“Well, you didn’t mind lying last night about the clocks. Just a little lie.”
“Yeah, that could work. I could bring Lola on TV with me. She’s had me pegged as husband material for a while now.”
“Lola?” Julie asked, a surprised sparkle of jealousy in her eyes that was not lost on Blake.
“Yes. She’s a little brassy, of course, but I like her free spirit. Maybe you could lend her one of your classy dresses to wear, since most of her wardrobe is only appropriate for the stage.”
“The stage? What is she? A singer?”
“No, Lola’s a little tone-deaf.” He chuckled, then shrugged. “I guess I could get her on the news with me later today. It would certainly dispel the rumor that you and I are involved. That is, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
Julie stared at him for a moment, but slowly her gaping mouth closed. A soft grin pulled at her lips as she regarded him. “You aren’t dating anybody named Lola.”
“Sure I am.”
“You don’t even know anyone named Lola,” she challenged. She studied him as if uncertain.
A smile broke across his face. He flung out his arms dramatically. “All right, you caught me. But I’ll be glad to go out and find someone for this afternoon’s broadcast if it’ll make you feel better.”
In spite of herself, Julie seemed relieved. “I don’t think that will be necessary. As long as we don’t flirt, I think we can manage.”
Blake closed the distance between them. “But see, that’s the hard part,” he said in a low voice. “By the way, have I told you what a knockout you are this morning?”
A rosy blush painted her cheeks. “Thanks.”
“That one of your designs?”
“Yes.”
“Nice,” he whispered.
She studied her purse for a moment, tracing the pattern with a finger as she searched for a change of subject. “So, did they wire your money all right?”
“Yeah. Four hundred thousand, to start. The bank opened early for me. Funny how accommodating they can be when you have money. They even gave me a digital camera for making a deposit over two thousand dollars. The way I see it, they owed me about two hundred cameras. What did you get?”
“A deposit slip,” she said. “I would have liked a camera.”
“I’ll give you mine,” he said.
She laughed softly. “I couldn’t believe it. It felt strange getting a deposit slip for almost four hundred thousand dollars!”
“Cheapskates,” Blake teased. “I thought they’d give it to us all at once.”
“I’m glad they didn’t. Just imagine getting a check for four hundred thousand dollars every year for twenty-five years.”
“Yeah, well, the IRS is getting a pretty big check every year for twenty-five years too.”
“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. You won’t hear me complaining.”
Blake laughed. “Me, either. I can scrape by on four hundred thou a year, even minus the taxes. If they’d just set me loose so I could spend it.”
Julie went to the window and looked out. Her eyes lost their dreaminess and took on a practical glint. “I guess I should postpone my fashion show. If I had more time, I could do it up really nice. I’m going to quit my job today so I have more time to work on it.”
“You’re going to quit?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I was only working as a waitress to support myself until I could get my designer business off the ground. I don’t have to do that now. I just hope the mall will work with me on another date for the show. I had to do some pretty fast tap-dancing to make them agree to it in the first place.”
Blake was behind her before she knew it. His hands closed over her shoulders, and he looked over her head, out the window, seeing worlds farther than the brick building in their view. “Julie, sweetheart, do you hear yourself? You put all that cash in the bank this morning and you’re worried about whether the mall will let you do your fashion show. You can afford to buy the mall. You can have that show anywhere, anytime you want.”
Julie looked over her shoulder at him, and the truth of his words seemed to dawn in her eyes. “You’re right.”
“Then forget about it and just have fun for a while. You’ll never win ten million again.”
She turned to face him, her big, innocent eyes meeting his; she smiled in a way that only he, a fellow winner, could understand. It held the suppression and the ecstasy of disbelief . . . and the beginnings of belief.
And it made his heart do drumrolls.
“How am I going to make it through live television if I don’t have you to prop me up?” he whispered.
“No touching,” she maintained, though the mesmerized look on her face told him she didn’t mean it.
“We can’t even hold hands?”
“We especially can’t hold hands.”
He brushed the hair out of her eyes. “But what if we really did want to get involved? What if we really wanted to make all those headlines come true?”
“If that were the case,” she whispered noncommittally, her eyes sparkling like morning sun, “we’d just have to do our hand-holding in secret.”
His face brightened. “In secret, huh? I like it.”
“I said if.”
A grin captured one side of his mouth. “I heard what you said,” he whispered.
A knock sounded, and they leaped apart as if they’d been caught doing something more than just smiling at each other.
“We’re about to go on,” the news director said. “We need to get a sound check.”
Blake’s hands plunged into his pockets. Julie’s wrapped around her purse. Together they walked to the set, staying a few feet apart. But the director had other plans. The tiny bench they were seated on was meant for only one, but he insisted that they sit there together. “So we can get you both on the screen at once,” he explained. “Just cozy up together.”
So they made the most of it, sitting awkwardly, shoulder to shoulder, until the director insisted that Julie lean more into Blake. She did as she was told, but Blake felt her stiffness and knew that if she hadn’t been so nervous, she would have been protesting loudly.
