The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom (3 page)

Oh, God, he was—he was coming over here.

What if he was the one?

Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.

He's not going to hurt you here, not out in public!

Where was the security guard? Every mall had security
guards, because stuff happened. There were creeps everywhere.

Uncapping her pen, she gripped it in her right fist and lowered her hand to her lap. Smile, Lily, smile! Don't let him know you're afraid, bluff! You can do it, you're an old hand at bluff and run. Besides, even if he turned out to be her crank caller, the policewoman had told her that nine times out of ten, crank callers were harmless. Pathetic losers who couldn't interact with women except anonymously.

The last thing this man looked was harmless.

He was staring at her. Now he was moving in her direction. Years of soft living had taken its toll, because she was suddenly having trouble breathing. Surely someone was looking this way—someone would notice if he started anything? The store manager—

“Miss O'Malley? I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he said in a voice that could best be described as chocolate-covered gravel.

It didn't sound like the voice she'd heard on the phone, but voices could be disguised.

Her mouth was so dry she couldn't have spit if her pants were on fire, but she forced herself to look him in the eye. Coolly, graciously she said, “I beg your pardon?”

I
beg your pardon?

Lily was tough. She had grown up tough. In the neighborhoods where she'd spent her formative years, toughness was a prerequisite to survival. Over the intervening years she had moved countless times, to different cities, different states. She had learned how to dress, how to speak, which fork to use for oysters, which to save for cake. The one thing she had never quite managed to do was lose the urge to slip away rather than confront trouble head-on.

And this man, whether or not he was actually her crank caller, was trouble.

“I said, you have something that belongs to me,” he repeated, never breaking eye contact. Her fingers tightened on her Montblanc pen, the one she had treated herself to after her first book went to number two on the bestseller list and stayed there for three weeks. As a weapon it was slightly better than car keys. As a reminder of who she
was and how much she'd accomplished, how far she had come from the skinny kid who had scrounged for food from restaurant garbage, worn clothes snagged from backyard clotheslines because she didn't dare risk getting caught shoplifting, it served well enough.

She opened her mouth to beg his pardon again, snapped it shut and looked around for mall security—for anyone bigger and tougher than the man towering over her.

“If you'd like to buy a book, I'll be—”

“I'll pay you whatever you laid out for them.” Unblinking. She'd heard of unblinking eyes—probably used the phrase herself a time or two. This was the first time she had actually been confronted by a pair of deep-set, intensely blue, unblinking eyes.

How the dickens could a man make her feel threatened and dithery at the same time? She'd been threatened by experts. The crank caller who insisted on telling her in detail what he'd like to do to her made her want to kick him where it would do the most damage. The creep who had actually invaded her home, leaving disgusting things in her underwear drawer!

But dithery? The last time she could remember feeling dithery was when she'd been offered her first three-book contract after her first book had gone back to press five times. Getting a grip on herself, she said in her best
Masterpiece Theater
voice, “I'm sorry, but you've obviously mistaken me for someone else.”

He glanced at the nameplate: Lily O'Malley, Bestselling Author. His unblinking eyes shifted to the newspaper clipping mounted on a poster along with one of her publicity stills. He said, “I don't think so. Look, you'll be finished here at two? Why don't I come back later, and we can settle things then?”

Totally confused, Lily watched him turn and walk away
in that odd, gliding way he had of moving. In a woman it would have been called graceful. He could have balanced a book on his head. In a man it was something else altogether. Subtle? Scary? How would she describe it as a writer?

She knew very well how she would describe it as a woman. In a word, sexy. He might not be the weirdo she had first taken him for, but any dealings with a man like that could definitely be classified as a walk on the wild side, and what woman hadn't been tempted at some time in her life to walk on the wild side?

Not Lily, though. Thank you very much. She'd been there, done that.

Turning her attention to the woman who was examining one of her books, she eased into her famous-author mode. “What do you think of the cover?”

“Well, it's real pretty, but I'd rather see who the story's about,” the woman replied with a faint frown.

They discussed covers. They discussed her last two novels. By that time a line was forming, and Lily tucked the dangerous-looking man into a compartment of her mind and shut the door. It was another of her talents—compartmentalizing—that had stood her in good stead over the years. Some doors had not been unlocked in years.

