Mr. Fix-It

by Crystal Hubbard

  Assuming that Khela was next on her appointment list, the editor had beckoned her into Daphne’s vacated seat. Khela had pitched a story idea that she made up on the fly, splicing together everything she’d ever learned from Daphne about romance novels with one of her favorite pieces of classic literature.

  “My hero is a stormy, husky, brawling man with big shoulders,” she had said, wildly improvising. “And my heroine is a painted woman with a reputation for luring one too many farm boys. My book is the story of how these two disparate souls use their cunning, strength and tenacity to defy expectations and overcome the burden of destiny to find love on their own terms.”

  Cameo editor Fawn Ellman had then asked Khela the one question that almost tripped her up. “What’s the title?”

  And without thinking, Khela had responded with the first thing that popped into her head. “Satin Whispers.”

  The name of the moisturizing body lotion in the hospitality basket at her hotel.

  Fawn had requested the full manuscript, and Khela had spent the next two months working furiously on a book that hadn’t existed, not even in her imagination, before her sit-down with the editor. She found out about Fawn’s acceptance of the manuscript the hard way—through a phone message relayed to her by Daphne, whose conference experience hadn’t been so fortuitous.

  Daphne had spent one week in a sulky, sullen mood, but then she had read Khela’s first few chapters. Enraptured, she had congratulated Khela and had become her staunchest supporter, even helping her with some of her class work so that she could devote more time to her manuscript. Satin Whispers was released a year later, on Daphne’s twenty-first birthday.

  Khela’s gift to her was the dedication: To Daphne Carr and Carl Sandburg, for obvious reasons.

  A few months later, after graduating with honors, Khela moved to Boston to take an assistant researcher position at a small bioengineering firm. She’d enjoyed the work—few recent college grads had the chance to develop cutting-edge biologic matrix products right out of the gate.

  But when Fawn offered a multibook deal with Cameo, Khela veered from a career path that had once seemed perfect.

  The polarized windows of the banquet hall softened the intensity of the sunlight reflecting off the placid surface of the harbor. Unlike the night before, when she’d accepted the Torchbearer Award, she now easily saw clear to the back of the room, where people stood two rows deep to hear her keynote address.

  More than ever, Khela truly appreciated how damned lucky she’d been all those years ago. There were better writers and better storytellers, Daphne foremost among them, sitting attentively at the ivory linen-draped tables dotting the enormous room. The next Beverly Jenkins, the next Theresa Medeiros—hell, the next Khela Halliday—was probably right there in front of her, sipping a slightly chilled Boyden chardonnay, or picking the bitter radicchio from her mesclun salad.

  What can I say to give that woman what I clumsily stumbled upon? Khela wondered, misery clawing at her insides. How can I inspire these women to pursue their dreams of romance when I don’t believe in love myself?

  “Miss Halliday? Are you all right?”

  A light touch of a hand on her shoulder shook Khela free of her reverie. The woman who had presented her with the Torchbearer now stared at her, a moue of concern behind her pleasant smile.

  Tears boiled behind Khela’s eyes as she nodded. She offered a weak smile that seemed to do little to convince the RAAO president, who nonetheless, backed away and left Khela alone on the dais.

  She cleared her throat, and glanced down at her note cards. Then her head snapped back in a double take.

  The silent crowd in the back parted to admit another guest—Carter, dressed in a crisp white button-down and freshly pressed khakis. He hunkered down, as if it were possible to make himself any less noticeable as he murmured “Excuse mes” and “Sorrys” in the preternatural quiet. Even though he bumped knees, shoulders and displaced a guest or two, his polite words were met with openly adoring looks from every woman he passed.

  His hands briefly lighted on the back of Rose Gracen’s chair. The petite Inspirational-romance novelist’s cheeks flamed as her pert nostrils flared to inhale the air he had just moved through.