They inserted their earpieces and clipped on their mikes. Near the camera was a monitor, where they could see the host of the show talking with an actor. “We’re following him?” she whispered.
Blake sensed a note of awe in her voice. “I’ll bet he never made ten million in one night,” he mumbled into her ear.
The actor’s interview ended, and a soup commercial followed. “Stand by,” the director said. “New York wants to do a sound check. Say something.”
Blake took the gauntlet. “That wasn’t her in the car with me, Aunt Myrtle. It was Lola. The photographers just superimposed Julie’s head over the body.”
Julie slapped at his chest, incredulous, though a smile did battle with her glower. “Blake, stop it. If you say anything like that on the air, I promise I’ll get up and leave.”
Blake grabbed her hand, wrestling her still. “Yes, Aunt Myrtle, they forced us into that kiss. The photographers cut out the terrorists holding guns to our heads.”
“Blake, I’ll kill you!” Julie hissed.
“Perfect,” some laughing, New York voice said in their earpieces. “That’s exactly how we want you to play it.”
Julie’s smile faded. “Play it?” She looked at Blake. “I mean it,” she whispered as if to keep them from hearing. “I don’t want to feed this fire. Please . . .”
He held his fingers up in a Boy Scout salute. “I promise. I won’t embarrass you.”
“Stand by,” the director said again, this time chuckling.
Julie tried to put some stock in Blake’s promise. But the memory of his cheating with her clocks and playing into the press’s hands with talk of marrying their fortunes reeled back through her mind.
They waited, tense, as the theme music played and the host mentioned that it was half past the hour. And then, before they could c
atch their breath or wipe their palms, they were on the air.
“Sweepstakes sweethearts” were the first words out of the host’s mouth, and Julie thought she was going to be sick. When he’d finished telling the viewing audience the unique reason for their splitting the ticket, he turned to the camera. “Julie, Blake, how do you feel today?”
“Like ten million bucks,” Blake said.
Julie threw him a look, wondering if he’d spent his five hours alone that morning figuring out that line.
The man laughed. “Julie?”
“I feel great,” she said.
Blake threw her a look that asked if that was really the best she could do.
“Any further thoughts of pooling the winnings and making it legal?”
Julie wondered if her face was searing in living color. “Uh, I think we should clear something up,” she cut in before Blake could answer. “This ‘sweepstakes sweethearts’ business is a little too much hype. The fact is that we only met two nights ago, the night he gave me half of his ticket.”
“But there must have been something there if he gave you half of a twenty-million-dollar sweepstakes ticket.”
“It was a tip,” she explained.
“You must be some waitress!”
“It was the uniform,” Blake interjected. “I have a weakness for women in uniform.”
Julie gasped and glared at him.
Blake winced, waiting for her to strike him. The crew erupted with raucous laughter.
“Tell me,” the host said, thankfully changing the subject, “what do you plan to do with the money, Julie?”
Julie cleared her throat and tried to regroup, telling herself it would all be over soon. “I’m a fashion designer, and I plan to invest in my business, but I haven’t had time to think of specifics yet.”
“She designed what she’s wearing,” Blake added. “Isn’t that a knockout?”
Julie ground her heel into his foot, out of the camera’s view. Blake flinched and set his teeth.
“Fantastic,” the man said. “Ten million ought to get you well on your way. What about you, Blake?”
“I don’t know,” he said in a strained voice. Julie lifted her heel, and he breathed with relief and glanced at her with an expression that one would wear in the presence of a lunatic. Then, bringing his eyes back to the camera, he added, “Maybe I’ll buy a castle or something. A couple of pinball machines. Who knows?”
“Who knows, indeed,” the host said as if those three words held the wisdom of a whole council of wise men. “Are you planning any grand celebration together? Besides the one we’ve already read about?”
“I promised to take her to New York,” Blake blurted, and Julie’s eyes flashed again. Fearing another dig into his foot, he quickly covered himself. “Really, Julie meant what she said. We aren’t involved. We actually just met night before last, and we know very little about each other. As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing someone else.”
“And he’s not my type at all,” Julie threw in.
“And I don’t generally like blondes,” he added.
On that ridiculous note the host thanked them and broke for the weather, and Julie and Blake remained motionless on their seat.
“If I had a gun,” she mumbled through compressed lips, “I’d shoot you right here on national television.”
“Julie, I’m sorry. Those things just slipped out.”
Julie stood, jerking the earpiece and mike off, and raged down at him. “Just slipped out? The bit about New York? How could you?”
“I just told the truth. I get all stammery when I lie. You didn’t want me to get all stammery on national television, did you?”
Julie groaned viciously and started off the set, and Blake limped after her. “And why’d you have to crush my foot that way? I probably have a fracture in the shape of your heel.”
“That isn’t my heel print, Blake. It’s teeth marks from ramming your foot into your mouth every time you opened it!”
“Julie, it’s no big deal,” he said, hobbling faster. “I’ll do better next time.”
“Yeah.” She swung back to face him. “I just bet you will. You’ll just stiffen your spine and stand up for my honor and reputation, won’t you, even though you don’t generally like blondes!”
