Hot Spot (2 page)

Could she fake a sprained ankle?

A sudden attack of the flu?

PMS that affected her ability to walk?

Chewing on her drawing pencil, Stella glanced down at the page one sketch she was roughing in. How would her heroine, Marky B, handle such an ethical/potentially wimping-out situation? She'd kick butt of course, face the challenge, and come out on top. Which was the beauty of creating comic books. It had nothing to do with real life.

"Are you open?"

Stella looked up from behind the counter, and suppressing a small "Wow" she would have put in caps in a balloon for Marky B, her gaze lighted on the man entering her bookstore. "Ah—sort of—I guess," she said, like some dolt instead of uttering some clever, witty, perhaps sophisticated comment that would show him instantly she was worldly and accomplished despite her teddy bear pajamas and uncombed hair.

"Your hours are on the door… I'm early, but"—he shrugged faintly—"I saw you inside."

For a man who looked like he did—lean, toned, darkly handsome in a Tolkien hero sort of way—she was tempted to say, "Your time is my time." But then an otherworldly-movie-star-type guy probably heard that a lot. "I live upstairs, so my hours are flexible," she said, trying to sound cool. Trying not to notice the really long lashes and dark bedroom eyes that Tolkien had never had the good sense to describe.

"Nice place."

Ohmygod
… a sexy smile, too. But she managed to say, "Thanks. It's my little piece of paradise," in a near normal tone. And a guy who looked like that was used to fawning women, she reminded herself. That was neither her style, nor her personal ambition. "You're looking for Marvel, right? I usually can tell," she said, relegating his charismatic face and bod to the fantasy dustbin.

"I hope your psychic powers are confined to comics," he said with a grin.

"Are you hittin' on me?"

"Wouldn't think of it."

"Good. It's way too early." Or just inopportune. She looked like a bag lady.

"I could come back later."

Was that a wink? Yes? No? She should tell him right now that she never dated customers. "Why don't we deal with the comics," she said, giving herself a little more time to drool before having to make one of those principled decisions. "Am I right or not about Marvels?"

"Definitely psychic."

"In this business, it's sometimes psycho, too."

"What the hell." He grinned. "Anyone can be normal."

"That's my mantra." The comic book world was sometimes more appropriately written in caps, and the people who lived and breathed comics tended to be a little more out there than the average bear. "I see all kinds in here, present company excepted. You look pretty sane."

"I have my moments. Speaking of fringe though, Buddy Morton told me about your place."

"I suppose anyone who's into Japanese underground stuff like Buddy is has a quirk or two." She preferred that her action heroes concentrate on saving the world, rather than chopping up people with their samurai swords and having kinky sex, but Buddy was a
real
good customer. "The Marvels are in the back," she added, pretty sure she didn't want the conversation to veer in the direction of Buddy Morton's interest in underground comics and kinky sex. At least not until she changed her rule about dating customers.

Sexy Guy moved away from the door and walked toward her—all lithe grace and animal magnetism—and she found herself sketching him in her mind. This guy would make one bomb-ass super hero.

"Buddy tells me you're doing cutting-edge stuff with your
Marky B
comic."

"I'm just starting out. It's fun if nothing else." She slid out from behind the counter and started toward the back room, thinking fun with him would entail a large bed or, what the hell, twenty minutes anywhere.

"Give me a heads up on your favorite
Marky B's
, and I'll buy some."

"You don't have to do that." She gave him a glance over her shoulder. Jeez, he was right behind her—all that hard muscled male swagger up close and personal.

"But I want to."

Startled at his deep, husky rasp, she stopped, turned around, and met his gaze with what she hoped was an I'm-in-charge-here look. "Just for the record, we're talking about comics."

"Sorry." He pointed at his throat. "Something caught in there."

If he hadn't been smiling, she might have bought it. "It's too early to deal with wiseasses. I have something you want, not the other way around, so watch yourself."

"Gotcha. Comics." That tousled, just-out-of-bed look was hotter than any Victoria's Secret ad, but he got the message.

She gave him a look. "Just so we're on the same page."

