Ten Thousand Words (3 page)

Dreamstone planned on rereleasing Paranormal Hunters as a revamped first edition. I was cool with that since the actual literature wouldn’t be changed. However, the covers and fonts weren’t up to their standards. They wanted beautiful models to grace the covers, something I wasn’t particularly fond of, but I understood the appeal of this for readers. I had demanded to have a say in the creation of these covers, and Dreamstone had agreed to give me license to come up with some ideas.

Being the homebody I was, I’d hoped to find someone local in my community. Searching the Internet for photographers and models around Amsterdam, I’d come across FairFawkes.

FairFawkes was a small studio/modeling agency with a rising reputation. The photographs were breathtaking. The photographer had truly captured the essence of humanity and emotions in the models. There were all types, from the average Joe to supermodels. I’d admired Ollie’s command of his craft, and I was sure to find a model to grace the covers of my novels.

And I had.

I’d found
the perfect
Donovan—rustic, swarthy, and heavily bearded.
Man, that was an
awesome
beard!
I’d found a man who completely physically defined all I had described of my fictional hero. Beautiful in the manliest way possible, he’d made
my
panties catch fire, so my readers—who’d had their panties, or boxers, catch fire while reading about Donovan—would certainly appreciate this rugged specimen of manhood.

“Xanthe, that’s Oliver Fairfax,” my roommate and one of my best friends, Rex, had informed me when I’d shown him several black-and-white headshots of my Donovan.

“What?”

“
That’s
Oliver Fairfax.
The photographer
. Those are his self-portraits.”

“Oh. Well, damn. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. You need to fucking get out more, Xanthe. This guy is a local celebrity.
Everyone
knows who Ollie bloody Fairfax is,” he’d said in exasperation. “I went on a few dates with his partner, Trey Fawkes, like, years ago. I met Ollie a couple of times. Nice guy. You can always contact them. Maybe Ollie would be up to some modeling, especially for the covers of a soon-to-be huge novel franchise.”

“Shut up. There’s no guarantee that Paranormal Hunters will take off any more than it already has. How’d you end up meeting his partner?”

“I met Trey one night at Wurther’s. I think he was lost or something. We hit it off though and had a good time while it lasted.”

Rex was the much-beloved bartender at our local watering hole. He made decent money doing it, too. He was drop-dead gorgeous, tall, and rugged, and people loved to come in and flirt with him.

“You really think Ollie would agree to be on the cover?” I’d asked, hope ringing in my voice.

“Only one way to find out.”

So, I’d had my personal assistant, Mandy Arthur, call FairFawkes and speak with Trey Fawkes. He’d said he’d look into having Ollie on the cover, and when she’d dropped the name of the publisher for good measure, he’d told her that he would move mountains to make his partner agree.

Dreamstone was kind of a big deal.

Not long after we’d received Trey’s affirmation, Dreamstone had taken a look at Ollie’s self-portraits and sent him the contracts. Social media and the local papers had begun blowing up with images of Ollie as Donovan Colt. It wasn’t that Paranormal Hunters was so huge, but Ollie was a local socialite, and his face being on the cover of a book had Amsterdam buzzing.

No one paid attention to me. No one even knew I lived in the same city as the man who represented my heart’s secret hero. And I was totally cool with that. My success didn’t ride on what I looked like, and not many people had ever connected Xanthe Malcolm with my pen name, Elaine H. Ford, who was presumed to be living in England.

It was my hope that I could go to New York, do the whole PR bit with Ollie at my side for the book convention on Friday and Saturday, and slip back into obscurity upon my return home to Amsterdam. I enjoyed my quiet life with Great-Aunt Ellen, my best friends—Jaime and Ricki—and my gorgeous gay roommate.

I’d just never counted on Oliver Fairfax being a dick.

Ollie

Once the local papers had gotten wind that I was going to be on the covers in the series, my face had ended up being plastered everywhere.

Most people might welcome that sort of fame, but I was usually the one behind the camera. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t necessarily want it either—at least, not for my face. If it were for my photography, that would be something else.

Trey had convinced me that it would be the best way to get FairFawkes out to the public. It made sense really. If being on the cover of a novel would bring in business, there was no reason for me not to do it. It wasn’t like I’d even heard of the author, so she must not be that well-known.

Elaine H. Ford’s following was underground, vast, and die-hard. After agreeing to do this, Dreamstone Publishing—them, I had heard of—had contacted us and set me up for a week in New York to shoot the first cover and attend an author convention to generate publicity for the series.

I certainly hadn’t known what the fuss over this series was all about. At least, not until Mandy Arthur had sent me a first-edition copy to read, if I wanted. Since all sales of the series had halted, no one could buy one until the rerelease. I hadn’t opened it until a couple of days ago, and I was now on chapter three. Admittedly…I was hooked. The story wasn’t anything I would have ever chosen to read, but something about it kept drawing me back in.

Afraid I was running late, I’d gunned it through the airport to get to my gate, and another one of those trolls had stepped right into my path. Hot beverage flying, the woman had been more concerned with her coffee than the fact that she could have been killed. Nerdy with her holey faded jeans and black-rimmed square glasses, she looked a lot like the rest of the Paranormal Hunters oddities. I’d had to roll my eyes at the Bohemian-geek style—or non-style. She did have a serious head of hair though. Dark auburn and bushy, it was artlessly piled on the back of her head.