  Venus Black, the star author of Throb Books, actually licked her cherry-red lips and ran three red-taloned fingers along her décolletage when his backside swept past her face.

  Daphne glanced away from him long enough to give Khela a hearty thumbs up, but Khela looked at him only after he had removed her pink Prada croc clutch from the one empty chair at the head table. After seating himself in the chair, he plopped the clutch onto his lap. His expression unreadable, he stared at her.

  She swallowed hard, but the hard lump in her gullet remained. Her super-looking super had the attention of every woman in the room, and every one of them probably believed him to be every bit as educated, wealthy and sexy as one of the heroes in her books.

  With a gnawing, burning sensation growing in her belly, she imagined what they would say if they knew that the Prada clutch resting on Carter’s lap probably cost more than he earned in a year keeping up her brownstone.

  The handbag was as much a part of her charade as Carter. Daphne had “loaned” it to her, along with the two-carat diamond studs glinting in her earlobes. Khela’s idea of accessorizing was typically limited to a pair of simple white-gold hoops and nothing more. Daphne had convinced her to purchase the clutch and diamonds in celebration of her liberation, meaning her divorce almost four years ago from a man who’d forced her to pinch pennies while he secretly spent her royalty checks as fast as they came in.

  The clutch and the earrings were pretty, but not thousands of dollars pretty, and they spent more time at Daphne’s than they did at Khela’s, as they were two of Daphne’s favorite items to borrow.

  Khela eyed Daphne fanning herself with her hand as she whispered to her nearest tablemates, each of whom seemed to nod in agreement as they stared at the back of Carter’s head.

  Right then and there, Khela knew that Carter wasn’t to be shared. Prop or no prop, he was hers for the weekend. She caught Carter’s eye, and without changing his flat expression, he winked at her.

  The playful gesture sent a sense of ease through her, starting at her mouth, which finally formed a tiny smile. He had been gone when she awakened that morning, and with all the workshops, readings and meet and greets she’d had before lunch, she’d had no time to dwell on his absence.

  But he was here. Clean-shaven, with his short hair neatly combed off his face, he was the picture of casual masculine coolness, even with her girlie clutch on his lap. Despite her attitude malfunctions of the day before, he hadn’t fled. Her relief was so great it washed out the shame she might have felt at having behaved so badly toward him.

  His presence was a comfort, which Khela attributed to one fact: with every woman’s eyes on Carter, they were no longer on her. She cleared her throat once more, and began her speech.

  “ ‘All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell,’ ” Khela read, grinning broadly at the horror on Kitty Kincaid’s face. “Those are the words of Nathaniel Hawthorne. I keep them posted on my office wall, above my computer monitor. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in defiance of Hawthorne’s words.”

  Applause erupted, and Khela lowered her eyes. They landed on Carter, who sat up straighter as he stared at her. She began anew once the clapping died down. “As a genre, romance fiction is as wildly popular as it is disrespected. What we do, as storytellers, might not cure disease or reduce the national deficit, but it makes those things easier to bear. We entertain. We offer an escape. W-We…”

  Her throat tightened and her words stalled. A tiny sip of water loosened her pipes enough for her to say, “We practice a very specific form of witchcraft.”

  Soft laughter rippled through the room. Khela
only wanted to cry.

  She started her wrap-up. “I’m supposed to provide guidance, but you already know how this game is played. You know that publishing moves on geological time. You know that each ‘no’ is one step closer to a ‘yes.’ The only advice I can give you is the same advice I was given ten years ago by one of our genre’s best, January Rose, when I was the one sitting on the other side of a podium like this one: ‘Write the story of your heart. If you can write it, you can sell it, and people will read it, and they will believe in it.’ Those words, too, are posted on the wall above my computer monitor—above Hawthorne’s. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in honor of those words. And now…”

  She found January Rose in the crowd, and the older lady kissed her fingertips and sent Khela a silent thank you. Khela’s next words remained stuck in her throat. It was impossible to make herself finish with what she had planned. She couldn’t, not here, not with Daphne, January Rose, Kitty Kincaid, Carter and dozens of other people looking at her with pride, affection or envy. She took a deep breath and said, “I wish you all the best in your careers.”

