Mr. Fix-It (6 page)

“See anything you like?”

“Hey,” Carter said, returning Daphne’s greeting. “Looks like you did.” With a nod he indicated her navy-and-white ECWA tote bag, which was stuffed with books. “Did you leave any books for the riffraff?”

“There’s plenty,” she chuckled. “Most of these are promotional copies from all the publishers represented at the convention, not just the romance factories.”

She selected a hardbound book with a glossy dust jacket. The image of a blond, blue-eyed man shown straight on and partly eclipsed by the profile of a pretty brown-skinned woman dominated the front cover. The book’s title,
Soul Surrender,
stretched across the top of the cover, with
Khela Halliday
embossed in gigantic letters across the bottom.

“This is one of Khela’s latest,” Daphne said, displaying the book for Carter. “It won’t be released until next month, and it’s already on two bestseller lists.”

“How’s that possible?” Carter asked.

“Pre-orders,” Daphne said. “Khela’s got quite a following.”

Carter looked around, awed all over again at the number of people waiting for signed books from Khela and her colleagues. “Does she do this every year?”

Daphne forced the book back into the overstuffed tote. “Does who do what?”

“Khela.”

“She usually comes to this convention and the Romance Authors of America Organization’s national convention.” Daphne repositioned the heavy tote to prevent the strap from gouging her shoulder. “Khela’s idea of being a writer is to sit at home in her loft, working at her laptop for hours and hours.”

Carter tried to spy Khela through the throng, but the romance fans refused to accommodate him. Daphne’s version of Khela’s heaven sounded painfully dull. But Carter had a hard time imagining anything about her being dull.

The time he’d spent with her so far had proven something that he had only suspected in the course of his many casual dealings with her—that she was the most exciting woman he had ever met.

“What are you guys doing after the signing?” Daphne asked him.

“I’m not sure. We haven’t had much time to talk today.”

“I can’t wait to see your costumes tonight. Khela—”

“Hold on,” Carter cut in, holding up his hands. “Costumes? For what?”

“The ball.” Daphne’s green eyes widened. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Do I look like she told me?”

“This year’s theme is
Animal House
.” She scrunched her freckled nose in disgust. “The romance and mystery writers wanted to do a Vagabond Cabaret, but the sports and humor writers turned out in record numbers to vote this year. They wanted
Animal House
, so we’re stuck with a bunch of overweight smartasses and sports nuts in togas sucking up lime Jell-O shooters.”

“That actually sounds like fun,” Carter laughed. “It shouldn’t be too hard to rig a toga out of one of the hotel bed sheets.”

“Don’t you mean two?”

Carter didn’t follow.

“Two,” Daphne clarified. “One for you and one for Khela.”

“Right,” he nodded, gleefully envisioning Khela tangled in a bed sheet.

“I’m going to my room to get a nap in before the ball,” Daphne said, heaving her tote onto her shoulder again. “I’ll see you tonight, I hope.”

“Sure, me too,” Carter said, waving at her.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, doing his best not to crash into chattering fans clutching signed books to their bosoms as though they were treasures handed directly from goddesses.

Khela had been situated in the middle of the center table, with five other writers on each side of her. She was the Torchbearer, so she had no books at her elbow. As befitted the queen for the day, readers purchased her books at the door and brought them to her.

She smiled and offered handshakes and hugs, but her affection for the people who’d come to see her failed to reach her eyes. The visage she presented to her fans was a mere mask of the face Carter had come to know so well over the years. She had a wider variety of smiles than any woman he’d ever known. There was the big, open smile she gave the UPS man who serviced the brownstone, and there was the lopsided, quirky smirk she reserved for the pianist living below her, who made no secret of his attraction to her.

She had a way of shaping her full lips into a plump little bow when Carter unexpectedly encountered her, and last night he’d seen what was now his favorite—the luscious, blissful smile of Khela Halliday in the throes of carnal surrender.

She greeted her readers with a beauty pageant smile that made her features appear shellacked. Her fans might not have seen the difference, but Carter knew her a little better than that. While the other authors seemed happy, and in some cases downright excited, to be signing for their fans, Khela appeared to be in agony.

