Nocturne (5 page)

“This isn’t
Pride and Prejudice
. You can call me Nicole.”

“Nicole, then. Choose away.”

“It’s not going to be so easy to choose.”

“That’s all right. It’s a big library. Take your time.”

The ice wall he’d built around himself was visibly thawing. Nicole wasn’t quite prepared for this new, relaxed attitude, but she was grateful for it. “Are you sure? I know you’re busy.”

“For a true literary enthusiast, I’m happy to take a break.”

Nicole continued her study of the books on the shelves. “
David Copperfield!
May I?”

Michael nodded slowly. “Just be careful with it.”

Nicole removed the book from the shelf, marveling at the dark green half leather binding with its gilt-embossed title and the marbled board covers and edges. It looked very old,

To Malcolm Taylor,
With many thanks,
Charles Dickens

Nicole stared, hardly able to believe her eyes. “Is this really Charles Dickens’ signature?”

“It is.”

On the facing page, Nicole saw the imprint announcing the publication date:

London: Bradbury & Evans, 11, Bouverie Street. 1850.

She knew enough about Dickens to guess what that meant. “This is a first edition, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

Nicole gingerly shut the book and carefully returned it to its place. “You have a signed first edition of
David Copperfield
,” she said in wonder, “and you just keep it sitting on a bookshelf? Why don’t you keep it in a glass case?”

“I don’t believe in putting the things I value behind glass. It belongs on a shelf where it can be read and enjoyed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t dare read something so valuable, rare, and precious. Do you have any other first editions in here that I might find accidentally?”

“A few. Most of them are in that book case.”

“Would you show me?”

He strode over and let her examine another extraordinary book:
The Old Curiosity Shop
, signed by Charles Dickens to the same Malcolm Taylor. He even had an early, unsigned edition of
Ivanhoe
with the byline
Author of Waverley
, which he said was even more rare.

“Of course this one couldn’t be signed,” Michael said.

“Why not?”

“Because Sir Walter Scott was so mindful of his reputation as a poet, he published all his books anonymously. A facade he continued even when it became clear that there’d be no harm in coming out into the open.”

“Interesting.” Nicole studied the old book, enthralled. “What a beautiful edition. I read
Ivanhoe
the first time when I was twelve. I loved it so much, I wished it were true—especially the parts about Robin Hood.”

“Even legend is founded in a kernel of truth. Robin Hood has been around since medieval times in ballads and such, so perhaps he did exist. Did you know that
Ivanhoe
is the precursor of the modern Robin Hood story?”

“In what way?”

“The character Scott gave to Robin Hood in
Ivanhoe
established everything we know and love today about that cheery, noble outlaw and his band of merry men. And it’s the first time Robin was depicted as a contemporary of Richard I and given ‘Locksley’ as his title.”

“I didn’t realize that. What an impact Sir Walter Scott had on literature and film!” They exchanged a smile, warmed by this shared interest and connection. “Where did you get such rare books?”

“Auctions,” he replied smoothly. “You can find anything if you’re willing to pay for it.”

And if you have the money
, Nicole thought. Michael was standing barely a foot away from her now and his nearness caused her heart rate to quicken again. “Well, they’re incredible. Thank you for showing them to me.” She handed him back
Ivanhoe
, careful not to let her fingers come into contact with his, lest she experience a repeat of his earlier, adverse response. “I’ll pick out something published a little more recently.”

As Michael replaced the book on the shelf, she moved on to the next case. It was full of books and biographies that seemed to cover the gamut of world history, from ancient Greece up through the present day. There was an especially large concentration of works on Regency and Victorian England and the American Civil War. “So you’re also a history buff. Do you have any . . . Oh! Here it is.”

Two other bookcases were filled from top to bottom with historical fiction. To Nicole’s surprise, five entire shelves were devoted to the works of Patrick Spencer, the world-famous writer who’d penned fifteen historical novels, every one a
New York Times
bestseller, and three of which had been made into films.

“I see you like Patrick Spencer. He’s one of my favorite authors, too.”

“Is he?” Michael returned with interest.