"Gotcha. Comics, pages, stop, do not pass Go. You're the boss."

"Very funny." She tried to glower, but her mouth twitched.

"If you smile your face might break."

"What are you, five years old?"

"Most people who own stores smile at their customers, that's all," he said, looking innocent as hell. "Customer service 101."

She'd like to do a whole lot more than smile at him, but the modicum of reason she possessed—not always to be relied on but apparently on the job this morning—cautioned her against throwing herself at a relative stranger no matter how much he looked like a Tolkien hero. "I'll smile, okay?"

"Hey, that's nice."

"Thank you, and now what Marvels do you need?" It probably wasn't wise to stand too close for too long to this sexy man who was definitely hitting on her.

He almost said, "Great tits," 'cuz that was what he was thinking. But he backed up his brain, replayed her question, and said, "
X-Men"
instead.

"Which
X-Men
?"

"
The Uncanny X-Men
, issue ninety-four," he said, trying to keep his eyes off those teddy bears dancing across her boobs.

"You and everyone else. That one's pricey."

"I figured."

He didn't bat an eyelash. Did that mean his gray T-shirt, worn jeans, and shredded sneakers were urban chic instead of poverty? Or had he robbed his piggy bank? It happened in her business— the fanatic collectors, young kids especially, would spend their last penny for a special edition. "I have two copies." She pointed. "One is mint, the other is poor but readable." She turned to take them off the shelf.

He gave Stella the once-over—from her bare feet past her great ass to her blonde curls. Definitely nice. Buddy had said Stella Scott was worth making the trip to Stillwater, and he hadn't been wrong. She could be a stand-in for a comic book heroine—slender, shapely, tawny blonde hair with a wide-eyed look that gave out innocent and sexy vibes at the same time.

According to Buddy, she was unattached. And according to his radar, she was interested.

He'd seen that look—the once-over, the approval. He was guessing if he asked, she'd say yes.

But with a store like this, one he was sure to patronize from the looks of her large inventory stored on floor-to-ceiling shelves, asking her might make more problems than it was worth. Casual dating was his strong suit; hooking up with her once or twice might mess up what could turn out to be a perfectly fine business relationship.

"Here's the mint one." She held out a comic in a clear plastic dust cover. "It's the
best X-Men
94 in the country." The pride in her voice was obvious, her real passion for comics momentarily overriding even bodacious hunks at close range.

Taking it from her, Danny whistled softly. "What a beauty. How much?"

"Five and a quarter. The other copy is eighty bucks. Even without a decent cover, the inside is good reading."

"I'll take the prime one."

No hesitation. Not even a scintilla. He was either rich or into collecting before eating. "It's a good price," she said.

He smiled. "I know. Show me your other
X-Men
."

In the next ten minutes, he bought enough comics to make a real dent in her total weekly sales. She was hoping like hell he didn't want to pay with a check, because she couldn't take a chance on a personal check that large. But he paid with a credit card—thank you God—filling all the gaps in
his X-Men
collection to the max.

As she was putting the comics into bags, one of the neighborhood kids walked in, his skateboard under his arm, gave Stella the high sign, plopped down in a chair near the door, and shut his eyes. She ran baby-sitting central in the summer time—wall-to-wall kids from sunup to sundown.

When the door opened, Danny had turned, exposing in all their flagrant grossness the words on the back of his T-shirt: FREE

MUSTACHE RIDES.

She should have known.

He had way the hell too much going for him to be humble.

Screw him and all the men like him who think every woman is waiting to get laid. "There you go," she said, plunking his bags down on the counter. "Have yourself a good day."

He swung back, his brows drawn together. That wasn't "Have a good day." That was one pissed woman. "Something wrong?"

"Uh-uh." She gave him a tight smile. "Enjoy your comics."

"Thanks, I will." Grabbing the bags from the counter, he walked away. But there was something about her beyond the obvious that hit some kind of quirky nerve center in his brain, and when he reached the door, he hesitated. What the hell. He turned back. "Would you like to go to dinner sometime?"

"No thanks. I don't date customers." She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug and took great satisfaction in saying ultra-sweetly, "It's just business."

