West Wind (17 page)

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DISTRACTED

By Madeline Sloane

Excerpt

Copyright 2011 Madeline Sloane

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

Erin fidgeted in the pin-striped chair. The
"two-minute" wait promised by the receptionist stretched into
ten.

She glanced again at the magazines spread on
the side table. The titles were unfamiliar. Some scholarly, some
technical, none very interesting. She pushed them aside until she
found a new copy of "Them" magazine, a slick tabloid that
specialized in reporting the latest scandals and love interests of
the stars.

The cover featured its typical fare of movie
stars and beautiful people. In one photograph, a man and woman
ducked their heads to avoid the paparazzi. He wore sunglasses, an
unbuttoned island-print shirt, a pair of baggy, khaki shorts and
sandals.
Hmmm, nice abs
, she thought.

The woman looked familiar. An actress, maybe?
She was wearing a pink bikini top and a black sarong knotted at her
slim, tanned hip. They were holding hands and walking down a pier
in a tropical locale. Erin glanced out the large window at
Washington's overcast skyline and shivered. Smog and low clouds
nearly obscured the Capitol dome.

She flipped through the magazine; the first
ten pages or so were filled with advertisements. Then she came to
the cover feature: The island couple. There were several
photographs of the hunk with various beautiful women. In one, he
was standing at the wheel of speed boat, shirtless, sunglasses on
again, his sun-streaked wavy hair whipping in the wind. In another,
he was strumming a guitar at a beach bonfire.

"Like what you see?"

Erin dropped the magazine and stood up.

"Patricia. How are you?"

"Fine. Sit down, Erin."

Patricia McDowell slid behind her massive
desk. An imperious veteran of the publishing trenches for more than
thirty years, Patricia's company churned out quality non-fiction
that often made university professors' reading lists but always
made the New York Times bestselling list. Her diamond-hard veneer
and keen business sense aside, she was the patron saint of artists,
musicians, and historians who needed help writing books.

Patricia had tapped Erin after the young
woman interned at McDowell Publishing while earning a master's
degree. As an editorial assistant, Erin helped senior staff move
manuscripts through the system, from the authors to the production
department.

She became efficient, but it was her
combination of charm and persistence that Patricia valued most. She
discovered that Erin could succeed, often through guile and wile,
when experienced editors failed.

Her easy-going personality put many shy and
introverted scholars at ease as she helped them complete their
books on time.

Patricia couldn't care less if the girl
recognized a split infinitive or a dangling participle. She had
plenty of grammarians on staff. She wanted results and Erin
delivered.

"Nice-looking man, isn't he?" Patricia nodded
towards the tabloid Erin had tossed on the stack.

"George Clooney? He's still yummy."

"No. The man on the cover."

"I didn't really notice," Erin said. She
picked up the magazine, thumbing through the pages until she found
the photo spread.

"He's okay, I guess. Who wouldn't be with
that kind of money? How much do you think that speedboat cost?"

"I'm not sure, but the sailboat cost at least
$500,000. I know. I bought it for him."

"What? You're kidding me! You know this
guy?"

"That, my dear, is your next assignment. The
boat was an advance on his forthcoming book."

She smiled at Erin's disbelief.

"Yes; it's that important. That's why I need
you. He's already missed three deadlines. I'm afraid he's a bit
lackadaisical. His first chapter was due last month." Patricia
leaned back into her leather chair and arched a silver eyebrow. "I
cannot tolerate that."

"Is he local?" Erin flipped through the
magazine to the feature article and this time looked closer at the
photographs.

"No. I hope you don't mind, you'll have to
travel for this one. He lives in North Carolina, just a few hours
away," Patricia added, noting Erin's frown.

Erin chewed her lip. She preferred to work
with D.C. writers, primarily retired professors. She kept an
apartment in Dupont Circle, near the fashionable northwest but not
as expensive. Still, living in the capital was expensive and she
could not afford to turn down a job.

"Can you leave right away?"

Erin fumbled through her jacket pocket and
pulled out her mobile phone. Flipping through its digital calendar,
she scanned the months of April and May. Nothing she couldn't
reschedule.

"Yes. Do you have a bio on this guy? What
does he do?"

Patricia paused. "I'm sorry, no bio unless
you count the ‘Sexiest Man in America' feature in ‘Them.' He's an
artist and for some reason he's popular in L.A. You won't believe
what they're paying for his paintings. Anyway, your job is to make
sure he finishes this book. Hell, I need you to make sure he begins
it. I envision a book that can be used in a university setting by
art students, and still entertain the layperson. It's important we
publish his book right away while he's on top. He's an exciting
talent, and a richly illustrated, very personal book about Stephen
Spence would be extremely marketable."

"What's his name? Stephen Spence?" Erin
echoed distractedly.

"Have you heard of him?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to some research. I
guess these kinds of magazines would be the best place to begin,"
Erin said, dropping the tabloid on the table. "The paparazzi
apparently like to follow him. Who are the women?"

"Who knows? You seldom see him with the same
one twice. He doesn't appear to be lonely, does he?"

Erin heaved a sigh. "Men like him seldom
are."

* * *

She wasn't sure how long the project would
last, so Erin over packed. She decided to keep her appearance
professional and maintain a dressy-casual style for work. To her
traditional "librarian garb," she added a new cocktail dress. She
also packed a few cotton tops and shorts since spring came earlier
in the Carolinas. Stephen Spence lived by the Atlantic, so she
could beachcomb, maybe swim during her free time. She tossed an
assortment of undergarments, stockings and her bathing suit into
the mix.

She didn't keep a toiletry bag packed so she
went through the medicine cabinet and the shower and dumped
products into a water-proof tote.

