He glanced at the card and actually blanched before quickly handing it back to her.
She pouted prettily, cast Jessica another dark look. “Now you look like a gal who could benefit from—” she held out the card that he had returned to her.
He intercepted quickly. “No,” he said, with such firmness even Debbie was dissuaded. Miffed, she put her card back in her purse and then marched off through the crowds.
“Your loss,” she called over her ample shoulder, before disappearing from view.
“What is a Gidgets Widget?” Jessica asked, watching her go, trying to contain her glee at his discomfort.
“You don’t want to know,” he told her firmly. He turned his attention back to her. “So you are the real Jessica Winton, then?”
“Guilty.”
“It seems to me you might have stepped in sooner.”
“Um...”
“You enjoyed that.”
“Just eager to clear up misconceptions about small-town bookstore owners everywhere.” Potential boss, she reminded herself sternly. Even if she pretty much had already decided she was not taking this job, she needed to be professional.
Her potential boss cocked his head and studied her. He was much taller than her. Close up, the chiseled perfection of his features was even more evident. He had the faintest hint of gray-and-black stubble on his face. Deliberate, obviously. Sexually potent, terribly.
The most subtle fragrance came off him, faintly spicy, faintly exotic and strongly masculine.
“It was the red jacket, not any kind of preconceived conception about small towns or bookstore owners.”
His voice was as smooth and smoky as the twenty-one-year-old Glenfiddich her father broke out once a year at Christmastime. She did not think she wanted to be having a conversation with him that included the word conception, no matter what the circumstances.
She had worn the red jacket that she had purchased for her trip to Copenhagen two years ago. It was, easily, the best item of clothing that she owned, the only time she had ever splurged on a designer name.
But suddenly she was so aware it was two years old, and it didn’t feel as timeless as she had told herself it would be when she had indulged her desire for it. Her blouse felt wrinkled and her black pants felt travel-rumpled. For the first time in her life, she felt aware of the importance of shoes, and sorry that she had chosen the loafers she had on for their comfort and practicality.
Meeting a man like this, one wanted to have on four-inch heels.
Jessica Winton, she chided herself, you’ve never had on four-inch heels in your life!
She’d been concentrating on how to look businesslike this morning as she had prepared for the flight, and so her hair was held back in a clip, and her makeup was minimal.
“Jamie,” he introduced himself to her, as if she wasn’t already 100 percent aware of who he was! His voice was deep and had an entirely too sensual rasp to it. “Gilbert-Cooper.”
She let loose the handle of her suitcase. Her fingers actually felt cramped from holding it so tight, and she extended her hand to him.
“How do you do?” she said, and then could have kicked herself for how ridiculously formal and stilted she sounded.
He took her hand.
The feeling of stillness, of all that activity around her fading to nothing, increased. His handshake was firm, strong and sexy.
How could a handshake be sexy?
“Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper!”
He let go of her hand, and turned, frowning. Jessica could see Debbie, the Gidgets Widgets gal, steaming back toward them.
“I forgot to give you the free sample!” she bellowed. She was coming at them brandishing something that looked like a large green cucumber. People were staring at her, startled and wary.
Jamie actually tucked Jessica behind him, putting his body between her and the charging saleslady. There was something so entirely protective about it that it could completely dissolve that potential boss barrier.
Jessica felt, more than saw, a movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone jostled her. Hard. She lurched into Jamie’s back, and he took a startled step forward then turned around.
“Hey!” Jamie cried.
She realized, stunned, someone had grabbed her suitcase. As she watched, frozen in horror, what appeared to be a businessman—nearly as well dressed as Jamie himself—darted through the crowds with her suitcase, her purse and tablet case still attached to the handle. He wasn’t running, just moving fast, like someone late for a connection.
“He stole my things!”
Jamie took both her shoulders in a strong grip and scanned her face. The strength in his touch, the calm in those dark eyes—he had thick sooty eyelashes that the women of the world would die for—had a way of making the calamity unfolding fade into a distant background.
“You’re all right?”
As soon as she nodded, he released her shoulders and took off at a dead run after the perpetrator.
Even with it being such an awful moment, some despicable part of herself insisted on noting how athletic he was, and insisted on seeing this as somehow intensely romantic. She would have to share this story with the romance genre fans who met at the bookstore once a month. The members of the Smitten Word would be delighted! And so would Aubrey and Daisy. They had told her life could be full of unexpected adventures, and here you had it. She had been in New York less than fifteen minutes, and she was being rescued by a stunning hero.
Not that she should be thinking about her potential boss like that. It was highly inappropriate.
It occurred to her, almost peripherally, that Debbie had disappeared. That seemed impossible. She had been charging straight toward them. How did someone that size, that colorfully dressed and that loud, simply vanish?
Without the calming effect of Jamie’s touch and gaze, Jessica could feel the full implication of the theft. She felt rattled and off balance.
She took a deep breath, then found an uncomfortable seat.
Jamie was just the kind of man