A few never would be.

 

So that was Lily O'Malley, Curt mused as he sought out the food court and ordered a pastrami on rye with horseradish. She didn't add up. Classy didn't quite say it all. Neither did sexy. Yet she was both of those and more.
Intriguing
was a word that came to mind. He reminded himself that he wasn't here to be intrigued, he was here to get back what she had stolen from him, legally or not, and
get the hell back to the island, where he could take his own sweet time going through it.

The more he thought about it, the more important it became, now that he was the Powers in residence at Powers Point, even if only on a temporary basis. As far as he knew, he was the last of the lot, and while the concept of family had never meant much to him personally, the least he could do for those responsible for his existence was to hang on to what they'd left behind. For a professional rolling stone, it was a pretty heavy responsibility, but what the hell—he'd shouldered heavier loads. He could do that much before he moved on again.

 

Lily signed a respectable number of books. She'd done better, but she had also done a lot worse. She accepted a number of compliments—graciously, she hoped—and one or two criticisms: there wasn't enough sex; there was too much sex; did the guy in her last book, or did he not, ever pay for that apple? She hadn't said.

She answered each critic seriously and wished the stint would end. Fourteen minutes to go. After that, a few more minutes spent thanking the staff, and she'd be free to leave.

Idly she wondered about the dark-eyed stranger with the sexy way of walking. He'd claimed she had something of his—which was absurd, of course. She'd heard just about every pickup line in the books. Some people said the most outrageous things in an effort to grab her attention.

A few went even further.

Ten minutes and counting. “I'm so glad you liked it. It was one of my favorites. Shall I sign it for you? Adella…that's a lovely name.”

Seven minutes to go. No one in sight. Lily reached for her purse, capped her pen and felt around with her feet for her shoes.

And then, there he was. Those same slashing eyebrows, several shades darker than his streaky tan hair. She hadn't imagined the intensity of those eyes, nor that odd, sexy way he had of walking, as though his legs moved independently from his torso.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I beg your—”

“You've already begged it. If you're about finished here, why don't we go someplace where we can talk?”

“Look, Mr….”

“Powers,” he supplied. “The name ring any bells?”

Powers.
The voice might not have rung any bells, but the name surely did.
What have we got here, Bess?

“If this has something to do with those old papers I bought at the auction—”

“I figured it might come back to you.”

“There's nothing to discuss. It was a legitimate business deal. The things were up for sale—I bought them, ergo, I'm the—”

“Ergo?”

“What is your problem?” she demanded, rising to her full height, which was almost five feet eight inches, now that she had her shoes on again.

The store manager appeared, a questioning look on her round face. The man who claimed his name was Powers towered over both of them. “Just trying to decide on where to go for a late lunch,” he explained with hard-edged geniality.

Ignoring eyes that sliced through her like a welder's torch, Lily forced a smile. “If you'll excuse me, I'd like to wash the ink from my hands.”

There wasn't a single smudge on her hands. She'd visited the washroom less than an hour ago, but if there was one lesson she had learned early in life, it was how to
avoid trouble. She might look like a sheltered hothouse flower—it was an image she had deliberately cultivated, in keeping with her name—but she was far more like the kudzu vine that thrived in the most barren places, surviving droughts, floods, sweltering heat and withering frost. If there was one thing Lily prided herself on, it was being tough. If there was one thing she was good at, it was avoiding direct confrontation.

Emerging a few minutes later, she saw Powers talking to the manager. He was obviously the type who enjoyed impressing women, and Mrs. Saunders was visibly impressed.

Lily was not. At least not enough to impair her sense of self-preservation. Head down, she crammed her small purse in the large canvas tote she was never without and slipped behind the reference section, then out into the mall to merge with the crowd.

Early in life she'd been forced to become a chameleon, able to blend in with her surroundings, to disappear—to do whatever it took to avoid trouble or to keep from being sent back to whatever authorities she had managed to elude. During those years between the ages of eleven and fifteen, after she'd run away from a drug-addicted mother and her mother's series of abusive men, she had managed, against overwhelming odds, to keep herself safe in an extremely hostile environment. Desperation was the mother of invention, she reminded herself as she unlocked her car, slung her tote inside and sat behind the wheel, unmindful of the dark-clad figure who watched from the shadow of an enormous evergreen outside the main entrance.