  The banquet hall exploded in applause, with Carter, her clutch tucked under one arm, on his feet banging his big hands together hardest of all. When he turned and slightly flapped his arms, spurring the audience on, the noise rose at least twenty decibels. The applause and cheers continued as Khela made her way to the head table, where Carter offered her his vacated seat. An observant waiter swooped in with another chair for Carter.

  “That was awesome,” he whispered, his lips and his breath caressing her ear. “You were great.”

  Smiling sickly, Khela wondered if anyone would notice if she ducked under the table and vomited into her purse.

  * * *

  Carter paused in the archway between the banquet hall and another larger room, where long tables formed a giant “U.” There, the authors signed books for the general public. Stacks of books were at each author’s elbow, with a placard bearing the author’s name and head shot propped in front of them. Before this weekend, Carter had been completely ignorant of the many sub-genres of romance. From erotic fiction that read more like hardcore pornography to Christian fiction that placed love of God above love of any creature born on Earth, Carter saw something for every connoisseur of romance.

  “See anything you like?”

  “Hey,” Carter said, returning Daphne’s greeting. “Looks like you did.” With a nod he indicated her navy-and-white ECWA tote bag, which was stuffed with books. “Did you leave any books for the riffraff?”

  “There’s plenty,” she chuckled. “Most of these are promotional copies from all the publishers represented at the convention, not just the romance factories.”

  She selected a hardbound book with a glossy dust jacket. The image of a blond, blue-eyed man shown straight on and partly eclipsed by the profile of a pretty brown-skinned woman dominated the front cover. The book’s title, Soul Surrender, stretched across the top of the cover, with Khela Halliday embossed in gigantic letters across the bottom.

  “This is one of Khela’s latest,” Daphne said, displaying the book for Carter. “It won’t be released until next month, and it’s already on two bestseller lists.”

  “How’s that possible?” Carter asked.

  “Pre-orders,” Daphne said. “Khela’s got quite a following.”

  Carter looked around, awed all over again at the number of people waiting for signed books from Khela and her colleagues. “Does she do this every year?”

  Daphne forced the book back into the overstuffed tote. “Does who do what?”

  “Khela.”

  “She usually comes to this convention and the Romance Authors of America Organization’s national convention.” Daphne repositioned the heavy tote to prevent the strap from gouging her shoulder. “Khela’s idea of being a writer is to sit at home in her loft, working at her laptop for hours and hours.”

  Carter tried to spy Khela through the throng, but the romance fans refused to accommodate him. Daphne’s version of Khela’s heaven sounded painfully dull. But Carter had a hard time imagining anything about her being dull.

  The time he’d spent with her so far had proven something that he had only suspected in the course of his many casual dealings with her—that she was the most exciting woman he had ever met.

  “What are you guys doing after the signing?” Daphne asked him.

  “I’m not sure. We haven’t had much time to talk today.”

  “I can’t wait to see your costumes tonight. Khela—”

  “Hold on,” Carter cut in, holding up his hands. “Costumes? For what?”

  “The ball.” Daphne’s green eyes widened. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Do I look like she told me?”

  “This year’s theme is Animal House.” She scrunched her freckled nose in disgust. “The romance and mystery writers wanted to do a Vagabond Cabaret, but the sports and humor writers turned out in record numbers to vote this year. They wanted Animal House, so we’re stuck with a bunch of overweight smartasses and sports nuts in togas sucking up lime Jell-O shooters.”

  “That actually sounds like fun,” Carter laughed. “It shouldn’t be too hard to rig a toga out of one of the hotel bed sheets.”

  “Don’t you mean two?”

  Carter didn’t follow.