His hands in his pockets, he strolled over to the signing tables. He stepped over a box of Rose Gracen’s
The Rake’s Redemption
and made his way down the line of authors to Khela.

She scribbled an illegible note to the fan standing before her and finished it off with an equally unreadable signature.

“Thank you so much for coming out today,” she said, handing the thick hardcover back to its new owner.

“I love your books, Khela,” the stout little woman said, the brown apples of her cheeks plump in a big smile. “I wrote a book myself. I let some of my friends read it, and they loved it. They said it was just as good as your books.”

“You should submit it to a publisher,” Khela said, accepting a book from the next woman in line.

“Really?” the stout woman said, pushing her ample belly into the edge of the table. “You think it’s good enough?”

“Well, I haven’t read it, so—”

“I’ll send it to you as soon as I get home!” the squatty woman squealed. “After you read it, you can send it to your editor. Who’s your agent? You can sign me up with your agent, too!”

Khela gripped her pen so hard, her knuckles whitened. Her shoulders tightened and slowly rose, as though their intent was to swallow her neck.

Carter lightly rested his hands on her shoulders and bent to speak close to her. “Can I get you some coffee or juice or something?” he murmured near her ear.

The welcome balm of his voice instantly relaxed her, settling her shoulders back into their normal position. Without thinking, she caressed his left hand with the fingers of her right and answered, “If you could find an iced tea, I’d be really grateful.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back.” He gave her cheek a soft stroke with one finger as he left.

The pushy woman in front of Khela stared after Carter. “Where can I get me one of him? That is one fine lookin’ youngster.” She pinned her dark eyes on Khela. “And girl, is he ever burnin’ for you!”

The woman whose book Khela was signing leaned forward. “He looks like Ken, from
An Angel’s Prayer
, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly!” declared Wallis Finchley-Locke, a native of England and a past Torchbearer winner who had built a career on Georgian historicals. She wagged a long finger, heavy with diamonds, at Khela’s customer. “It’s been plaguing me since I first saw him at the awards ceremony last night. He’s Ken, in the flesh! Talk about an answer to a prayer.”

“I think he looks more like Cale Garrett from
A Warrior’s Secret
,” offered the tall, blue-eyed woman whose book Khela still held open before her. “He’s got Cale’s caring eyes.”

“I wasn’t lookin’ at his eyes,” growled the stout woman, who had yet to leave.

“Me neither,” interjected a woman in Wallis’s line.

“Mmm, what it must be like to live your life, Khela,” Wallis sighed. “A thriving career and a handsome man to cater to your needs. You’re living the life we all write about.”

Khela cringed, clamping her jaw with such violence that she heard a sharp crack near its hinge.

“Do you think he’s as good in bed as Ken and Cale?” the tall woman asked the stout one as the two moved along.

“I suppose we’ll find out in her next book,” laughed the stout woman.

The two women passed Carter on their way out as he was returning with a tall sweating glass covered with plastic wrap. They parted, allowing him to move between them. Still moving forward, they looked back, their blue and brown eyes scanning Carter from head to toe.

Oblivious to his latest admirers, he returned to Khela.

“As I said,” Wallis practically purred as Carter set Khela’s tea before her. “You live the life we write about.”

“No more than you do,” Khela managed through the stiff smile she offered her next fan.

“Stunningly handsome men don’t deliver cold beverages to me,” Wallis said.

As her final, over-enunciated word fell from her lips, a cute young man with bright eyes and dimples slipped through two fans and set a tall iced tea in front of her.

The strait-laced, buttoned-down Brit’s jaw fell as the young man and another waiter, moving in opposite directions, placed glasses of iced tea adorned with lemon circles and mint before each of the authors.

“I thought you all might be a little thirsty,” Carter told Wallis. Leaving her speechless, he turned to Khela. “If you need anything else, just give a yell.”

“Where did you find that one, Khela?” Wallis asked once Carter was out of earshot. “Studs R Us?”

“Just about,” she mumbled under her breath. She glanced over her shoulder, tracking Carter’s movement to the wall of windows. A trio of unpubs gravitated toward him, orbiting his heavenly body like moons.