“Yes. I love his Dr. Barclay series. I just finished the latest one a few minutes ago.” She indicated the book she’d brought with her, now lying on the coffee table, then turned back to run her fingers over the familiar spines of the books on the shelves. “And the Dr. Robinson series—it’s fascinating and so well researched, don’t you think?”

He didn’t answer, instead asking quietly, “What do you like best about his work?”

“Well, I love the way he weaves actual historical events into his story lines. Like the books about the Civil War—I always learn something and it brings the period to life for me. And the ones that take place in that little country village in Victorian England—he writes with such exquisite period detail and evocative language, I always feel like I’m being transported back in time.”

“Do you like the characters?”

“I love them. They’re all so memorable and true to life. Even though they lived hundreds of years ago, their problems are still relatable—and he always includes such a haunting love story. Once I start reading one of his books I can never put it down, and at some point I always end up in tears.”

Although Michael didn’t respond, Nicole noticed a strange glint in his eyes and suddenly felt self-conscious. She sighed. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry, I get like this when I talk about Spencer’s books. I can’t help myself. I’ve read every novel he’s ever written, some of them three times.” She glanced back at the shelves. “But you must feel the same way. I mean, look at this. You’re even more of a die-hard fan than I am! You have every single one of his books, in hardcover
and
paperback! And multiple copies of some.”

For some reason Michael looked peculiarly uncomfortable.

Studying the books in the case more carefully, Nicole realized that he didn’t just have Patrick Spencer’s entire collection in English; he had many dozens of foreign editions as well, which she’d never seen before. “You must have a copy of every foreign language title Spencer ever published. Where’d you get all these?”

Michael seemed to be struggling to hold back a smile. “I . . . collect them.”

Nicole pulled out one volume, which—judging by the artwork on the cover—clearly was from the Dr. Robinson series, but the alphabet was foreign to her. “Is this Russian?”

“Bulgarian.”

“Wow. You put my collection to shame.”

The look on his face was such an odd mixture of guarded pleasure and unease that Nicole didn’t know what to make of it. What was going on? Why couldn’t he look her in the eye?

And then it hit her.

Everyone knew that Patrick Spencer was the pseudonym for an author who was not only rich and famous but famously reclusive. He so fiercely protected his privacy that he never revealed any personal information about himself, allowed no biographical details or photographs on his book jackets—ever—and he never did interviews. Some journalists thought he might be English, while others were certain he was American. No one had a clue where he lived, and no one knew his real name.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Nicole said softly, staring at him. “You’re Patrick Spencer.”

CHAPTER 6

H
E KNEW THERE WAS NO POINT in denying it. No matter how many excuses he dreamed up, she’d probably see through them. Well, he thought, maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it would help divert her attention, and explain away some of the other . . . oddities . . . so that she wouldn’t suspect his darker secret.

It was funny, though. Jhania had been cleaning this room every week for ten years, and she’d never suspected a thing. Nicole Whitcomb stepped in and figured it out inside of fifteen minutes. She wasn’t just a beautiful woman—she was smart, well-read, and very perceptive.

“You got me,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “But since you know my work so well, I assume you also know that my personal life is something I prefer to keep confidential.”

“Yes.”

She was looking at him like a deer in headlights, stunned amazement wrapped up with a dose of awe. It was discomfiting, yet at the same time it was somehow . . .
gratifying
. In all the years he’d been writing and selling books, he’d only spoken to an actual fan a couple of times: once, in casual conversation when he’d dared to enter a bookstore where his novels were on sale; the other when he saw a nurse reading one of his books at the clinic. They hadn’t known who he was, of course, but it had been interesting to hear their views on his work nevertheless.

He got his feedback solely through the Internet. There were various fan sites, and by now many thousands of reviews in the media and blogs across the globe. It was rewarding to know that people enjoyed what he wrote. It made all the effort worthwhile, made him feel like he was participating in the world again, making some sort of contribution. The comments about his historical accuracy always amused him. If anyone could write about the past with authentic detail, it was him. He had little need for history books, except as a refresher and to verify facts; most of it was there in his memory, ripe for the picking.

