The Book Stops Here (4 page)

“Thank you. I love flowers.”

I was familiar with the Richmond District so I knew I wouldn’t have any trouble finding it. “I’ll call you with my estimate in the next day or two. Then, depending on which way you
decide to go, I can either drop off my invoice and pick up a check, or I can simply return the book to you.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“And, like I said, you’re welcome to get a second opinion.”

She giggled as she reached for the doorknob. “You sound like a doctor.”

“I probably do, but bookbinding isn’t cheap.” I followed her out. “And I want you to be happy with the final product.”

She looked over her shoulder at me. “They wouldn’t have hired you for this show if you weren’t the best in town.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow warm with the compliment. “I appreciate that.”

Before I knew what was happening, she let out a little squeal and came click-clacking back to me. She threw her arms around me and whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You don’t understand,” she said in a breathless hush as she stepped back. “I’ve met some real meanies during my lifetime, but everyone here has been so nice, especially you. I’m just bowled over.”

“Thank you, Vera. That’s really sweet.”

“Well, I just think I should let people know when they’ve been helpful and kind.” She frowned and pressed her lips together. “I had a really awful man in my life for a while, so I know the difference between nice and not so nice.”

“I hope you got rid of him,” I said.

“You bet I did.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’d better stop bending your ear and get out of here.”

“It was great to meet you, Vera.” I walked with her down the hall and across the studio to the stage door that led to the parking lot, just to make sure she didn’t get lost.

By the time I stepped back inside the studio door, my mind was already back to my next book.
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
was one of the most widely published books in the world, but the edition I was about to research was unlike any version I’d ever seen before. Excited to get back to work, I crossed the studio quickly and entered the backstage area. But while approaching the makeup room, I slowed down as I caught a snippet of hushed conversation.

“I’m sick of you two brushing this off,” a man whispered harshly, and I realized it was Randolph. “Either you call the police or I will.”

“And tell them what?” another guy said caustically. “That you stumbled over a broom?”

“No, damn it,” Randolph said. “Tell them someone’s trying to kill me.”

•   •   •

T
he old freight elevator in my converted loft building came to a shuddering halt, and I dragged myself down the hall toward my apartment. Working in television was invigorating, almost manically so, but now I felt all of my high energy and perkiness collapsing from within.

Earlier, I had forced myself to shut off all thoughts of that short, ugly conversation I’d overheard, in order to give my work the attention it deserved. Concentrating on my job, I’d found some fascinating facts about the publisher of the wood-carved
Rubáiyát
I was appraising. Later I had managed to appear intelligent and sparkling during the videotaping of the segment. The book’s owner was thrilled to be in possession of such a fabulous piece of art and history. I got high fives from the crew members and gushing words of praise from the production staff and I left the studio feeling proud and confident.

But now those ugly words came back with full force.
Tell them someone’s trying to kill me.

When I’d first heard it, my heart had clenched in my chest and my feet had stuttered to a stop just short of the open doorway to the makeup room. I’d been tempted to spin around and dash right
out of the studio, jump in my car, and race home. I didn’t want to be anywhere near someone who might be the target of a killer.

Been there, done that.

But because my innate curiosity outweighed my fear, I hadn’t moved a muscle. Instead, I was still standing in the hall like a statue when Tom and Walter walked out of the makeup room, exchanging a derisive look.

Tom noticed me first. “Hey, Brooklyn. Nice job on the book segment.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

Walter winked at me and the two producers walked away, chatting quietly. They stopped halfway down the hall and went into another dressing room. They’d been chuckling and talking as if they didn’t care that I’d obviously overheard their troubling conversation with Randolph.

I glanced inside the makeup room and saw Randolph gripping the counter as he stared at himself in the wall-length mirror. He looked pale, frustrated, and unnerved, completely unlike the flirtatious, smooth-talking dude I’d chatted with only a few minutes ago.

I lifted my arm in a casual wave. “Hi, Randolph.”

“What? Oh. Hi, Brooklyn.” He rolled his shoulders and neck as if to work out some kinks.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

Gritting his teeth, he muttered, “Just great. Couldn’t be better.”