When my name had popped out of her mouth, I couldn’t be bothered. I’d already had my fill of these freaks. It was too early to put up with that shit. Recently, I hadn’t been able to leave my own home without being mobbed by these weirdos who were avid fans of Paranormal Hunters.

Handing over my boarding pass and heading onto the plane, I was irritated. With my carry-on stowed safely in the overhead compartment, I settled in for the long transatlantic flight.

The curly-haired Coffee Junkie dashed into my head again, and I felt like an ass. Normally, I was a laid-back kind of guy. Shit didn’t really bother me too much. Guilt gnawed at me for treating a fellow person like I had, and suddenly, I wished I could go back and at least apologize for depriving her of her coffee and blaming her in the process.

The rest of first class milled in. Only about half of the seats were filled, which was nice. No one was sitting next to me. I could spread out all six feet three inches of me and get comfortable.

Then, Coffee Junkie walked onto the plane, and my comfort level dropped. Embarrassment flooded me, and heat stung my cheeks. I knew she’d noticed me because she was doing her damnedest not to look my way. The fluorescent lighting flashed off her hipster glasses, and I could only imagine her irritation at being on the same plane as the jerk who had robbed her of her morning fuel.

Damn it.

Looking at her now, she was kind of cute, definitely Bohemian geek. Her well-worn gray T-shirt didn’t hide that her tits were a nice size. She hefted her carry-on into the overhead compartment. She was taller than average, maybe five foot ten.

She didn’t seem the type who could afford a first-class ticket, but that was a shitty thing to assume and did nothing to ease my guilt. She had the aisle seat two rows ahead of me. No one sat next to her either. Plonking her backpack in the window seat, she smartly sat down and fastened her seat belt.

Fuck it.
At some point, I would have to go and apologize.

After takeoff, Coffee Junkie took out an iPod and jammed a headset onto her bushy head. Then, she set up the smallest-looking laptop I’d ever seen on her folding tray and placed a brown leather-bound book and pen on her lap.

I kept telling myself she was too busy to be bothered with an apology, but after forty-five minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. Flagging a flight attendant, I asked if it’d be all right if I switched seats to strike up a conversation with a fellow passenger.

“That’s fine, Mr. Fairfax.”

“Thanks.”

I was a little nervous. I didn’t apologize very often, so this was strange territory for me. Like a creeper, I stood behind her for a few seconds, debating if I should bother. Before I could bail on my decision, I lightly tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump and squeak.

Whipping off her headphones, she spun around and looked up at me. Light flashed off her glasses, and her eyes narrowed behind the lenses.

“Can I help you?” she demanded.

American? British?
Her accent wasn’t quite either.

Looming above her probably wasn’t such a smart idea. If she were American, she might get it in her head to punch me in my man parts. Crouching down until we were eye-level, I attempted to disarm her with a smile.

“Hey, I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I thought I might’ve been running late, and, well…”

She said nothing. She just stared at me with a face wiped clean of emotion. I found it to be disconcerting. Usually, I could read people, from their eyes or a muscle twitch around the mouth, and get a sense of what they were thinking. This woman hid her thoughts extremely well.

“Can I join you?” I asked, inwardly cringing. I hadn’t meant to blurt that out before she’d accepted my apology.

With a huff of irritation, she faced forward, not doing anything for a couple of breaths. Then, she reached out and closed her tiny laptop, stowing it and her leather book on top of her bag. With a wave of her hand, she indicated the empty seat behind me, across the aisle from her.

I didn’t blame her. I’d been a complete ass, and she was giving me a small opportunity to make amends. No need for her to share her personal space.

Taking the seat, I fastened the belt and turned toward her. She was silently regarding me, assessing me from behind her glasses. The more I looked at her, the more attractive she became. She had a little black freckle on her cheekbone, next to her right eye, just below her frames.

“I’m Oliver Fairfax,” I said, reaching my right arm across the aisle.

For a few seconds, she appeared to be debating on whether to allow any sort of contact, but then she stuck out her hand and grasped mine like a man.

“Xanthe Malcolm.”

Wow. What a name!
“Like the Greek goddess?”

“Yes,” she replied with a ghost of a smile.

I couldn’t help but return her grin. She had a rich, husky voice. I still couldn’t tell if she was British or American.

“From our earlier encounter, I guess you already know who I am,” I said.

“I’m familiar with your work, yes.”

“Really?” That surprised me.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gone through the photos you have available on the FairFawkes website. You have a good reputation around Amsterdam.”

Hell yes!
This was even better than I could have hoped for. Maybe she wasn’t one of the weirdos after all.

“Were you on holiday in Amsterdam?” I asked.

“I live there,” she replied. “In Jordaan.”

“Oh. Me, too.” This woman was fast capturing my interest. “You’re not Dutch though.”

“Neither are you,” she said. She had this amazing ability to reveal nothing of herself in either her words or her facial expression.

“Are you…are you American or British? I can’t place your accent.”

She gave me a smile that was a little larger than the last, and I felt myself warming even more toward her.

“Both,” she replied.

I nodded. Dual citizenship. “Me, too—well, British and Brazilian.”

Her smile went even brighter, transforming her whole face. Suddenly, she was stunning. That smile…
wow
. It just lit up the world with small, straight white teeth and full lips that were a natural berry color. Looking closer, I could see she wore no makeup, which was impressive. Her skin was flawless. She’d be a breathtaking subject. My hands itched to snap some shots of her.