As I stared at the thing, I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. The book wasn't new. Far from it. In fact, it looked exactly like mine, right down to the original cover and all of those tell-tale creases along the spine.
My stomach sank. Oh, no.
With growing mortification, I recalled that tense scene in the elevator, along with our argument after the Q&A. That book he'd been carrying – it hadn't been mine.
And this meant what, exactly? That Jack hadn't seen Darbie again?
Shit.
No wonder he'd been so angry. Forget killing her, or even the other thing. The way it looked now, he hadn't seen her at all.
I might've been thrilled at the discovery, if only I didn't feel like throwing up. Or strangling someone, maybe even myself.
And now Darbie was saying in mock sympathy. "Oh no. Someone looks unhappy."
Yes. Because I was.
I was very unhappy, not because of their little show, but because I'd made an ass of myself, repeatedly, over that stupid book. And now, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
Not from the girls.
From Jack.
I gave Darby an annoyed look. "I don't get it," I said. "Why would you even want that book, anyway?"
With feigned innocence, she replied, "What do you mean?"
"It's not even signed to you. So why would you want it?"
She smiled. "Better me than you. And besides, I can write in my own name later on."
Seriously?
And yet, in some twisted way, I could actually see it. There was just one detail missing. With a bitter scoff, I said, "And the two e's – where do they go anyway?"
She frowned. "What e's?"
"The ones in your name." Dumb-ass.
She smirked. "That's none of your business." And with that, she tossed the paperback to her friend, who with a smirk of her own, opened it up to the title page.
But soon her smirk faded. She turned a few more pages before looking up in apparent confusion.
Darbie asked, "What's wrong?"
With a little frown, the brunette replied, "The signature. It's gone."
Darbie gave a snort of disbelief. "Oh, stop it. It is not." Darbie reached over, yanked the book out of her friend's grip, and began leafing through the pages. Soon she was frowning, too.
From this angle, I couldn’t see the book's interior, but I could see their confusion as plain as day.
The brunette sidled closer to Darbie and said, "Do you think he used disappearing ink or something?"
In unison, they both looked to me.
I shook my head. "Don't ask me. I have no idea."
And I didn't.
But boy, did I ever want to find out.
Chapter 34
Becka
As we headed to the airport, I gave Jack yet another sideways glance. He was engrossed in his cell phone, saying nothing as the limo driver navigated the busy morning traffic.
Recalling my vow to no longer pester him with questions, I hadn't asked about the book – although heaven knows I wanted to.
Earlier at the hotel, by the time Jack had arrived in the lobby, the two girls had already stomped off, looking confused and irritated.
I could definitely relate.
I still had no idea why the paperback in Darbie's possession no longer contained Jack's signature. Recalling the brunette's theory, I almost rolled my eyes. Disappearing ink? Please. I wasn't buying that for a minute.
No. Obviously the book had been switched out for another copy.
But when?
During the actual signing?
No. I'd been there. I surely would've seen. Plus, Darbie would've noticed that right away.
This led to my next theory. Maybe Jack had switched out the books sometime afterward. But how?
And then, there was the dumbest theory of all. Maybe Darbie and her friend had gotten a second paperback and were just messing with me.
But that wasn't believable either. For one thing, the book's cover was several years outdated, which meant that an identical book wouldn't be easy to find – not unless they robbed a library or found a copy in some used book store.
On top of that, I'd seen their reactions to the unsigned book. They'd been just as surprised as I was.
This meant it was definitely Jack's doing.
As these thoughts churned in my brain, I gave Jack yet another glance, only to freeze in mid-motion when I realized that he was no longer looking at his phone.
He was looking at me.
It wasn't just a glance either. He was giving me one of those penetrating looks, like he was trying to puzzle something out.
Now that was hilarious. If anyone needed to solve a mystery, it was me.
Maybe the script called for me to glance away, embarrassed that I'd dared to look in his direction. But forget that. If he looked, I could look, too.
I gave him a stiff smile and kept on looking, staring straight into his eyes as he stared into mine.
It felt like a game or a challenge. And since he'd started it, I was determined to finish it.
I kept on looking. And so did he.
But then something happened.
His gaze changed, morphing from curiosity to interest. And then, for the briefest instant, he looked almost fascinated.
With me?
Now that was an eye-roller for sure.
Still, I felt my cheeks grow warm and my mouth go dry. If this were a movie, we might inexplicably fall into each other's arms and lock lips, like we'd been swept away in the moment.
But this wasn't a movie.
And he was my boss, not my boyfriend. Plus, Jack Ward wasn't the type to be swept away by anything. I knew that just as surely as I knew that he was the most fascinating person I'd ever met.
From reading his books, I had some decent guesses on the way he thought. He valued justice over mercy, family over strangers, and a glorious death over a lifetime of cowardice.
Maybe that's why I enjoyed his books so much, just like I enjoyed looking at him now. His hair was blond and thick. His jaw was square in the classic style. His lips were full, and his eyes were so blue, I was swimming in them.