I hadn’t expected him to confess his deepest, darkest fears right then and there. He barely knew me. But my curious mind was itching to find out and I figured I would hear the truth eventually. At that moment, though, I had simply nodded and hurried back to my little dressing room, where I’d closed myself off to study more books.

Now I slipped my key into my front door, relieved to be home.

“Hi there,” said a voice behind me in the hall.

I whipped around. My place had been invaded a few times in the recent past and I didn’t like people creeping up on me. But the woman standing there didn’t look threatening—unless you counted the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous with long dark hair, exotic eyes, and supermodel legs. And she was tall. Taller than me by an inch or two, and I was no slouch at five foot, eight inches in my socks.

She stood by the door of Sergio and Jeremy’s loft, at least twenty feet away. Not exactly invading my personal space.

“Hi,” I said cautiously. “You must be Sergio’s friend.”

“Yes, I’m Alexandra Monroe,” she said, and walked over to shake my hand. “But please call me Alex.”

I worked up a smile. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright. Nice to meet you. Are you settling in okay?”

“Oh yeah.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder at the apartment, then back at me. “The space is fabulous. I love all the exposed brick and the hardwood floors and the freight elevator. And this location is perfect. I’m really lucky I was able to work out a deal with Sergio.”

“That’s great.” I felt completely outclassed and tongue-tied, probably because I was so tired. Alex Monroe was bright-eyed and vivacious. Didn’t she know it was ten o’clock at night?

She wore a gorgeous pale pink business suit with a silky black tank top and fabulous shiny black stiletto heels. How could she be so friendly so late at night? And why was she still wearing high heels? Why wasn’t she wrapped in a ratty old bathrobe? The woman was downright intimidating.

But I had to let that go. This was the good friend of Sergio and Jeremy’s, my darling neighbors who had sublet their loft for the next year while they cavorted in Saint-Tropez. Alex was my new neighbor and I was determined to be friendly, even though I was so tired, I felt punchy.

“Have you met any of the other neighbors yet?” I asked. For a nanosecond, I considered asking her to come in to talk for a few minutes. I felt a bit aloof, carrying on a conversation out in the hall, but I wasn’t quite ready to invite someone I’d just met into my home. Another residual effect of having my space invaded more than once.

“I met Vinnie and Suzie first thing this morning,” she said. “And their adorable Lily, too. And then I ran into Mrs. Chung a little while ago. Everyone’s been so welcoming and helpful.”

I wasn’t about to break the streak, so I smiled gamely. “I’m glad. We all love Sergio and Jeremy, so any friend of theirs is a friend of ours.”

“That’s so sweet of you,” she said earnestly. Damn it, she sounded really sincere. Was there nothing truly hateful about the woman?

“I would ask you in for a glass of wine,” I said apologetically, “but I’m completely beat. I’ve been working all day and I confess I’m not used to it.”

She took a step backward. “I’m so sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“No, no, I’m glad you did. We’ll have you over for that glass of wine as soon as possible.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Her smile turned thoughtful. “Vinnie said you worked at home. You’re a bookbinder, right?”

“That’s right.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about being the topic of conversation between the neighbors, but I guessed it was unavoidable. “I usually work at home, but I’m doing an outside job right now.” I paused. “That sounds really weird.”

She laughed, and the sound was so natural and friendly that it made me smile. For some reason, it also made me feel okay that Vinnie had been talking about me.

“Where are you working?” she asked.

“I’ve been hired to be the book appraiser on
This Old Attic
.”

“I love that show!”

“Me, too.” I grinned, pleased by her reaction. “It’s just for three weeks and it’s really fun, but I didn’t realize how drained I would feel by the end of the day.”

“You poor thing. You probably want to crawl into bed. But if you’re up for it tomorrow night, why don’t you stop by my place after work? I’ll make cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?” I said slowly. “I love cupcakes.”

“Everybody does,” she said, smiling. “I’m hopeless at cooking much else, but I make fantabulous cupcakes. The best you’ve ever tasted.”