"Too bad," he said, pulling open the door.

Did he mean too bad for her or him, she wondered as he walked out. And what was with that casual tone? Didn't he notice that she'd cut him off at the knees? Where was the satisfaction in blowing off a FREE MUSTACHE RIDES guy if he didn't even get it? Particularly when she found herself feeling as though
she
might have missed something when she shouldn't feel anything of the kind about a guy who wore that sexist, chauvinist-pig T-shirt.

* * *

STELLA
HAD
SCORED a direct hit though, even if she didn't know it.

Danny hadn't been turned down since—jeez—he couldn't remember when.

As he descended the long bank of flagstone steps to the street, he reminded himself it wasn't about winning or losing. Sometimes things worked out, and sometimes they didn't. Not that he'd ever been on the "not working out" side when it came to asking someone out, though.

But maybe it was true. Maybe she really didn't date customers.

Not that it mattered—he'd had no intention of asking anyway.

He should thank her for saying no.

STANDING TO ONE side of the parlor window so she wouldn't be visible from the street, Stella watched him get into a nondescript white pick-up truck. His chauvinist-pig mentality aside, it was a crying shame she couldn't have checked him out. He was about as close to perfection as she'd seen off the pages of a hunks calendar. But discounting the macho sentiments on his T-shirt, he'd also spent too much money in her shop today for her to jeopardize a promising business connection by entering into any relationship whatsoever. He could turn out to be a lucrative customer. And she knew how a date would have gone with him anyway. He'd eventually ask, and she'd say no to that more-than-dinner proposition. Men like him were only familiar with women saying yes, and there she'd be—upsetting his perfect record. It wasn't that he wasn't damned good-looking.

But feminist principles notwithstanding, she'd decided long ago to play it safe and not date customers. Comic book buyers were ninety percent male, and she was in business to make money.

It was all about her bottom line.

But bottom line or not, he'd managed to fire up her libido.

Not an everyday occurrence of late, when she'd been too busy to even think of sex.

She needed her therapist/best friend since grade school to cool her fevered brain, and the second he drove away, she called Megan. "You won't believe who walked in and out of my store," she breathlessly exclaimed. "Picture a totally sexy cross between Viggo Mortensen and Orlando Bloom, with a dash of—"

"It's seven-thirty," Megan grumbled. "I was at a fund-raiser until midnight last night, and the kids are still sleeping. Could this wait?"

"Sorry. Sure. But this guy was so good-looking I'm still undressing him in my mind."

"Undressing? Hey—I'm up, I'm up—my eyes are even open. Do you think he'd date a divorcee with two children, a dog, and two guppies?"

"I'll call you next time he comes in the store, and you can ask him. Although he did ask
me
out to dinner."

"Damn. Shatter my hopes at the crack of dawn."

"I turned him down."

"You're insane, of course."

"I have my rule about dating customers. Besides, he wore a shirt that said FREE MUSTACHE RIDES on the back."

"
Ewwwwww
. On the other hand, you hardly leave your house, thanks to your store hours and comic book deadlines. Maybe you could ignore the T-shirt. Otherwise, you're never going to have a chance in hell of experiencing the hallowed state of matrimony."

"Do I hear you actually recommending marriage?"

"It's early. Obviously, I'm not thinking clearly."

Megan's husband had found his secretary more intriguing than his wife and family. Younger, too, Stella suspected. "Anyway, listen up. I'll make your day." And she proceeded to describe the guy in all his drop-dead-gorgeous glory from head to foot.

"Okay, you've got me panting now. What's the name of this female fantasy?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask—wait—his credit card receipt should have a name." Stella pressed a button on the cash register to roll out the drawer. "Danny Rees."

"Does he live around here?"

"I didn't ask, and it says here"—Stella squinted at the receipt— "Xzodus Software, Inc. Jeez, he's a computer geek."

"He doesn't sound like a geek."

"He's the exception to geekdom, no doubt about it." Although that might explain the Converse sneakers.

"So now what?"

"So nothing. Did I tell you he bought nearly three thousand dollars worth of comic books?"