Or maybe I was drowning, because soon I had to remind myself to breathe at all.
What was wrong with me, anyway?
What had started as a game was feeling like something else entirely. What, I didn't even know.
I heard myself say, "You're not gonna win, you know."
His gaze didn't waver. "Win what?"
"The staring contest." I gave him a sunny smile. "I can do this all day."
And I could. In truth, it would be stupidly easy, considering how attractive he was. It was no punishment to stare at him, that's for sure.
At my bold claim, his lips curved into the hint of a smile. "No you can't."
Hah! That's what he thought. Not bothering to hide my confidence, I replied. "Oh yeah? Why not?"
"Because we're here."
"What?" I looked around, but had no idea what he meant. All I saw was traffic and plenty of it. And it's not like the limo was slowing down. If anything, it was speeding up.
I turned back to Jack and asked, "What do you mean?"
He leaned back in his seat. "I win."
My jaw dropped. "What?"
Looking way too satisfied, he said, "You looked away first."
"But that's cheating!" I protested.
"Wrong," he said. "It's strategy."
"Oh yeah?" I felt my gaze narrow. "Well, I'll remember that the next time."
He smiled. "Good."
No. It wasn't good. It was terrible, because his smile sent a swarm of butterflies straight to my stomach.
Even worse, they refused to fly away, even on his private jet, when Jack turned the tables by asking some questions of his own.
Chapter 35
Jack
There's a saying, No good deed goes unpunished.
This trip was proof enough.
I'd begun with the noble
intention of looking out for Flynn's future sister. But now? Let's just say, I was feeling less noble every time I saw her.
And, as far as my intentions, they were getting murkier by the minute.
In the limo, I'd wanted to kiss her. Hell, I'd wanted to do more than kiss her. She made me smile.
And I didn't like it.
Smiles led to attachment, which led to complications. And forget the fact that she was related to Flynn in a roundabout way.
Whether she realized it or not, I'd smiled more with her than I had with anyone over the last few years. Even so, I'd been working hard not to show it, if only to keep her at a distance.
It wasn't working.
This meant it was time to take a different approach.
We were fifteen minutes into the flight, and she'd surprised the hell out of me by not asking about Darbie's unsigned book.
Oh yeah, I'd caught that scene in the lobby, when Darbie and What's-her-name had been waving that book in Becka's face.
I hadn't liked it.
And I'd liked it even less when I realized what would happen afterward. I'd be hit with an avalanche of questions from Becka.
But that didn't happen.
Instead, she'd kept quiet, even while the questions played across her face. She hadn't asked them, but she had been thinking them.
At the condo, I hadn't pegged her as a thinker. But now, the more time I spent with her, the more I realized that her wheels were always turning – probing, speculating, watching.
She was different. And she'd captured my interest.
Still, she saw far more than she should. It was dangerous – just like my thoughts in the limo, when I'd been looking into her eyes and liking what I saw.
As far as questions, it was time to turn the tables. I looked to her and said, "So, an English lit degree, huh?"
She jumped in her seat, as if she were surprised that I'd spoken at all. With a trembling laugh, she replied, "Who, me?"
The jet seated ten, but there was just the two of us, sitting across from each other in the passenger area.
I made a show of looking around. "You see anyone else?"
She pointed toward the front of the plane. "The pilots?"
I didn't turn to look. "No."
"It was a joke," she said.
"Yeah. I got it."
She frowned. "Well, it couldn’t have been too good if you didn't laugh."
I leaned back in my seat. "I'm laughing on the inside."
"Oh please," she said. "You are not."
She was right. I wasn't. The purpose of this conversation wasn't to yuck it up. It was to get Becka out of my system, verbally, that is.
The plan was to get her talking. The truth was, conversation was always a deal-breaker when it came to getting serious. Hell, an hour's worth of conversation with Imogen had been more than enough for me to know that we'd be going nowhere fast.
To Becka, I repeated the gist of my question. "So why English lit?"
She gave me an odd look. "Are you asking for real?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't I?"
"Well…" She hesitated. "I guess because you haven't been terribly chatty, so I'm wondering what's up."
I had to give her credit. She was good at cutting to the chase.
I liked that. Not a good sign.
I replied, "Hey, it's a two-hour flight."
"So?"
"So, you want to sit in silence?"
She gave it some thought. "I don't mind silence."
Huh. Me neither.
Still, it didn't fit with what I'd seen so far. "You seem talkative enough."
"Well maybe I'm a nervous talker."
"Meaning?"
She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Well, when I get nervous, I ramble sometimes. But normally, I'm not a huge talker, unless I know someone really well." She smiled. "Like my sister."
Shit.
I was the same way.
I tried again. "You realize you never answered the question, right?"
"About why English lit?" She paused to think. "Well for starters, I like the language, especially the old stuff."
"Old stuff?"
"You know, the classics."
Again – me, too.
I asked, "Like what?"
