age.
Ben summoned what latent acting talents he had and infused his voice with what he hoped was the right amount of enthusiasm. One of his best friends was a would-be screenwriter. Ben did his best to imitate the way he’d heard Nick talk when he was going on about his project of the moment.
“You know, this is almost like fate, meeting you.”
He touched her shoulder lightly as he spoke, initiating contact, but making certain that it couldn’t be misconstrued as anything remotely sexual. If the other day was any indication, she probably had more than her share of that, but he’d noted that the slightest bit of physical contact between people instantly brought them to a more familiar plane. He did his best to walk the fine line.
“Listen, I’ve got an idea.” Ben dropped his hand, as if suddenly aware of what he was doing. He saw a hint of a smile on Gina’s face and congratulated himself on his instincts. “I know you’re working right now, but maybe we could grab a bite to eat later when you knock off and—”
Having displayed what he thought was just the right amount of eagerness, he stopped, as if realizing how his words had to sound to her.
“I know you’re probably thinking that this is a come-on, but it’s really not. I really do need your help. I want to be accurate about this and I’m willing to pay you for your time.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not much, I’m afraid—unless you’re willing to take percentage points in my script.”
Though she was trying to maintain her distance, Gina had to admit that this eager screenwriter did sound cute, stumbling over his words. She hoped he was better on paper. But she did appreciate that he realized she might be getting the wrong impression about his offer. Not many men would have picked up on that.
From the look of him, Ben Underwood seemed like the last word in manliness. Someone Aunt Sugar would have referred to as “a man’s man—and a lady’s heart-throb.” Yet he was unapologetically sensitive to her feelings. After what she’d been through, he seemed more like a figment of her imagination than a real person.
Still, she had to turn him down.
“I can’t tonight, I’ve got to close up.” She was surprised at the regret she felt. Gina chalked it up to loneliness. “But I think I can manage tomorrow night after work, if that’s all right.” She could see he looked disappointed. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”
Ben noticed one of the other clerks looking their way and turned just slightly so that his body blocked her view of the other man. He didn’t want her getting distracted while he made his pitch.
“I am—I’m getting close to my deadline.” He paused, thinking that it was a lucky thing he’d decided to get a motel room close by. “But tomorrow night will be great,” he added genially.
Intrigued, she cocked her head. “Deadline?”
The shrug was self-deprecating, with just enough boyishness thrown in to captivate her. Mischievous as a boy, he’d spent his childhood pleading his case to a tough audience. Looking sincere had become an art form. Dominican nuns ordinarily brooked no nonsense.
“I gave myself a deadline. If I didn’t make it as a screenwriter within five years, I was going to stop fooling myself and go into the family business. I’ve got six months left.”
She surprised him by whistling softly. His eyes lingered on her puckered lips.
“That’s cutting it pretty close.” She moved to the right, out of the way of a customer who was browsing through the section where they were standing. Perforce, she moved closer to Ben. “What’s the family business?”
He silently apologized to Nick, whose life he was plagiarizing. “Furniture-making.”
Gina studied him. She could definitely see this handsome stranger doing that. Wearing a leather apron over worn jeans and a checkered work shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. Goggles perched atop his thick, black hair, the smell of freshly sawed wood about him. You’re getting carried away, she warned herself. “Are you any good at it?”
Humor glinted in his eyes as he laughed, thinking of Nick. Every time Nick attempted to make something, it was inevitably reduced to a pile of splinters and wood chips. He had no idea why Nick’s father was so adamant about his joining the business.
“I would be if the family had a sideline making and selling toothpicks. My creativity lies in other directions, but if I can’t make a go of it, my father insists I come into the business. Maybe as a sales rep.”
He made it sound like a life sentence with no possibility of parole. She found herself warming to him. “We’ll see what we can do. I’m not free tonight,” she repeated, “but I can point you toward an excellent book to get you started.”
“Sounds great.”
She led him to the American history section. One of the shelves was labeled Native American Studies. Eight years ago, it had been her personal baby, the one section she’d convinced Jon to set up. Now that she was back, she intended to keep on top of it religiously, making sure any new, relevant books were ordered while old standards were kept in stock.
She noticed two books were out of alphabetical order. Switching them to the right place, Gina selected one title and handed it to him. “This should be very helpful.”
“Thanks.” He nodded toward the small table that was off to the side. There were several throughout the store, besides the ones at the coffee shop in the center of the store. “Mind if I…?”
Reading sections of a book before you bought it had become an accepted custom. “Help yourself. That’s why the tables and chairs are here.”
Ben made himself comfortable and opened the book to the first page. This was going to be slower going than he would have liked, he thought, but he felt he had no option. He needed something more to go on than just a glaring coincidence before he brought McNair in or the police down on the bookstore clerk. What if, by some strange twist of fate, he was wrong? Truth had been known to be stranger than fiction.
And if he was right, if this woman was Gloria Prescott and she was impersonating a dead woman, he needed to find out where she was keeping Andrew. His proceeding cautiously could mean the difference between life or death.
Mixed into all this was the question that was beginning to hound him. How could someone whom everyone he’d spoken with so far thought was a saint, have done something so heinous as to kidnap a child, no matter what her motive? If this woman with the winning smile and the killer figure was Gloria Prescott, she was either a consummate actress who had managed to fool her co-workers, her friend and her aunt, or something just wasn’t right.
Any way he looked at it, he had a puzzle whose pieces weren’t fitting together.
With a sigh, Ben lowered his eyes to his book and returned to playing his role.
Darkness pressed its face against the bookstore’s large bay windows, peering in forlornly. It was a few minutes shy of nine o’clock, and except for Gina, he was the last one in the store. He’d spent the last few hours watching her interact with people, trying to form an opinion. Trying, also, to be objective and not swayed by the fact that she moved with the grace of a spring breeze, or that when she smiled or laughed, everyone around her seemed to light up. Him included.
He’d