“I hope I can count on your discretion?” he said quietly.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I won’t breathe a word. But . . . why?”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are? I thought most authors enjoyed their fame.”

“I can’t speak for most authors. I can only speak for myself. My personal life is my own. My readers enjoy the fictitious

Nicole nodded and flicked her eyes away, biting her lip as if still a little in awe of him. “I get it now. I feel terrible. No wonder you don’t want me here.”

He cringed at the bluntness of her statement. “I never said I didn’t want you here,” he said quickly.

She darted him a look that said:
please, don’t insult my intelligence
. “I don’t blame you,” she added softly. “You must see me as a threat to the way of life you’ve built up for yourself.”

Well, that was certainly true, for more reasons than one. Still, no matter how noble his intentions—he’d tried to keep her at arm’s length for her own good—he didn’t want to come off as a jerk. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel . . . unwelcome. As I said before, I’m just not accustomed to having visitors.”

“I understand. It’s a relief, actually, to learn the truth. I thought it was something about me. Look: I don’t want to interrupt your work anymore than I already have. You were writing when I first walked in, weren’t you?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m in between books at the moment. I was just working up some ideas of what to write next.”

“Oh. Still, I should get out of your hair.” She turned back to the bookcase and grabbed one of his Civil War novels,
The Wind of Dawn
. “I’ll read this one again, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine, but there’s no reason for you to rush off.” The statement escaped his lips before he could stop it. But now that he’d said it, Michael realized that he really didn’t want her to go.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” she insisted.

“You aren’t disturbing me. I don’t mind taking a break. And to be honest . . . I’ve enjoyed talking to you. And I promise it’s not just because you appreciate my work.”

She laughed. “Really?”

Really
, he thought. It had been so long since he’d had a meaningful, face-to-face conversation with someone—and he liked her far more than he’d expected to. He also liked the sound of her laugh, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her green eyes sparkled when she smiled. If only he couldn’t hear her pounding heart and pulsing blood . . .

But he’d managed to retain control thus far, hadn’t he? Surely he could indulge himself a little while longer, without putting her in jeopardy?

“Please stay.”

I
T WAS INCREDIBLE TO THINK that she was actually in the same room as the mystery man who had all the literary world guessing. Nicole had tried to imagine who Patrick Spencer was, where he lived, and what he was like, hundreds of times. She had always revered his mind and talent. Now, as she sat down on the couch watching him stoke the fire in the hearth, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

The firelight threw long shadows against the walls and played against his handsome face, bathing his skin in a warm glow and revealing the red highlights in his light brown hair. His jeans hugged his long legs, and his shirt pulled tight across the muscles of his hard, lean back. He was truly a beautiful man, and he exuded an energy, sophistication, and intelligence that made him seem different from any man she’d ever met.

Of course he’s different
, Nicole reminded herself silently, her heart dancing an erratic rhythm.
For God’s sake, he’s Patrick Spencer. Get a grip!

Nicole tore her gaze away, struggling to censor her thoughts and to rise above the sudden shyness that had pervaded her ever since she’d learned who he was. It was only a fluke that had brought her here. This famous and accomplished man would never be interested in someone like her—except, perhaps, as a diversion on a snowy evening—and he’d be only too glad to see her go.

“What should I call you?” Nicole asked. “Patrick or Michael?”

“Michael, please. Patrick is a pen name. I doubt I’d answer to it if you called.”

“Okay.” She glanced at him, willing her heart to return to its natural pace. “You’re very different from what I expected.”

He sat down in the easy chair opposite her. “In what way?”

“I don’t know. Your writing . . . it’s so brilliant and self-assured, I think . . . well, I imagined you’d be a much older man.”

“Ah.” For some reason a smile flitted across his face. He didn’t say anything else, so she went on:

“Your first book is just as wonderful as your last one. The critics all think you must have written under a different name for years, long before becoming Patrick Spencer. But now I know that’s impossible. Your first novel came out eighteen years ago, right?”

“Yes.”

