"I'm not surprised. These things can be nerve-racking in the best of situations." The publicist smiled sympathetically. "And I don't imagine this is the best of situations."
Fran Schott had been apprised of the actual situation when Rockcastle Books had assigned her to escort Lauren on her book tour. She'd also been apprised of the fact that should she reveal the truth to anyone, she'd never work in publishing again.
Now the publicist shrugged apologetically. "I had no idea it would be like this," she told Dorsey. "Had I suspected, I would have had a car waiting for you outside. I just assumed that once the signing concluded, everyone would scatter." She tilted her head toward the door. "They might still, if you go out there and exchange a few more words with them."
Dorsey shook her head. Vehemently. Through much practice and rehearsal over the last month, she had managed to pretty much master the art of deception in creating Lauren Grable-Monroe. After she and Carlotta had collected a suitable vamp's wardrobe from the department stores and couturiers along Michigan Avenue and had amassed cosmetics the like of which Dorsey hadn't even realized existed, they had spent the better part of an afternoon creating the physical manifestation of Lauren. With the addition of blond wig and brown contact lenses, with the application of two or three—or ten—layers of eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and whatever else filled those little tubes and tubs that Carlotta had insisted were essential, with the body-altering Wonderbra and stiletto heels, Dorsey had seemed to become someone else entirely. Dorsey had become someone else entirely. She had become Lauren Grable-Monroe.
Until she opened her mouth.
That part had taken a bit longer to master. She'd had to mask her voice, and she had been obligated to master the art of—she shuddered now to think about it—repartee. Most difficult of all, she had been forced to get in touch with her sexuality, something she'd never really bothered to do before.
It wasn't that Dorsey didn't like sex. On the contrary, on those few occasions when she had experienced it—long ago, in a galaxy far away—she was reasonably certain she had enjoyed herself. She was simply opposed to using sex as a marketing tool, that was all. Especially since she was the one carrying the toolbox. So to speak. Lauren needed to be presented as a sexual being. Dorsey was not a sexual being. Therefore, she could only sustain the illusion for a brief time.
And besides, her wig really did itch a lot.
She remembered then that she had changed her clothes and donned her makeup at Severn earlier that evening before meeting Fran on campus, and that the publicist had then driven her to the bookstore. Now Dorsey's blue jeans, hiking boots, and lumberjack sweater were packed safely away in her backpack. The backpack which—hey, what do you know?—just so happened to be leaning haphazardly on a shelf right behind Fran. Dorsey also recalled that there was a tiny employee washroom behind the door to Fran's left.
"I'm leaving," she announced suddenly, crisply.
Fran arched her blond eyebrows in surprise. "Going to send Lauren right through the gauntlet out there, are you?" the publicist asked. "You're a braver man than I."
Dorsey smiled and tugged at the fake fingernail glued on her left index finger, snapping it clean off. "Lauren's staying right here," she said. "I'm the one who's leaving."
Fran eyed her warily but said nothing as Dorsey snatched the backpack from the shelf behind her. Fifteen minutes later, she was once again green-eyed, bespectacled, and auburn-haired. She tugged her baggy, olive-drab sweater over her cotton undershirt and faded blue jeans, then pushed her glasses to the top of her freshly scrubbed nose. And then, rather gleefully, she crammed every last remnant of Lauren Grable-Monroe—suit, cosmetics, and sky-high heels—into the faded blue back-pack.
Something oddly satisfying wound through her as she zipped the pack up tight. Something even more pleasant wandered through her as she smiled and tossed it at the publicist, who, even though clearly surprised by the action, caught it in capable hands.
"Fran," Dorsey said as she strode to the stockroom door, "I'm going downstairs to the coffee shop for an iced cappuccino."
The publicist blinked once in confusion, then asked, "But how will you get home?"
"I'll catch a cab," Dorsey told her. She nodded once toward the backpack and grinned wickedly. "You'll keep an eye on Lauren for me, won't you?"
And with that, she turned and strode casually—happily—out the door.
Chapter 5
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H ad he been watching where he was going, Adam wouldn't have bumped into the young woman who appeared suddenly from behind a stack of best-sellers at the front of the store. Nor would he have knocked her cup of coffee right out of her hand. Nor would he have reached out to steady her when it looked as if she was going to go down along with said cup of coffee. Nor would he have felt the surge of utter … utter… What was the opposite of impotence? he wondered idly. Utter … virility—yeah, that was it—that thundered through him when he found himself gazing down into familiar, if startled, pale-green eyes.
So he was pretty damned glad he hadn't been watching where he was going.
"Mack," he said softly, a warm ripple of genuine delight purling through him when he recognized the gift that fortune had quite literally—and quite liberally—dropped into his hands.
Right on the heels of that recognition, however, came the even more delightful realization that after months of thinking about it, dreaming about it, fantasizing about it, he was touching Mack—actually touching her—for the very first time. And just like that, the ripple of warmth became a crashing tsunami of heat.
It was a rather … stimulating … sensation.
Before he had a chance to contemplate that particular revelation further—not that extensive contemplation of anything was of primary importance to him at the moment—she righted herself, straightened herself, steadied herself … and took a biiiiig step backward.
And that was when
