“Deedee, I really don’t want—” The doorbell rang, causing Jillian to stop speaking. “Someone is at the door. It must be the pizza I ordered.”
“Good. Hang up. Just promise me you’ll think about what I proposed.”
“Yes, fine, all right, I’ll think about it. I’ve got to go, Deedee. Bye.” Jillian dropped the receiver into place and shot to her feet. “Pizza. Brain food.” She marched across the living room toward the entry hall. “Andrea and Deedee need some help for their brains.”
Before opening the door, she grabbed a twenty-dollar bill from the credenza in the entry hall. It was her “cash stash” for the frequent delivery of meals that held more appeal than cooking her own. Flipping on the porch light, even though the motion-sensitive lights would have been activated, she opened the door.
“Hi. That was quick. I only called you a few minutes—” She stopped speaking. Her mouth remained opened as her eyes widened.
Standing before her in the bright light, dressed in a dark gray suit, pale blue shirt, and gray paisley-print tie, looking like he’d just stepped out of the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine, was Forrest MacAllister.
* * *
“Andrea?” Deedee said. “We’ve been momentarily saved by a pizza. Jillian was not going for The Project idea, no way, no how. Then the pizza she ordered was delivered and she had to answer the door. I got her to promise to think about Forrest being The Project.
“Now we wait and see what happens, and keep each other posted if we hear anything. I swear, when we decided that Jillian and Forrest would be perfect for each other, I had no idea that Cupids had to work so hard. This is exhausting. But victory shall be ours! Won’t it?”
Three
Forrest MacAllister, Jillian mentally repeated incredulously, was standing in her doorway. Forrest, who had been smiling, but who was now frowning and appearing rather confused as his gaze swept over her attire.
Jillian blinked, cleared her throat, and was unable to hide an expression every bit as confused as his.
“Forrest?” she said. “I thought you were the pizza.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I’m not a pizza. I’m a man. The one you have a dinner date with.”
“I do?”
He nodded. “You do. May I come in?”
“Yes, I think you’d better,” she said, stepping back.
Gracious but he was gorgeous. She had a funny little flutter in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t chalk up to hunger. He smelled wonderful, too. His after-shave had a woodsy, very masculine aroma.
As she closed the door, Forrest turned to look at her.
Cute as a button, he thought. Jillian’s sweatshirt was baggy, her jeans as old as dirt, and the socks were weird. But she was femininity in spades, causing his heart to increase its tempo.
“I think we’ve had a communication problem, or something,” Jillian said.
“Actually, I was afraid this might happen,” he said. “I tried to call you today to confirm our date, but you have an unlisted number.”
He could have asked Andrea or Deedee for Jillian’s number, he knew, but he wasn’t ready to tell either of them that he was taking her out. The cackling glee he would no doubt have been subjected to was something a guy had to gear up for.
“When you agreed to go out with me,” he went on, “I wondered if you’d remember.”
Jillian splayed one hand on her chest. “I agreed to a dinner date for tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am, you did. We were standing right here in your entry hall last night when we made the plans for me to pick you up at seven-thirty.”
“Oh, Forrest, I’m so sorry. I don’t remember. I knew there was something niggling at me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. This is embarrassing, and I sincerely apologize.”
“Hey,” he said, smiling, “don’t worry about it. You were so exhausted that I wasn’t certain at the time that you were really tuned in to what we were saying. How about a rain check?”
“Well, I—” she started, then gasped as the doorbell rang again. “Pizza.”
She spun around and opened the door. A few minutes later she closed it, and stood holding an enormous, square flat box.
“Mmm,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Doesn’t that smell delicious?”
“That has got to be the biggest pizza box I’ve ever seen.”
“Isn’t it great? It’s a Super Duper Pizza Supreme Deluxe Extraordinaire.”
Forrest laughed. “That’s quite a title.”
“Forrest, listen. I feel so badly about not remembering our date. Why don’t you stay and share this pizza with me? There’s enough here for a regiment of marines. You could take off your jacket and tie, be more comfortable, and we’ll have a pizza party.”
“Sold.”
“Good,” she said, matching his smile. “I’m glad.”
She really was very glad that Forrest had agreed to stay, Jillian mused, as she walked past him into the living room. She hadn’t realized that the evening ahead had been looming before her as a series of long, exasperating hours spent attempting to come up with a brilliant idea for The Project.
Oh, dear...The Project, now also known as an Angels and Elves assignment, or mission, or whatever. Forrest MacAllister as The Project? Zero in on his problem of working far too much, get him to relax, have fun? That was nuts, it really was. Wasn’t it? She’d promised Deedee that she’d think about the absurd idea, and she’d keep her word. Later.
But now? Forrest was there. She felt suddenly lighthearted and cheerful. Her gloomy mood had completely disappeared. Forrest had been so understanding about her forgetting their date, and he was now going to take part in an impromptu pizza party, despite the fact that he was dressed to the nines.
She was certainly going to erase from her memory bank her first impression of him as being a skulking miscreant. Forrest MacAllister was a very nice man.
Forrest MacAllister was also so drop-dead gorgeous, he was enough to make a woman weep.