“If you moved here twenty years ago when you were nineteen—that means you would’ve been what—twenty-one when your first book was published?”

He gave her a silent, almost imperceptible nod.

“You couldn’t possibly have written much before then.”

He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully before he answered. “I guess I just got lucky with that first book. My publisher did a great job promoting it, and it found an audience.”

“It wasn’t only luck. I’m sure you worked very hard, and you have talent.”

He shrugged modestly. “I leave that judgment to the readers and critics. Anyway, the publisher asked for another book after that, and . . .” He gestured toward the picture windows that overlooked the blustery night sky. “This is the ideal setting for a writer to work. So I just kept writing.”

“It
is
beautiful up here. And I imagine it’s very quiet, when the wind isn’t howling.”

They talked on for a while, with the storm raging outside and the wind whistling through the eaves. Nicole was interested in what inspired his novels, which he rather whimsically explained came from a love of history and a desire to travel through time.

Michael seemed fascinated to hear what Nicole thought about his books, what she liked and disliked, which books were her favorites and why, and which characters she liked best or least.

“I’ll never forget that scene in
The Wind of Dawn
, when Dr. Robinson is single-handedly taking care of all those wounded soldiers in the Union field hospital,” Nicole enthused. “The way he fought back against that Confederate raiding party, grabbing a gun and killing those Rebs—that scene haunted me

Michael looked at her, his mouth fixed in a tight line. “
Was
he a hero?”

“Yes! He saved all those men.”

“But he murdered half a dozen others.”

“In wartime, killing isn’t murder.”

“Isn’t it?”

The grim look on his face led Nicole to realize she’d unintentionally touched a nerve. “Not when it’s done in self-defense or to hold off an enemy attack. But I empathize with your character’s point of view. He was a doctor, dedicated to saving lives. To take any life at all was painful to him.”

“I’m glad you understood that about him.” He stood up and stoked the fire in the hearth again. “But enough about my books and about me. Let’s talk about you. You said you’re from San Jose, California?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s where you have your garden plot?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Have you lived there all your life?”

“Not yet.”

He laughed. It was the first time Nicole had heard him laugh. It was a deep, hearty sound, and the smile that accompanied it lit up his entire face.

“I grew up in San Jose. I went to college in Seattle and then . . .” Nicole caught herself. “I came home a couple of years ago.”

“Home?” He sat down across from her again.

“My mother still lives there in the house where I grew up. I live on my own.”

“Except for your cat.”

Nicole was surprised and flattered that he’d remembered such a tiny detail she’d only mentioned once in passing. “Except for my cat. She’s a mottled and striped black, gray, and golden tan tabby. She adopted me—strolled into my apartment one day when I was picking up the newspaper, and never left.”

“What’s her name?”

“Audrey Catburn.”

That elicited a wide grin. “As in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
?”

“Exactly.” Nicole couldn’t help but smile in return. “She struck me as the feline equivalent of an elegant brunette. She’s slightly Rubenesque and has the whole feminine/princess thing going. The underside of her paws and her arms all the way up to her elbows are black, like long evening gloves. She comes when I call her, is very chatty, loves people, is part dog I think, and hates cats. A few months ago, she brought me a gift—a live mouse that she proudly dropped on the living room floor at my feet. I spent the next three hours trying to flush it out the front door with a broom.”

Michael laughed again, then rested his chin on his hand as he regarded her. “Why did you move back to San Jose? Is . . . that where your boyfriend lives?”

He seemed to be striving for a tone of offhand casualness, but Nicole sensed that he had a greater personal interest in her answer than he wished to convey. The idea threw her thoughts into temporary disarray. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“How is that possible? I would have thought you’d be involved with someone.”

“I
was
involved with someone. I had a long relationship with a really great guy, but we broke up a few years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say it got to the point where it didn’t feel right anymore. What about you? You live alone. Has it always been that way?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

Something changed in his eyes. For the briefest of instants, an almost haunted look pervaded them; then he blinked and the look vanished. The look spoke of such profound pain that Nicole’s heart went out to him, and she wished she hadn’t asked the question.