Dead Perfect

“Of course you could.”

She shook her head. “No way.”

“Way,” he said, grinning. “Trust me. Have you forgotten you’re doing another signing tomorrow afternoon?”

“Oh! I did. I was so nervous about tonight, and then so relieved that nothing went wrong. You’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I have some other business to take care of while I’m in town. You’ll do fine, Shannah. You proved it tonight.”

“But…”

Leaning forward, he placed a finger over her lips, stifling her protests. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you. Now you need to have a little in yourself.”

After dinner, they walked for a while, stopping now and then to look in this window or that, before catching a cab and returning to the hotel.

In her room, Shannah kicked off her heels and dropped into a chair. “I’m beat.”

Coming up behind her, Ronan brushed her hair aside and began to massage her shoulders.

“Oh,” she purred. “That feels wonderful.”

He closed his eyes as his fingers kneaded her neck and shoulders. Her skin was soft and warm.

His nostrils filled with the scent of her hair and skin. He could feel the heat of her blood rising from beneath her skin, hear it flowing through her veins. His fangs lengthened in response to the temptation she presented. He had fed earlier that evening but he was filled with a sudden urge to take her in his arms and feed again. He could easily wipe the memory from her mind…

With a shake of his head, he opened his eyes and stepped away from the chair.

“It’s late,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”

She nodded, covering a yawn with her hand. “You’re right, I am tired.”

“Sleep well, Shannah.”

“You, too.”

She was extremely nervous when she entered the bookstore alone the next afternoon. She missed having Ronan beside her. His presence gave her confidence, something she was sorely lacking on her own.

The store manager, a short, red-headed man named Fred Barton, led her to a table near the center aisle of the store. Again, there were flowers and refreshments and stacks of Ronan’s latest novel.

Shannah sat down, wishing Ronan was there beside her, but she didn’t have time to fret over his absence for long. Within minutes, she was surrounded by readers asking for her autograph or a photo or both. Most of the comments and questions were similar to the ones she had been asked the night before, readers wanting to know when her next book would be out, if she was planning a sequel to the last one.

During a lull, Shannah glanced around the store, startled to see the man who had introduced himself as Jim standing at a book rack a few feet away. Catching her gaze, he smiled and nodded at her.

Feeling a sudden sense of unease, Shannah nodded back. Was he following her, or was it just a coincidence that he happened to be there?

Her apprehension increased when he walked toward her, one hand reaching into his pocket.

Good Lord, did he have a gun? But it was only a book, one of Ronan’s older ones.

“Jim,” he said, handing her the book. “Remember?”

“Yes. I’m surprised to see you here.” She frowned inwardly, wishing she could remember why he looked familiar. She had seen him somewhere besides the signing the night before, but she couldn’t remember where.

He shrugged. “I finished the book I bought last night. It was good, so I thought I’d try another.”

“How did you know I was going to be here today?”

“It was in this morning’s newspaper.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know if it had been or not.

He glanced around. “Your friend didn’t come with you today?”

“No, he had some personal business to take care of.”

“Maybe I could take you out for a drink when you’re through here.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on,” he coaxed with a smile. “There’s a little pub right down the street. We can walk.”

“I’m afraid not.” She signed the book with a flourish and handed it to him. “Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure.”

As it had last night, the two hours flew by. She thanked Mr. Barton for having her, signed the three backlist books that hadn’t been sold, and was about to gather her things when a man stepped up to the table.

“Excuse me, Miss Black,” he said. “I’m Carl Overstreet.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a business card. “I’m a freelance reporter. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“I guess not.” She glanced at the card, wishing Ronan was there to advise her.

“Thank you. This won’t take long.”

Shannah resumed her seat, her hands clenched in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was up to a spur of the minute interview, then decided it might be good practice for the radio interview in New York.

Overstreet was right. It didn’t take long. She thought it odd that he asked only a handful of questions, and most of those concerned Ronan and her relationship with him.

Rising, Overstreet shoved his notebook into his coat pocket, thanked her for her time, and left the store.

Shannah followed a few moments later.

Jim was waiting for her outside. He smiled affably, displaying a dimple in his left cheek. “I thought I’d wait around and see if I could change your mind about that drink.”

She was about to say “no” and then she thought, why not? What harm could there be in a drink? “Just a quick one,” she said. “I need to get home.”

“Whatever you say.”

Jim took her arm as they crossed the street. The pub was located on the next block.

The Pub O’Brien was a quaint little place, not too dark, not too crowded. Jim guided her to a table next to a window, held her chair for her, and then sat down. Moments later a pretty young woman wearing a white off-the-shoulder blouse and a short green and blue plaid skirt dropped a basket of peanuts on their table. Jim ordered a beer, Shannah asked for a 7-Up with a cherry.

“You’re not much of a drinker, I guess,” Jim remarked.

“Not really.”

“You’re the first romance writer I’ve ever met,” Jim said. He leaned forward in his seat, his hands clasped, his forearms resting on the table.

She shrugged. “There are lots of us out there. Do you read many romances?”