  “Two,” Daphne clarified. “One for you and one for Khela.”

  “Right,” he nodded, gleefully envisioning Khela tangled in a bed sheet.

  “I’m going to my room to get a nap in before the ball,” Daphne said, heaving her tote onto her shoulder again. “I’ll see you tonight, I hope.”

  “Sure, me too,” Carter said, waving at her.

  He shouldered his way through the crowd, doing his best not to crash into chattering fans clutching signed books to their bosoms as though they were treasures handed directly from goddesses.

  Khela had been situated in the middle of the center table, with five other writers on each side of her. She was the Torchbearer, so she had no books at her elbow. As befitted the queen for the day, readers purchased her books at the door and brought them to her.

  She smiled and offered handshakes and hugs, but her affection for the people who’d come to see her failed to reach her eyes. The visage she presented to her fans was a mere mask of the face Carter had come to know so well over the years. She had a wider variety of smiles than any woman he’d ever known. There was the big, open smile she gave the UPS man who serviced the brownstone, and there was the lopsided, quirky smirk she reserved for the pianist living below her, who made no secret of his attraction to her.

  She had a way of shaping her full lips into a plump little bow when Carter unexpectedly encountered her, and last night he’d seen what was now his favorite—the luscious, blissful smile of Khela Halliday in the throes of carnal surrender.

  She greeted her readers with a beauty pageant smile that made her features appear shellacked. Her fans might not have seen the difference, but Carter knew her a little better than that. While the other authors seemed happy, and in some cases downright excited, to be signing for their fans, Khela appeared to be in agony.

  His hands in his pockets, he strolled over to the signing tables. He stepped over a box of Rose Gracen’s The Rake’s Redemption and made his way down the line of authors to Khela.

  She scribbled an illegible note to the fan standing before her and finished it off with an equally unreadable signature.

  “Thank you so much for coming out today,” she said, handing the thick hardcover back to its new owner.

  “I love your books, Khela,” the stout little woman said, the brown apples of her cheeks plump in a big smile. “I wrote a book myself. I let some of my friends read it, and they loved it. They said it was just as good as your books.”

  “You should submit it to a publisher,” Khela said, accepting a book from the next woman in line.

  “Really?” the stout woman said, pushing her a
mple belly into the edge of the table. “You think it’s good enough?”

  “Well, I haven’t read it, so—”

  “I’ll send it to you as soon as I get home!” the squatty woman squealed. “After you read it, you can send it to your editor. Who’s your agent? You can sign me up with your agent, too!”

  Khela gripped her pen so hard, her knuckles whitened. Her shoulders tightened and slowly rose, as though their intent was to swallow her neck.

  Carter lightly rested his hands on her shoulders and bent to speak close to her. “Can I get you some coffee or juice or something?” he murmured near her ear.

  The welcome balm of his voice instantly relaxed her, settling her shoulders back into their normal position. Without thinking, she caressed his left hand with the fingers of her right and answered, “If you could find an iced tea, I’d be really grateful.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back.” He gave her cheek a soft stroke with one finger as he left.

  The pushy woman in front of Khela stared after Carter. “Where can I get me one of him? That is one fine lookin’ youngster.” She pinned her dark eyes on Khela. “And girl, is he ever burnin’ for you!”

  The woman whose book Khela was signing leaned forward. “He looks like Ken, from An Angel’s Prayer, doesn’t he?”

  “Exactly!” declared Wallis Finchley-Locke, a native of England and a past Torchbearer winner who had built a career on Georgian historicals. She wagged a long finger, heavy with diamonds, at Khela’s customer. “It’s been plaguing me since I first saw him at the awards ceremony last night. He’s Ken, in the flesh! Talk about an answer to a prayer.”

  “I think he looks more like Cale Garrett from A Warrior’s Secret,” offered the tall, blue-eyed woman whose book Khela still held open before her. “He’s got Cale’s caring eyes.”