Blake nodded innocently. “I’ll make Aunt Myrtle proud of you. And just for the record, I made up the bit about not liking blondes.”
Biting her lip, Julie crashed her heel into his other foot. He yelped and grabbed it, hopping as she stalked away. “Are you crazy?” he shouted after her.
She turned at the door and wagged a finger at him. “Yes! The next time you decide to let some innuendo about me ‘slip,’” she said, “remember that I have other shoes at home. Sharper ones!”
She was thankful Blake had the good sense to stay quiet as she hurried out the door.
JULIE SLEPT HARD that night and most of the next day. It was dark when she finally emerged from her bedroom. She peeked out the window and saw that some reporters still lurked out in front of her yard. She had turned off her cell phone so it wouldn’t wake her; now she turned it back on so she could call her aunt Myrtle. The phone began ringing instantly. Too tired to talk to another reporter, she silenced it. One after another, her voice mail alerts popped up on the screen.
She listened through ten messages; then a familiar voice startled her. It was Jack, the designer she’d once been in love with, the one who had betrayed her. He had heard of her win and wanted to congratulate her. He thought they might have dinner, if she would call him back.
Julie sighed and stared at the phone. She supposed she was more attractive to him now that she was rich. The thought brought back sad memories of rejection and pain. He had shaken her life after their last meeting a year ago, when he’d fired her from his design studio. No, she wouldn’t call him now. His business had suffered when she’d left and taken her talent with her, even after he’d spread word that every design Julie had created since had been stolen from him. When she heard of his lag in profits, Julie determined that God had taken vengeance. But the scars on her heart hadn’t healed, and she was not about to expose them to Jack again.
Wrenching her thoughts away, she went to the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator, and sighed when she saw how empty it was. I’m a multimillionaire, she thought, and I don’t even own a carton of milk. Right now she would have given a whole year’s payment for a pint of yogurt. She was afraid to go to the grocery store for fear she’d never get out alive when the press and well-wishers surrounded her. But she’d bet it wasn’t that way for Blake. He was probably ordering everything in.
She laughed lightly. They were so different, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She would have to stop, though, because the last thing in the world she needed now was to fall head over heels in love with him, only to find later that it couldn’t work. Then the whole world would know about the split. It would be worse than last time, when everyone had watched and waited for her reaction to Jack’s callous behavior and his contention that she was washed up as a designer. But everyone in the fashion circles had been only fractional compared to everyone who was following her alleged affair with Blake through the media.
The doorbell rang. Julie cringed and refused to answer it. A hard knock followed.
Was Blake having these problems, too? she wondered. Or was he enjoying all the attention?
If only the press would get tired and leave, she could concentrate on her work. She wondered if she’d see Blake again, now that they had nothing throwing them together. The thought of not seeing him again disturbed her, and she leaned back in her old, lopsided recliner and closed her eyes. She felt herself relax as she realized the worst part was over. There were no more interviews, at least for a while.
A purposeful knock sounded at the side window of her living room, and she sprang up and sucked in a breath. A photographer, she thought. He had found a way to get past her fence!
The knock sounded
again, louder this time, and she rushed out of her recliner and looked around the room for a weapon. Her eyes fell on a seam ripper on the coffee table, and she grabbed it. It was the first time a photographer had actually knocked on her window. He must be pretty desperate—and a little crazed—if he was willing to do that.
Holding her seam ripper out in front of her as if it were the weapon that could save her, she slowly stepped toward the window. This was it, she thought. It had gone too far, and she was going to put a stop to it!
Gritting her teeth, she stepped beside the window and took a few deep breaths for courage. She didn’t care what the papers said about her after this. She’d had enough, and she was going to make sure that this reporter didn’t get away without a few of his seams ripped!
Slowly she reached her hand under the curtain and threw back the lock. Then, as quickly as she could manage, she flung open the window and closed her eyes as she thrust forward the measly weapon.
“Julie, no!” came a strangled voice. A hand reached out to grab her arm as a body came through the window and thudded to the floor.
Wrestling free as she realized her seam ripper wouldn’t do the trick, she reached for a lamp and swung it high in the air.
“Don’t kill me. I give!” the man said in a high-pitched whisper. “It’s me, Julie!”
Julie stepped back from the window and flicked on the lamp she clutched in her hand. The face of Blake Adcock winced up at her.
“BLAKE, WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
Blake gave her a haggard look, but that familiar grin broke through his scowl. “I can’t talk right now,” he said with a groan. “I’m wounded. Are you going to help me up, or do you plan to take a few more stabs?”
Julie set the lamp down and kicked a pile of laundry out of the way. “Did I hurt you?”
“Almost.” He stood and checked the contents of a loaded pillowcase he carried. “Luckily those clothes on your floor broke my fall. And the ice pick—or whatever it is—only caused a minor flesh wound.”
“It’s a seam ripper,” Julie informed him.
“A seam ripper,” Blake repeated. “Terrific.” He showed her the scratch on his hand. She hadn’t even broken the skin.
Chance of Loving You Page 6
