the door slowly, then locked it. The fingertips of one hand floated up to touch her lips. They still tingled from Forrest’s kiss.
“Merciful saints,” she mumbled. “Oh, Jillian, go to bed.”
Ten minutes later, she slipped between the cool sheets on her king-size bed, and was asleep the instant her head met the soft pillow.
* * *
At 1:00 a.m., Forrest closed the book he’d been reading since he’d arrived back at his apartment, and stared at the cover.
“’Midnight Embrace,‘” he read aloud, “‘by Jillian Jones-Jenkins.’”
It was an extremely well-written novel. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he had said he would read it.
To his surprise, he’d become completely engrossed in the intricate plot, found himself cheering on the hero and heroine, and eagerly turning the pages to discover how their dilemma would be solved.
He’d razzed Andrea for years about the sappy romance novels she read. Well, he’d have to eat crow. Big-time crow, because he intended to ask Andrea if she’d loan him Jillian’s other novels so he could read them.
Jillian, he thought, turning the book over to look at the photograph on the back. Lord, she was beautiful. The black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to her incredible gray eyes, her silky, dark brown hair, or her peaches-and-cream complexion.
His gaze moved to Jillian’s lips.
Oh, yes, those kissable-looking lips were very kissable, indeed. He’d never done anything quite so impulsive and pushy as kissing a woman he’d just met. He hadn’t thought about doing it, he’d just suddenly kissed her. And it had been a quick little kiss. No big deal.
Wrong. The moment his lips had touched Jillian’s, an explosion of sensations had rocketed through him. He’d wanted to haul her into his arms and deepen the kiss, savor more of her sweet taste, feel her respond to him, woman to man. Heat had thrummed through his body with a nearly staggering intensity.
Miss Jillian Jones-Jenkins had certainly had an impact on him, both physically and mentally. She was endearing and enchanting, with her fatigue-induced old-fashioned vocabulary.
There was a fiery temper there, too, evidenced by her threat to ink him to death with her mighty pen and her volatile reaction to his derogatory remark about romance novels.
Forrest chuckled, placed the book on the table next to him, and got to his feet. He stared down at the glossy photograph.
“Good night, Lady Jillian,” he said. “I am definitely, most definitely, looking forward to our dinner date.”
Well, one thing was beginning to become clear—his Angels and Elves assignment wasn’t going to be a study in misery. Spending time with Jillian Jones-Jenkins, helping her get her life back on track with a better balance of labor and leisure, wouldn’t be hard to do. Not at all.
He yawned.
“Perdition,” he said aloud, “I need some sleep.”
* * *
Early the next afternoon, Jillian stirred, opened one eye and wondered foggily what hotel she was in. In the next moment, she opened both eyes, smiled, then stretched like a lazy kitten as she realized she was at home.
“Dee-lightful,” she said.
But an instant later she frowned, as she became fully awake.
She’d dreamed about Forrest MacAllister. It had been one of those jumbled dreams that made absolutely no sense, and had no real plot, per se; but Forrest had been there, no doubt about it.
He’d been dressed as a member of the English ton in the late 1800s, complete with ruffled shirt and frilly cuffs, and thigh-hugging trousers tucked into shining leather boots that came to midcalf. His rich auburn hair had been caught in a queue with a black velvet ribbon.
Jillian narrowed her eyes, concentrating on details of the dream.
She had been decked out in a gorgeous ballgown of green velvet with bows drawing up both front halves of the skirt to reveal a paler-green satin underskirt. The bodice had been cut low to expose just the tops of her breasts, and her hair had been arranged in an elaborate, upswept creation threaded through with narrow green ribbons.
She and Forrest, she realized, had appeared like characters who had stepped from the pages of one of her books. They were the hero and heroine in all their splendor.
That much was clear, but from then on the dream had been a bit wacky. They had been dancing at a crowded ball, swirling gracefully around the floor. In the next moment, though, they’d been waltzing in Deedee’s store, and then later in Jillian’s own living room.
“Heavens,” she said, throwing back the blankets, “what nonsense.”
Leaving the bed, she started across the room, only to stop after going a few feet. She placed the fingertips of one hand on her lips, the sudden remembrance of Forrest’s quick but unforgettable kiss causing a shiver to skitter along her spine.
Now wait a minute. That kiss had not been in the dream. It had taken place in her very own entry hall. That cocky Forrest MacAllister had actually kissed her.
With a cluck of disgust she went into the bathroom, and minutes later was standing under the warm spray of the shower, vigorously shampooing her hair.
In all fairness she had to admit it had been a sensational, albeit short, kiss. And it wasn’t as though Forrest had hauled her into his arms and kissed the living daylights out of her—which would have been extremely rude.
No, it had been a rather...polite...yes, polite kiss. A tad pushy, considering they’d only just met, but definitely memorable.
As Jillian dried herself with a huge, fluffy towel, she was aware of a sense of something nagging at her. What was she forgetting? What was vying for attention that she couldn’t remember? She had been so exhausted the previous night, there was no telling what she didn’t recall in the light of a new day.
With a shrug of dismissal, she left the bathroom and dressed in jeans faded in spots to white, a baggy red sweatshirt that boasted the slogan Writers Always Have the Last Word, and red-and-white polka-dot socks.
After a cup of Earl Grey tea and a bowl of granola and yogurt, she called her secretary, Lorraine, to announce her arrival home.
Ever-efficient Lorraine reported that the necessary bills had been paid during Jillian’s absence, the newspaper delivery would resume today, the housekeeper had been instructed to stock the refrigerator yesterday per the usual procedure, and everything was under control.
“You’re a gift from the heavens,” Jillian said.
“I know,” Lorraine said. “I’m fantastic. I have your fan mail here, but fear not, I won’t darken your doorway for two weeks. You’re officially on vacation as of dawn today. What are you going to do this time?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, frowning slightly. “The tour was so hectic I didn’t have a spare second to think about it.”