The slender, long-haired blonde in a form-fitting wrap dress under-combed her hair with her fingers and tilted her head, to better display her décolletage. A blonde with an edgy, asymmetrical bob kept flipping her hair and stroking her throat as she guffawed at whatever was being said by her companions. The zaftig brunette, perched on four-inch ostrich Ferragamos, couldn’t keep her hands off Carter. She straightened his already neat collar, plucked at his belt and even grabbed him by his chin to turn his face toward hers.

At which point Khela realized that, until the brunette literally stole his attention, Carter’s eyes had been fixed on her.

* * *

A gang of overzealous readers spoiled Khela’s hopes for a quick getaway. They surrounded her the moment she stepped into the hotel corridor, peppering her with questions about her characters and storylines and stinging her with complaints about the same.

A persistent few thrust spiral-bound copies of their own self-published books at her, begging her to read their work or forward it to her publisher. Still others waved business cards and brochures in her face, hoping that she could donate time, books or money to their book clubs, schools or churches. January Rose, Wallis Finchley-Locke and Carmen Almeida were similarly engulfed by fans, but Khela was the only author who seemed to be withering under the attention.

One of the few men in Khela’s crowd pushed an eight by ten-inch black-and-white head shot on her, backing her against the wall. “I’ve seen your book covers, baby,” he started, a perfect smile gleaming within his flawless mocha complexion. “You need to drop the zeros and get with a real hero.”

“I don’t hire cover mod—” Khela began before a pair of skinny twins with matching whip-thin twisties pushed him aside.

“We’re your—” started one twin, “biggest fans,” finished the other.

“We write cybertechno—” said the first one.

“—paranormal romance—” continued the second.

“—under the name Echo Dawn,” they giggled simultaneously. “We drove for an hour—”

“Two hours!” bellowed the first twin.

“—to come ask you if you would read our book—” said number two.

“And give us a blurb so we can sell it to a big publishing house!” they said together.

“M-My schedule is full for the next few months, so I-I—” Khela stammered before a woman carrying a stack of Watchtower Magazines pushed her way forward.
God, help me
, she pleaded, squinting her eyes shut in silent prayer.

“Forgive me for interrupting, kitten, but we’ve got to get going.” Carter’s arm fastened around her shoulders, drawing her into the safety of his embrace. “I’m sorry to spoil the party, folks, but Ms. Halliday has a very full schedule today. Please excuse her.”

And with that, Carter practically lifted her off her feet, steered her through the crowd, and guided her to the bay of elevators. He took her convention tote bag from her, slinging it over his shoulder. Unwilling to give up so easily, some of Khela’s fans, led by the twins, followed them.

Quick on the draw, Carter swiped his cardkey through the power box activating the
vip
elevator. The doors opened, and he drew Khela inside the mirrored box. He pushed the button accessing the suites on the restricted floors, and the doors closed just as the grasping twins lunged forward.

Shaking, Khela and her reflection began to pace the tiny space. “H-HoHos,” she mumbled. “I need some HoHos. Or Doritos. Cool ranch. No, nacho cheese. When I was a kid in St. Louis, they used to make these really hot barbeque potato chips. Old Vienna, or Old Susannah or something. I—”

“—have a death wish, clearly.” Carter stopped her frenetic movement by cupping her face. “Why are you so rattled? This isn’t the first time you’ve had to deal with aggressive fans.”

“It’s not them.” Her voice broke, and she looked up at the floor indicator to avoid meeting Carter’s eyes.

“You were the most popular author at the signing,” he told her.

“January Rose was the most popular,” Khela corrected.

“Well, maybe her line was longer than yours, but you had a wider variety of fans. There were men in your line.”

“Gay men.” She reached for his shoulder and reclaimed her bag. “Gay men love my books.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s good. It’s called crossover appeal.”

“You won an award, your keynote address brought down the house, hundreds of readers and writers lined up to have you sign their books this afternoon, and you’ve got crossover appeal.”

The elevator came to a stop, the doors whispered apart, and Carter held out his arm to usher Khela forward. As she passed him, he added, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”