“How can I say no?”

“You really can’t.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

“Good. I’ll open a bottle of wine, too.”

I laughed. “Now you’re just pandering.”

She laughed, too, and we stood there grinning at each other for a few more seconds until I realized how goofy I must look.

I shook my head. “I’m obviously tired or I wouldn’t be standing here like a knucklehead. It was great to meet you, Alex. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I started to walk away, made an instant decision, and turned back. “We’re having a little party Saturday afternoon, very casual, mostly neighbors and friends. If you’re not busy, we’d love it if you’d join us.”

For a brief second she looked bewildered, as if nobody had ever invited her to a party before. I knew that couldn’t possibly be true. Then, just as quickly, the look disappeared and she beamed with pleasure. “I would love to come. Thank you so much.”

“Great.” I turned, then remembered one more thing. “Tomorrow night I’ll be home around this same time. Is that too late?”

She brushed away the question. “No, anytime is fine.”

“Cool.” I waved, then walked into my place and closed the
door behind me. And was instantly attacked by a tiny ball of fur that pounced on my shoes.

“Hello, silly thing,” I murmured, reaching down to pick up my adorable new kitten and cuddle her against my neck. I set down my computer case on the floor by my workshop desk and carried the kitten into the living room. On the kitchen bar was an open bottle of wine and two glasses.

“This is a very good sign,” I said to the kitten, then called out, “Is anybody home?”

Derek emerged from his office, also known as our second bedroom. “Hello, darling. How was your day?”

I turned at the sound of that silky, rich British accent and wondered if there was anything sexier than Derek Stone’s voice. Not in my world there wasn’t. “My day was exciting and fun, but now I’m exhausted.”

He touched my cheek and nudged my chin up so that I was looking at him. Then he kissed me. “You do look a wee bit weary. Do you want to skip the wine and go to bed?”

“I think I can manage half a glass. And I want to talk and maybe watch a little television with you. It’s so odd to be working outside of the house.”

“It’ll take some getting used to,” he said, reaching for the bottle. “You take Pugsley and go relax on the couch. I’ll bring the wine.”

“Pugsley,” I said, frowning at the kitten. “Really?”

He shrugged. It was his latest name for the kitten. Derek had surprised me a few weeks before with this fuzzy little white-haired darling, with a hint of tiger stripes around her face and a sweet personality. I’d fallen instantly in love with her, but we hadn’t yet decided what to call her.

At first I had suggested the name Syllabub, after the ridiculously sweet and alcoholic English dessert I’d recently learned to
make. But I had ended up calling her Silly and Derek had been calling her Bub. Neither of us were happy with that and I figured the poor cat was just confused.

So now we were trying out different names whenever they occurred to us, convinced we would recognize the perfect name when we found it.

As I walked to the couch, I nuzzled the kitten and she patted my nose with her tiny paw. “You’re much too cute to be a Pugsley, aren’t you? Let’s sit down and think of a better name for you. How about Skeeter?”

“Absolutely not,” Derek said immediately.

I laughed in agreement. “You’re right, she’s definitely not a Skeeter.”

Derek set our two wineglasses on the coffee table and joined me on the couch. The kitten immediately abandoned me for Derek, who was holding a tiny stuffed mouse to entice her. As Derek teased the kitten, he regaled me with the story of his latest client who’d had a fortune in artwork stolen from his beach house in the famous Long Island Hamptons.

As one of the world’s leading experts on security for the incredibly rich, Derek always had interesting work stories to tell.

“I might have to travel back east for a few days and I’m hoping you’ll come with me. We can spend some time in New York.”

“That sounds wonderful.” I sighed. “But I can’t go anywhere for the next three weeks, not until the show is over.”

“I’ll try to hold off, then, until you’re free.”

“That would be nice.” I squeezed his arm affectionately. “I’ve never been to the Hamptons.”

“Good. We’ll make it a mini break.”

“We’ll have to find a kitten sitter,” I said.

“Vinnie and Suzie can help out. You’ve taken care of their Pookie and Splinters any number of times.”