by Bird, Peggy
Knowing full well that his girlfriend was already teed off at him (an understatement), he suppressed his initial urge to laugh. She did resemble Atom Ant — a very sexy one.
“Kenn, we need to talk.”
He stood and assumed his self-defense pose of the tai chi flamingo — left leg up, hands covering his face, and his eyes tightly closed.
“Hey, Atom Ant,” Alvin said. JJ took a deep breath. Her muscles tightened at the interruption. She anticipated this to be difficult enough without a comedian in the background. “What?”
“Take off the helmet. You’ll gain some credibility.”
She fumbled with the fastener for a moment, new to the whole helmet thing. Finally, she removed it. With her new expanded perspective, JJ was able to see more of her surroundings. And what she saw surprised her. The café, unusually full of customers — the vast majority of them students — who were all watching this fascinating bird’s eye view of their professors.
Alex and Blake ran in, breathless. Several cheerleaders and pep squad members ran up to Alex and Blake, clearly excited.
“Where have you been?” one asked. “You’re late.” The group tried to pull Alex from the scene. “Come on, you’re needed someplace else. And it’s important!” The cheerleader pleaded, tugging at Alex.
“You too, Blake,” said one of the pep squad members. “You’re needed too. And we have to hurry!” The students were nearly frantic trying to get them to move.
“Oh, all right!” Alex said and the two of them reluctantly left.
JJ scrutinized Kenn as he stood before her, his precarious pose appearing more difficult for him to hold with every second. She could see him begin to totter a little. She knitted her brow and cocked her head. “Preparing for the worst, I see.”
“Yep! Just standing here waiting for you to unleash your very special brand of cow dung on me.” He spread his fingers slightly, opened his eyes and peeked out.
Still feeling the eyes of the students expecting a floorshow, she said, “Let’s go outside.” She pulled his hand from his face and dragged him through the café. A collective groan echoed throughout the coffee shop.
JJ’s cheeks grew hot. She knew they were glowing crimson. Once safely out on the sidewalk, she poured out her feelings.
“So, yeah, I was teed off when I thought you and Rain were well … you know … on your desk. But it’s difficult to spend as much time together in a six-by-nine jail cell and not share some very personal, private moments. What I’m trying to say is that even your ex-girlfriend testified about your loyalty. The jealously I felt, the insecurity … well … it’s all part of my problem. Starting a new relationship, a new life after all this time really hasn’t been easy. And it’s been scary for me. Very scary.”
“I know, darling.” Kenn approached her slowly, placing his hands on her arms, gazing into her eyes. Her body sizzled when he touched her. If she had doubts that she was making the right move, they evaporated.
“Believe me,” he said, pulling her a little closer, “Rain seriously hurt me when she left. For a while I wasted so much time trying to replace her. Then I saw you standing there in the bookstore. I knew you were very special, but I acted like such a pompous ass.”
JJ closed her eyes and shook her head as she remembered their first disastrous encounter.
“I didn’t do much to help you out.”
Kenn pulled her closer, staring into her sparkling green eyes. JJ’s spine tingled as she studied his boyish face, a face she now knew so well; she knew every laugh line.
He placed his hand on her neck and pulled her even closer, their lips met and they became lost in the moment, a very long sensual moment. Slowly their lips parted but the embrace lingered, neither wanting to release it. “I swore when I kissed you, darling, that I heard music and angels singing.”
“Of course you did,” she said as she nestled into his warm body. “Look out there at the street. The homecoming parade is passing by.” The music was the university’s marching band and the angels were the cheerleaders.
Kenn looked up just as the float carrying the homecoming king and queen was slowly passing. Alex and Blake rode atop it, arms linked around each other while waving to the crowd. “Look who made the royalty!” Kenn said.
“Ooow! JJ! You go!” Alex shouted and waved.
JJ and Kenn waved back. Alex turned to Blake and kissed him passionately. The crowd roared with delight. This was the first time JJ noticed the crowd on the sidewalk. Had they been there all this time?
“That’s our cue,” Kenn told her softly. They tightened their embrace. JJ closed her eyes, soaking in the exquisite moment. When the noise around them reached a crescendo, she slowly opened one eye and glanced at the café. The windows were lined with students, applauding and cheering!
“I do believe we have an ever expanding audience, Kenn,” she mumbled.
“Well, then, let’s give them something they can remember!”
Chapter 41
“So exactly what happens to me at the end of the book?”
Alex sat on the couch in the study, legs crossed at the knee, her hands cupped around the top one. She concentrated on JJ’s every movement as JJ, standing behind the desk, readied the pages of the now-completed manuscript Love’s Surprise for shipment. Carefully, so as not to get any pages out of their proper order, she packed them in a sturdy white Priority Mailing box.