Lily had been a mean, homely kid. She'd been told that too many times not to believe it. As a woman she was mean and plain. The miracle was that she had never quite lost the ability to dream. In the end it was that very ability
to escape into a world of her own invention that had led to where she was today.

She had stolen her first book before she could even read, shaping stories in her head to match the pictures. Once she discovered public libraries, she'd spent hours browsing, puzzling out words, afraid to ask for help, afraid of being chased out into the cold. Not until years later had she realized that the kind librarians probably knew why she was there, if not who she was. No matter how many hours she spent in that magic kingdom, they had left her in peace. Often they even “found” an extra sandwich that needed to be disposed of.

It was there that Lily had discovered kindness. Discovered a world—a whole universe—she had never dreamed existed. Once the doors closed behind her and she emerged into the real world again, she had carried that dream in her heart like a talisman.

Her writing career had been a fluke from the start. She'd been working at a car wash by day and cleaning offices at night when she had impulsively bought herself a package of cheap ballpoint pens and a spiral notebook. Writing had quickly become addictive—embellishing the harsh reality she knew with the fragile budding dreams she had somehow managed to keep safe inside her all through the years.

Next she'd bought a used, manual, portable typewriter from Goodwill. A year later she had stoked up her courage, marched into a publisher's office where she'd cornered a startled editor, shoved a manuscript at her and growled, “Here, read this!”

It wasn't supposed to happen that way, especially not when the editor she'd approached worked for a company that published technical books. By all rights she should have been kicked out on her skinny behind. She'd been terrified, which always came out as belligerence. But evi
dently something in her attitude had captured the woman's sympathy. She had glanced at the first page, then the second and then reached for the phone.

 

Hot target! Take it out!
The words rang in his ears.

But that was then, Curt reminded himself, and this was now. The lady might be hot—his internal sensors had registered that right away—but he had no intention of taking her out, in either sense of the word.

He waited until just before dark. Timing was vital. Go in too soon and she'd still be on guard. Wait too long and the evidence could disappear.

How the devil had she managed to handle those heavy boxes, anyway? A couple of them probably weighed more than she did.

Yeah, timing was vital. Planning, too, only he didn't know how to plan this particular mission any more than he already had. Get in, get the job done, get out. SOP. Standard Operating Procedure.

Downstairs in a lobby that smelled of pine-oil cleanser, he checked the registry and found one L. H. O'Malley on the third floor. It was an old building. He would have figured O'Malley for something more modern. Something with a swimming pool and wall-to-wall parties. He eyed the elevator and reluctantly opted for the stairs. Climbing wouldn't be comfortable, but he still had an aversion to being confined in an enclosed space.

Upstairs in the apartment that had until recently been her safe haven, Lily went through her routine. Lock the door, fasten the chain, then cross her fingers and play back the messages on her machine, praying any calls would be from her agent or editor.

“Hello, Lily, this is me, your best fan. What are you wearing? Have you taken off that pretty thing you were
wearing in the store today? I was there, Lily. I stood so close I could smell your perfume. I almost touched you once, but you were busy signing books. Did you like my gift, Lily? I straightened your panties—they were all jumbled up. I bet you'd like it if I—”

She switched the machine off, swore in her old Lily style, and then took a deep breath. “Forget it, you creep, you're not yanking my chain again, not tonight.”

Deep breath, flex shoulders, do one of those yoga thin-gees…'atta gal, Lil!

Carefully she removed her pearls, hung up her suit and blouse and peeled off her panty hose, tossing them at the hamper. After a few extravagant movements that bore little resemblance to any recognized exercise regimen, she headed for the kitchen to make herself a mug of cocoa. Even in the middle of summer hot chocolate was her favorite comfort food. There'd been a time when any food at all had been a comfort food, but now she could afford to pick and choose, and like millions of other women she chose chocolate.

And she needed it now. Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn! Just when things were going so well—number two on the bestseller list, with a new contract in the works—and this creep had to go and ruin everything! She'd been told that crank calls were a part of being a high-profile woman living alone. She'd set herself up by being successful.