hear you.” He pulled out the chair behind her table for her to sit. “From your hesitation when you introduced yourself, I gather you use a pen name, too.”
“I do. What I write can be a bit explicit so I decided to hide behind a pen name.”
“If I promise not to be judgmental about your work, will you tell me your real name? Or do I have to perform the seven labors of Hercules to earn the ri
ght to call you Claire or Clara or Clementine or …”
It wasn’t hard to see why she was so conflicted about this man. One part of her wanted to know him better. Wanted him to know her better. Another part of her was terrified that if it happened, she’d accidently out herself, which could have disastrous results for her career. He was obviously smart enough to see through her disguise. She had to stop him before he made more progress.
“No labors of Hercules, I promise. Maybe a little time, though. Is that an insult?”
“No insult as long as you’ll join me for the conference dinner tonight. I’ve reached my limit of interest in yet another discussion about the state of the publishing business and have run out of ways to politely turn down eager young writers who need a mentor.”
“I imagine you get that all the time, don’t you? The requests for mentoring, I mean.”
“You’re changing the subject. But to answer your question, since I teach at a girls’ high school, I am familiar with the situation, yes. Although I probably get more requests of that kind from my guest lectures at Portland State.”
“Portland State University? I thought you were from Seattle.” The words surely sounded strangled coming as they did from a throat constricted by sudden fear.
“No, I’m a born and bred Oregonian. Never have lived anyplace else. I teach history at St. Mary’s Academy. No surprise given what I write.” He cocked his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “Why did you … oh, right. I boarded the plane in Seattle. I’d been in the Puget Sound for a few days sailing with old friends in the San Juans. It was easier to fly from there than to drive back home so I could leave from PDX.”