“Or am I going to have to wait until the book is published to see how my love unfolds?” Alex paused. JJ looked up from her packing and saw the sorrow in her eyes. “Am I going back home any … any time … soon.” Her voice cracked.
She uncrossed her legs and scooted to the edge of the cushion, covering her eyes with her hands. JJ heard the mixture of sadness and anger in Alex’s words. She abandoned her task and immediately went to her side. She could see Alex’s stomach quickly rise up and down with every silent sob.
“Don’t cry sweetheart,” JJ said. “You’ll get back, I’m sure.”
“When? How?” Tears finally broke through and streamed down her cheeks. “I thought that once we got you and Kenn securely together we’d somehow be magically transported back to our book. Just like we were magically transported here. But look at me — I’m still stuck in this godforsaken place.”
Alex gasped. “JJ, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “You know I didn’t mean that. You’ve been a wonderful friend.”
“I know you didn’t mean it. And you know what? It’s okay even if you did.”
JJ gently sat next to her, placing her hands over one of Alex’s. “It’s not your home. I understand your frustration and your loneliness. Trust me, I never thought you and Blake would be here this long either.”
As if on cue Blake bounced in, carrying a tray with three cups of freshly brewed French roast coffee. His broad smile faded when he saw Alex distressed.
Hastily, he looked for a place to put the tray on the desk. Between the manuscript box and other papers, he could find no space. JJ jumped up, quickly took the box, and placed it on the credenza behind her desk.
Blake lay the tray down and hurried to Alex’s side. “Love?
Inhaling loudly, between sobs, she cried, “I want to go home! And I want to go home now!”
JJ picked up two of the cups and offered one to Alex. “Here, hon. This might help. This one’s for you, Blake.”
He took the cup, but kept one arm tenderly around Alex’s shoulders. “Love, we’ll get back, I promise. I know I haven’t been able to make it happen yet, but, I promise … ” She looked deeply into his eyes.
JJ wondered what her character was thinking. Then with a slight smile, she thought of how she would script the scene. Alex gazed into his chocolate brown eyes and saw the soul within the man. In those kind eyes, she saw a man who enjoyed every moment of life, who laughed heartily, loved fiercely. A man who would die for her. She saw the one and only man she would ever love.
Alex spoke slowly, trying hard to control her sobs. “You’ve b
een so wonderful. You’ve tried everything. It’s not your fault. There’s a missing puzzle piece that we just can’t seem to find yet. And it’s infuriating.”
The author pulled another chapter from the printer, ensured all the pages were there and placed it on the bottom of the pile.
JJ printed out the final chapter of the book, then took a quick sip of coffee. “How many other writers can print out the final copy of their manuscript and watch their characters interact across the room?” she thought. Then, again, she could never explain it to anyone. She could never share this moment, not without them questioning her sanity.
JJ replaced the cup on the tray as she realized the printer had stopped. She pulled the paper from the tray and arranged it in its proper place in the manuscript. Finally, the manuscript was complete. Every page was printed. Closing the box, she sighed deeply.
With a bit of flair, she turned around quickly, hands extended high into the air. “And that completes one more love story!” She took a bow.
“That’s odd,” she said. The tray was no longer on her desk.
“What is?” She looked up to see Kenn leaning against the doorjamb. He held two cups — one bright yellow, the other cobalt blue.
“There was a tray …” She stopped in midsentence. She looked at the couch. No one was sitting there. Slowly she smiled, and then everything clicked. Alex and Blake were nowhere to be found. But they were just here. So that really was their mission here, she thought — to make sure I began living my own life again. Silently she congratulated the pair. She broke into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Kenn asked as he walked into the room, offering her the yellow cup. “French roast coffee, sweetheart. Your favorite.” She took the cup and inhaled the marvelous aroma before answering his question.
“I always get a little giddy when I complete a novel. There’s a part of me that just can’t believe my good fortune.”
“Good fortune, bull …” Kenn said. “You’ve got talent, both as a historian and a romance writer. And I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you in my life.” Kenn’s eyes pierced JJ’s soul. Her knees buckled.
“Congratulations, sweetheart! I propose a toast. A French roast toast, even!” The pair held their cups up. “To happily ever after.”
The Duplicitous Debutante
Becky Lower
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Becky Louise Lower.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7894-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7894-6
eISBN 10 1-4405-7893-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7893-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/darkbird77 and 123RF/belchonock
In memory of Gail Jones, book reader extraordinaire, and an early champion of my work. I know you were anticipating Rosemary’s story, and I’m very sorry I didn’t get it finished in time.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Family Tree
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Author’s Note
Family Tree
CHAPTER ONE
Harry Hawk and the Tycoon’s Daughter—Book Six in the Harry Hawk Series
Harry Hawk stared down the barrel of his Colt .45. A huge Sioux Indian was in his sights, but was holding the girl in front of him as a shield. Her eyes were as big as saucers as she struggled against the man, and she trembled as she kept her eyes on the end of Harry’s gun.