“I’ll get a tablecloth and spread it on the floor in front of the fireplace,” Jillian said. “That will be more fun than eating in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”
Forrest pulled off his tie as he watched Jillian leave the room.
A pizza picnic, he thought. Jillian Jones-Jenkins was really something. When he’d first seen her at Books and Books, she’d appeared every bit the professional career woman. Who would have guessed that she was the type to wear polka-dot socks and eat pizza while sitting on the floor?
An intriguing woman was Lady Jillian, with many layers to be discovered, like unwrapping a Christmas present. He’d been looking forward to taking her to a classy restaurant, but the evening ahead definitely held much more appeal. Definitely.
Forrest put his tie in his pocket, removed his jacket and set it on a chair, then slipped off his shoes. He rolled the cuffs of his shirt up a bit, and undid the two top buttons.
He was ready for a pizza picnic, and for whatever other delights the evening produced.
Jillian returned with a blue-plaid vinyl tablecloth, which Forrest helped spread out on the floor in front of the fire. She brought in glasses of soda and some napkins, then placed the pizza box in the center of the cloth.
Sitting Indian-style next to each other, their backs against the sofa, they peered into the box when Jillian lifted the lid.
“Holy smoke,” Forrest said, laughing. “I hope there isn’t going to be a test later on what all that stuff is on that creation.”
“It’s an exquisite work of art,” Jillian said. “Dig in, Forrest.”
They ate two slices each, with appreciative “mmms,” then slowed a bit on the third.
How strange, Jillian thought, as she took a sip of soda. There was a comfortable, rather peaceful feeling settling over her as she sat on the floor next to Forrest. It felt right somehow to have him there, sharing her pizza party.
Yet, at the same time, she was acutely aware of Forrest’s masculinity a
nd how it caused her to silently rejoice in her own femininity. Frissons of heat coursed deep within her, awakening her slumbering womanliness. The remembrance of Forrest’s quick kiss of the night before was becoming more vivid with each passing moment.
How was it possible, she wondered, to be experiencing such opposite emotions at the same time?
“Jillian,” Forrest said, bringing her from her confused thoughts, “I read Midnight Embrace last night, and I wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” she said, then took another nibble of pizza.
“I obviously had the wrong impression of what romance novels actually are. When I gave the book to Andrea today, I apologized for having hassled her for years about her choice of reading material.”
“That’s nice. I hope you aren’t missing having anchovies on this pizza. I can’t abide those yucky little fish.”
“What? Oh, no. I don’t like them, either. Anyway, your novel was great. I stayed up late to finish it, because I wanted to find out how the hero and heroine were going to solve their problems. It seemed hopeless there for a while, but you really did a fantastic job of putting the pieces of the puzzle together.”
“Thank you. Do you have enough soda?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Do you do your own research? You sure covered the details of clothes, furnishings, food, social graces, the whole nine yards of that era. Do you hire someone to gather that information for you?”
“No, I do my own research. I have an extensive library that encompasses different times in history. Oh-h-h, I’m stuffed. Four slices of pizza is definitely my limit.”
“I’ve had plenty, too. It was delicious, and I thank you for inviting me to share it with you. Was Midnight Embrace your choice, or does your editor decide on the title?”
“I titled it Midnight Embrace. Sometimes they change what I’ve chosen for reasons that make absolutely no sense to me.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Nope, not anymore. I don’t care if the readers remember the title. I want my story, my characters, to stay in their minds. I’ll go put the rest of this pizza in the refrigerator.”
“Okay.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ll fold up the tablecloth.”
As Jillian busied herself returning things to the kitchen, Forrest tended to the cloth.
Interesting, he mused. He was getting the distinct impression that Jillian didn’t want to talk about her work. He’d assumed that someone with her level of talent would enjoy discussing writing with anyone who showed a flicker of interest. But not Jillian Jones-Jenkins.
He’d dated women who were so involved in their careers they couldn’t be bothered to chat about the weather, or anything else, for that matter. Jillian’s attitude had caught him off guard, but it was very refreshing.
The confusing part was that Andrea and Deedee were concerned that Jillian was too focused on her work. If that was true, then why didn’t she want to discuss it? Maybe writers had eccentric superstitions or something, that dictated that they save their mental energies for the actual creative process, and not waste any by talking about their craft. Yes? No? He really didn’t know.
Jillian came back into the room, scooped up the tablecloth, then headed for the kitchen again.
Forrest was fascinated by the fact that she was a writer, she mused. Most people she met for the first time found her career intriguing. She usually enjoyed answering all their questions—even while on vacation—as it was easy to talk about something she loved so dearly.
Tonight, however, she needed to direct the conversation to center on Forrest. If, and that was a very big if, she decided to make Forrest The Project, she had to know more about him, what made him tick, determine why he worked harder than was necessary.
Jillian returned to the living room and sat down next to Forrest again. At the same moment, they both shifted slightly to be able to look directly at each other. Their eyes met, and neither spoke.
Lord, Forrest thought, Jillian’s eyes were incredible. He’d never seen eyes that gray, eyes that reminded him of a London fog, of a soft, fuzzy kitten. Would they change color when she was consumed with desire, when passion reigned? He wanted to know. He wanted to make love with Jillian Jones-Jenkins.