"Almost anything," she said. "I like the way they talked back then. It was so beautiful."
"It wasn't all beautiful," I said.
"Yeah. But even the ugliness was beautiful in its own way. Like take 'Macbeth.' It was so ghastly, but the language was so profound." She leaned forward. "And the brutality of it all. It really makes you think."
"You do realize they all die in the end, right?"
"They don't all die," she said. "And besides, I like happy stuff, too."
My lips twitched with the sudden urge to smile. "Well, that rules out my books."
"Hah!" she said. "Yours are happy."
I gave her a look. "Is that so?"
"Definitely." She grinned. "Like when Lord Brisbane was eaten by his own pigs, it was glorious."
My lips were still twitching. "Technically they weren't his pigs."
"Right," she said. "Because he stole them from that poor farmer. But they were his when they ate him." She paused, and her smile faded. "But I was kind of hoping they'd eat his wife, too."
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. "Yeah? Why the wife?"
"Oh, you know," she said. "Because she conspired with that magistrate to steal her cousin's inheritance." Becka's voice hardened. "I hate corruption, especially when it hurts regular people."
Huh. Me, too. "Like the pig farmer."
"Exactly."
I just had to ask, "And what about pigs?"
She paused. "Well, I do like bacon."
Oh yeah. Me, too.
But that was a given.
Into my silence, she said, "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think it's nice when bad people get what's coming to them."
I felt my fingers clench. Me, too.
And the way I saw it, if they didn't get it by chance, there were ways to help that process along. But this, like many things, was better left unmentioned.
I said, "So you know a lot of bad people, do you?"
"No." She hesitated. "Well, maybe just one."
Her stepfather, obviously.
I knew more of her history than she realized. Still, I asked, "Does that include your roommate?"
"Okay, make that two people."
"And Tara, the girl who rented you the place – what about her?"
"All right." She bit her lip. "Two and a half then."
"Why the half?" I asked.
"Because," she said with a laugh, "if you keep going, I'll be up to a dozen. And that's just too depressing to consider."
Funny. She didn't look depressed.
And now I was only more intrigued. "A dozen, huh? Who?"
"Nobody in particular," she said. "I'm just saying, you find bad people wherever you go." She brightened. "But good people, too. Like Anna."
I'd met Anna and couldn’t disagree.
Still, the conversation wasn't living up to my expectations. The more she talked, the more I wanted her to talk – and, the more I wanted to say in return.
The plan was backfiring, and I was just thinking of cutting my losses when she said, "How about you? Why'd you become a writer?"
"Better than working construction."
It was also better than following in my father's footsteps. He didn't create things. He destroyed them. Or stole them. But the topic of my father was strictly off-limits.
Becka said, "Oh come on. I answered your question."
"Yeah. And I answered yours, too."
"What? The construction thing?" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. That doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Because it was a total non-answer, the kind you give when you really don't want to say." She studied my face. "You do that a lot, you know."
I did know. But that was the
point. "Hey, it wasn't a lie."
"Yeah, but it wasn't the whole truth either."
When I made no reply, she said, "All right, fine. But speaking of questions, I have one that's related to my job."
"All right. Go ahead."
"It's about your last assistant," she said. "Was she supposed to come along on the tour?"
I gave it some thought and settled on the simplest answer. "No. She was fired, remember?"
"Oh, stop it," Becka said. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Let's say she hadn't been fired. Would she be here right now?"
It was a dangerous question, and I considered several answers before settling on, "If you mean, was she going to support the tour, the answer's yes."
"Oh." Something in Becka's shoulders eased. "Well, that's good." But then her gaze narrowed. "Wait a minute. How many stops?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, there are like a hundred stops on the book tour. Was she planning to attend all of them?"
I didn't like the question. Still, I wasn't going to lie. "No."
"All right. So how many?"
I didn't want to say. But she had asked, which meant she probably knew the answer already. "One."
Becka's face fell. "You mean Atlanta, the one we just finished?"
I nodded. "That's it."
"Seriously? So I'm not even needed?"
Something in my chest tightened. "That's not what I said."
"But if you were planning on a solo trip—"
"I was. But not anymore."
"Why not?"
It was a good question. And I had no good answers, or at least none I was willing to admit. But there was something I could say, and it was the honest truth. "I like the way you deal with fans."
She gave me a dubious look. "Even Darbie?"
"Forget Darbie."
"After all the drama? I'm not sure I can. Can you? I mean, Darbie and I didn't exactly hit it off."
I put on my confused face. "Derbie who?"
Becka gave me an odd look. "Don’t you mean Darbie?"
"Hell no." I shrugged. "Gotta put that extra 'e' somewhere, right?"
Becka laughed, filling the jet with an emotion that I hadn't felt in a long time – happiness. And that's when I knew, she was even more trouble than I'd thought.
This wasn't good.
Her eyes filled with mischief as she said, "And speaking of 'Derbie', I know you did something funny with that book." Her chin lifted. "But I'm not going to ask."
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