New York City, March 1859
Rosemary Fitzpatrick laid her fountain pen on the paper, oblivious to the blob of ink that fell from its tip and damaged the page. She picked up the letter she had received earlier in the day.
It was her own gun, and she was staring down the barrel.
The letter informed her that her publisher, Page Books, had been sold, as Mr. Page had retired. The new company, Cooper and Son Publishing, was sending an envoy from Boston to New York to meet with all the authors. And to decide whom to keep.
She read the words between the lines. And whom to cut.
She had never met Mr. Page. All their correspondence had been through the post. So Mr. Page had no idea one of his bestselling dime novel authors was a woman. F.P. Elliott was the name she’d come up with when she was only fourteen and submitted her first story, not once imagining she’d become one of Mr. Page’s most productive and popular authors.
She had only two days in which to find someone to impersonate F.P. Elliott.
Rosemary ran her ink-stained fingers through her hair as she pondered what to do. The logical choice, and her only real hope, was her older brother Halwyn. But he was married now and settled. And, despite the fact he loved his sister, Rosemary doubted he’d ever cracked open one of her books.
Well, it was worth a try, anyway. She hastily stood, removed her pinafore—which was covered in purplish-blue stains resembling bruises, but protected her dress—patted her hair back in place, and glided down the steps from her garret study in the four-story townhouse to the main level, where she encountered her mother in the drawing room.
“Oh, good. I was just on my way upstairs to find you. Do come in.”
Rosemary took a seat opposite her mother, who picked up the embroidery she had been working on. Rosemary took a moment to smooth her pale blue muslin dress and inhaled her mother’s subtle, comforting scent of lilacs before she brought her eyes up.
“Mother, I have a problem.”
Her mother glanced up from her needlework. “Well, if it’s a problem with one of your stories, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know where you get your ideas. Help yourself to some tea and a bit of Cook’s tangy lemon cake, why don’t you?”
Rosemary rose and poured herself a cup of tea, forgoing the cake. “Well, indirectly, it is about my stories.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Page has retired and he’s sold the company to a Boston publisher.
Charlotte Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked on Rosemary’s. “Oh, dear.”
“Precisely. And the new publisher is sending someone to New York in two days to interview all the authors Mr. Page currently has under contract. They insist upon an in-person visit. Whatever can I do?”
Charlotte tapped her finger on her teeth for a moment, before her face broke into a smile. “We’ll just have to find someone to be Mr. Elliott! What about your father?”
“Papa’s way too busy to spend an afternoon impersonating me. I was thinking more along the lines of Halwyn.”
“Hmmm. I suppose
either of them would be a good choice. They can certainly think on their feet. But has either of them read your stories? Do they know where your inspiration for Harry Hawk comes from?”
“No, I don’t think either of them cares. They merely pat me on the head and tell me they’re glad I have a ‘hobby’ that keeps me off the streets and away from the Bloomers and their demonstrations for women’s rights.”
“All right then. Here’s what I suggest. You can prepare a series of questions about your stories, not just your characters but also about your current contract with Mr. Page, and administer the test to both your father and brother. Halwyn and Grace are coming over for dinner tonight, so your timing is perfect. Whoever does the best on the test will be the one to impersonate your Mr. Elliott.” Charlotte clapped her hands together.
“Your idea might just work,” Rosemary replied as a touch of excitement washed over her. “I’ll compose the pertinent questions this afternoon.”
Her mother patted her hand. “Surely we New Yorkers can pull the wool over a Boston Brahmin any day of the week.” She set aside her needlework and picked up the most recent copy of Godey’s fashion magazine. “Now we must discuss the important business of your debut next month. That’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you.”
“Must I still go through with this archaic European folly?”
Charlotte fixed a level stare on her daughter. “It is neither archaic nor European anymore. Judging from its success in finding suitable partners for our young ladies of society since its introduction into American culture five years ago, I must say it’s a convention that’s here to stay. I let you talk me out of it last year, when you should have had your season, simply because I was exhausted from planning the weddings of your two sisters. But no more dawdling, Rosemary. 1859 has to be your year. You’re nineteen and must begin entertaining the idea of getting married. Besides, if the talk of war between the States evolves into actual battle, the cotillion may be cancelled temporarily—at least until we take care of the Southerners and free all the slaves. You may not have another chance to find a husband for years.”