Jillian tore her gaze from Forrest’s and picked an imaginary thread from her sweatshirt.
How much time had passed since she’d looked directly into Forrest’s chocolate-brown eyes? She honestly didn’t know. She’d been pinned in place, with the sudden rapid tempo of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Forrest MacAllister was dangerous because he was exciting, evoking undeniable desire within her, and causing her mind to travel down a road that she had no intention of taking.
“So,” she said, a tad too loudly. She looked at Forrest’s chin. “Andrea has told me that you’re a family of architects. She said your father started the firm years ago on a shoestring and a dream, with your mother as his secretary. Now you’re all involved in the company.”
“Yep, we’re MacAllister Architects, Incorporated. Our folks are retired now, and are having a fabulous time traveling here, there and everywhere. My brother Ryan isn’t an architect. He’s a police officer, a very dedicated cop.”
“I don’t remember who is the oldest brother.”
“Michael. He’s married and has a son. Great kid. Michael likes the challenge of taking on remodeling projects. He’s done a lot of plans for restoration work, and is beginning to have more jobs than he can handle. Ryan is next in line as far as age. He got married about three months ago. Andrea is the baby of the family.”
“Did you hire someone to take Andrea’s place now that she’s been ordered to stay in bed?”
Forrest nodded. “Andrea hired a sharp gal. You see, not only is Andrea an architect, she also has a bachelor’s degree in landscape architecture. Most people don’t realize that landscaping can be that complicated, so as to require a college degree.
“Because of Andrea, we’re a full-service firm. In other words, we can design a home and the landscaping to enhance it, if the client wishes. We’re really proud of Andrea. And we miss her now that she’s concentrating on her family.”
Jillian smiled and met Forrest’s gaze again. “It’s very obvious that you’re all very close. That’s nice, really lovely.”
“It’s always been that way.” He shrugged. “It can be a pain in the rear, because family members don’t hesitate to give their opinion on what you’re doing, whether you’ve asked for it or not. But the majority of the time it’s good to know they’re all there.”
“It sounds wonderful. I’m an only child, who grew up wishing I had brothers and sisters, and parents who— Well, brothers and sisters.”
Parents who what? Forrest wondered. What had Jillian been about to say?
“I think I have everyone in your family straight now,” she said.
It was nitty-gritty, fact-finding time. She’d become very adept over the years at phrasing her questions in a manner that provided her with the information she wanted to know. She was about to do her thing, just in case she decided to make Forrest The Project, which she probably wouldn’t, but...well, just in case.
“That leaves you,” she said, smiling. “You’re what? About thirty?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I had my thirtieth birthday a few months ago. From what everyone said, I was expecting a black depression to settle over me.” She shrugged. “It didn’t happen.”
“Well, I guess some people feel if you’re not married by thirty, you’re doomed.”
“I was married at twenty, divorced at twenty-two. Now that was a doomed relationship.”
“What happened?”
“It’s old news,” she said, waving one hand breezily in the air. “It’s not worth talking about. We’re discussing you. You’re the only one in your family who isn’t married.” She laughed. “If you are married, I’m going to be very peeved that you had the nerve to eat my pizza.”
> Forrest raised one hand in the air and placed the other over his heart.
“I am not,” he said, with a mock-serious expression on his face, “nor have I ever been, married, ma’am.”
“Yes, I know. I was only kidding. Andrea mentioned that you weren’t married. But—” she leaned slightly toward him “—why not?”
“I haven’t found the right woman.” Heaven knew, he’d been looking, but wherever she was hiding, she was doing a hell of a good job of it. “It’s as simple as that.”
Bingo, Jillian thought. Men had no imagination whatsoever. They should hold a mass meeting and come up with fresh material. She’d heard that line countless times. It was the pat answer—a cliché due to overuse—and easily understood by single women across the country: Forrest was not interested in marriage.
Yep, she thought, the “I haven’t found the right woman” guys were varying degrees of playboys. No serious commitments for that bunch. No, sir.
“I imagine,” she said, adopting a casual tone of voice, “that your house and the landscaping must look like something out of a magazine, considering what you, Andrea and Michael do for a living.”
“I don’t have a house,” he said. He’d once believed that he would. Oh, yeah, a big, sprawling place that would echo with children’s laughter. There would be a huge backyard to play in, with plenty of room for kids and a dog. Maybe a cat, too. “I live in a high-rise apartment.”
Ah-ha, Jillian thought. Apartment, not a house. Forrest wanted no part of mowing the lawn, fixing drippy faucets, lugging trash cans to the curb and back. There wasn’t a domestic bone in his body.
She looked at her socks, wiggling her toes and watching the polka dots dance a jig.
“I was thinking about Andrea and John,” she said. “Twins. Your entire family must be excited. Twins are so cute.”
Forrest laughed. “Twins are an overwhelming thought.” Double the joy, as well as the work. “Two of everything, that’s what Andrea and John are getting into. Whew.”
Angels And Elves (The Baby Bet #1) Page 4
