you just get in line, and bring ID, please, so we can make sure you’re old enough, and then I will definitely put you on my list of contenders.”
Owen rolled his eyes at the level of bull being shoveled here. Who in his right mind would sign up to march in Stevie Bliss’s never-ending parade of boy toys?
Finally, a cranky gent from the back of the room pushed forward far enough to get to talk. He had a buzz cut, a Chicago Bears jacket and a sour look on his face, all of which tended to suggest he wasn’t a Bliss fan. Yet Stevie actually called on him.
“Yes? You, sir.”
“My name is Joe Ramsey, and I’m the president of the Swingin’ He-Men, Chicago chapter.”
“How lovely for you, I’m sure,” she said sweetly.
“Well, thanks.” He swaggered a little, building up steam as he unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “So, anyway, we want to know who you think you are, emasculating the male half of the society with your wanting to take our place as the predators and the hunters and all.” He glanced up expectantly. “Well?”
“Mr. He-Man, you hunt and predate all you want.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit.”
“But what about you getting in the way and telling women they get to dump us whenever they feel like it? That they shouldn’t do our laundry or make our food or any of the other stuff women are supposed to do. That’s just wrong!”
“I agree with you, Joe. Women being forced to do your laundry or make your food, that’s just wrong. Isn’t it nice we can agree on something?” She smiled and turned away from him before he sorted out exactly what she’d said to him, as she pretended to catch sight of the clock. “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I’m afraid our time is up. Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out to see me today. I’ll be happy to sign your books if you’d like to line up.”
Which they did, like lambs to the slaughter. There was even a traitor from the Swingin’ He-Men who came tramping into the line with his book under his arm, blushing and looking sheepish.
Owen was grudgingly impressed. Two protesters turned back without a hint of a dustup. No fistfights, not even a raised voice. Too bad.
“Mr. Dasher?” It was the handler, the one he’d seen chatting with Stevie before her talk. Where Stevie wore leather and displayed all the right skin on her long, lithe frame, this short, somewhat stout lady was buttoned into a nondescript brown wool suit with a plain white blouse. Big-boned and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense expression, she looked more like a Righteous Mom than someone who’d be riding the Blissfully Single train.
“I’m Owen Dasher,” he said. “You are…?”
“Anna, Stevie’s assistant.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “Sorry about the delay. There’s such a long line for autographs, and she may be a while. So if you wanted to—”
“Leave?” he asked with a shade of annoyance. Stevie Bliss got him all whipped into a frenzy by sending him lascivious glances and licking her lips and talking about whipped cream, and now she was going to leave him hanging? “What, is she afraid of this interview? You can tell her not to worry. I don’t bite.”
In a testier tone, she said, “You heard her speak. Do you really think she’s afraid of an interview? I think she’s looking forward to meeting you, as a matter of fact. She just wondered if you might prefer to go get a latte at the coffee bar while you wait.”
“Oh.” He stuck his notebook in the pocket of his coat, made a move to leave and then stayed where he was. Where was the coffee bar, anyway? And why would anyone think he was a latte kind of guy? Should he be insulted? “Look, that’s fine. Whatever. I’ll be at the coffee bar.”
“Mr. Dasher?”
He glanced back, noting that Anna looked more smug now than awkward. “Yes?”
“I thought you might want to know. Stevie…” Her words trailed off as she laughed out loud. “You should be prepared. She does bite.”
2
“WOO-HOO!” Stevie was so excited that she chugged water down too fast and spilled some on her Prada leather jacket. “I was good, wasn’t I?” she asked Anna. “I mean, I was on today. I had ’em cold. I cooked! I ruled!”
“You ruled,” Anna agreed. “There was a big crowd, and we sold a ton of books.”
“I was in a groove.” She swiveled in her chair, too hyped up to sit still. “At first that reporter guy kind of threw me, but then I took it as a challenge. Did you see how cute he was? I mean, awfully cute. Very, very cute. Men like him, all cool and superior and gorgeous and way too sure of themselves, they are exactly why we started this. And today, I was a tiger and he was a hyena and it felt good. Mr. Way Cute, and I reeled him in. By the end, he practically had a hook in his mouth.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Anna said dryly. “Better get a move on. He’s waiting in the coffee bar.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll be there in a sec. I was enjoying the moment, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, hooked or not, he seemed kind of ticked off. I wouldn’t want to push him.” Frowning, Anna blotted the wet spot on Stevie’s jacket with a tissue. “I don’t know what burr he’s got under his saddle, but there’s something.”
Stevie leaned forward, more alert now. “You think he’s planning to trash me?”
Anna shrugged. “Dunno. It doesn’t really matter. Trash or flash, it’s still publicity. As long as he writes a column, that’s all I care. Or maybe if you get under his skin enough, he’ll come across with two or three columns. And then we get a slew of letters to the editor, pro and con, and the other papers will tune in to the controversy and they’ll run features and pictures, too.” She took Stevie by the hand and pulled her out of her chair, propelling her toward the door and her duty. “The shopping season is just getting started. If we play our cards right, there will be moms and daughters and sisters and cousins and friends, all dying to buy copies of Blissfully Single for each other. Believe me, we need the press. So get to work. Get under his skin.”
Stevie considered. “Under his skin… Would that be irritated or turned on?”
“I don’t know.” Anna smiled, holding open the door as Stevie reluctantly ducked through. “Whatever works. Seems like you made a pretty good start. So keep it up.”
“Hmm…”
As Anna lagged behind, looking for a lost press kit with some updated stats she wanted to give to the reporter, Stevie put her glasses back on and shook her head so her hair would fall into just the right tousled disarray. She threw back her shoulders and lengthened her stride.
She wasn’t afraid of one silly reporter. Not in the least. So why was her heart pounding like a runaway bongo drum as she swept into the bookstore’s coffee bar?
There he was, with his dark hair carelessly shoved off his forehead, gnawing on the end of a pen. As he sat there, unaware of her scrutiny, she tried to be clinical and objective. She noted that he was