Aidan leaned against the bathroom door,
eating a protein bar. "Hey, what's going on?"

Aidan Carter was Erin's ex-husband and a
full-time student, still working on his doctoral degree. Their
marriage ended a year ago after she discovered his affair with
another student. It was a bitter breakup. After their divorce, Erin
discovered it hurt more to lose her childhood friend so they
remained close and, temporarily, roommates.

Sometimes, though, Aidan forgot they were
"roommates." Sometimes, she did too.

"I have an assignment. I'll be gone for at
least a month, I imagine," Erin said.

"What's the assignment?"

"I'm going to North Carolina. Patricia has a
client who can't meet his deadlines. I have to go down there and
crack the whip."

Aidan nodded. "Who is this client and how old
is he?"

"Jealous?"

"Maybe."

"Well, don't be. It's work," Erin said,
relieved she hadn't brought home the magazine with photos of
Stephen Spence. "Besides, you have your life and I have mine.
Remember?"

It wasn't exactly the truth, but Erin refused
to admit it. During the past four months that Aidan had been back,
they had ended up in bed together a few times. It wasn't that odd,
really, she rationalized. He was gorgeous, with dark hair, steady
gray eyes, and chiseled features. He also was a brilliant
scientist, or would be when he finished his doctorate. Sex with
Aidan was safe, she told herself.

"I remember, but I worry about you. You know
I care," he said, stepping into her bedroom. He cupped her chin and
gently kissed her lips. Then he glanced into her suitcase and
noticed the mass of frilly underwear and her bathing suit.

"Looks more like a vacation to me."

Erin closed her suitcase and zipped the flap,
suppressing a grin at the thought that she would be spending the
next few weeks at the beach with a handsome and rich playboy.

"Well, it's not."

Chapter Two

Erin drove the twelve hours to Hatteras in a
short-lease SUV. Living in a major city with a subway meant she
rarely needed a car. Since Patricia was picking up the tab, she
opted for something large and luxurious. It was dark by the time
she rolled into the ferry parking lot at Swan Quarter and it was
empty.

"Great. That's just great," she muttered,
climbing out of the vehicle and walking to the pier. A weather
beaten "Closed" sign swung on a chain strung across the entrance.
The last ferry to the island faded to a speck in the distance.

Back at the SUV, Erin turned on the overhead
light and studied the GPS, flipping through the digital maps. There
was no other way to the island. She would have to stay on the
mainland and catch the morning ferry.

She backtracked a few miles to Route 264 and
checked into a small roadside motel. In the lobby, she found a
shelf with colorful brochures. She shuffled through them until she
found one with the ferry schedule, then tucked it into her purse
while the desk clerk ran her credit card.

"Is there a restaurant close by?"

The clerk, a dark-skinned quiet man, shook
his head. "There is a convenience store across the street," he
suggested.

Instead, Erin stopped at the vending machines
near the staircase and punched the buttons for a bottle of water
and a pack of peanut butter crackers. She fed more dollar bills
into the machine, and then selected a bag of chips and a chocolate
bar.

An hour later, showered and wrapped in a
fleece robe, she sat cross-legged on the motel bed, the remote
control in one hand and the candy bar in the other. She flipped
through the local channels searching for a weather update, but the
old television only brought in local channels, and none of them
included a forecast. The bed was littered with junk food wrappers
and cracker crumbs. Her cell phone trilled, and she dove for her
purse. She scanned the caller ID before pushing the green answer
button.

"Aidan?"

"Hi. How was the drive?"

Erin chewed her lower lip. "Okay."

"Did you make good time?"

"Aidan. You don't have to check up on
me."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

After a few silent seconds, Erin continued,
"We talked about this, Aidan. We go our own ways."

"I don't know if I can."

"You already have."

"No, I haven't. I'm right here."

"I'm not going to talk about this again," she
said. "You've got things to do; I've got things to do. I can't have
you calling me up every night. You've got to stop pressuring me,
Aidan."

"Fine. Good night."

Erin shook her head at his abrupt farewell,
turned off her phone and tossed it on the bedside table. Too
energized to go back to bed, she pulled out her tote bag and
carried it over to the bathroom sink. She ferociously brushed her
teeth and then flossed until her gums bled. She twisted her long,
blonde hair, tying it into a loose knot then leaned towards the
dark glass and glared at her reflection. She growled and muttered,
"Men!"

Picking up her cell phone, she programmed it
to send all calls from Aidan to voice mail.

* * *

In the morning, Erin placed three outfits on
the bed and stepped back. The first was a La Vintage skirt and
jacket she had found at a boutique specializing in black and white
haute couture clothing. It was a "power suit," but it still exuded
sexiness. A soft gray blouse with its plunging neck line
complemented the pencil skirt. The heels on the black,
patent-leather Vince Canuto dress pumps probably were a bit too
high for an island visit.

The second outfit was a sleeveless, blue mock
turtleneck sweater and a pair of flare-legged Armani khakis. The
pants emphasized her slim waist and curvy hips. The sweater showed
her trim, strong arms to an advantage. A pair of Hugh Boss boots --
shiny, calf-skin with a side zipper -- finished the ensemble.

The third outfit was a pair of brown,
light-weight shorts by Dockers, a black, cotton T-shirt with a
handkerchief hem and a pair of leather sandals. She had selected
the outfit on a whim. In fact, she bought several in different
colors. They were modest and comfortable and less intimidating than
the first two choices. Considering the photographs she had seen of
Spence, she decided a low-key approach may be the best and opted
for the shorts.

Weather also could be an issue. The forecast
for the North Carolina coast, printed from a web site and taped to
the motel's front desk when she checked in the previous night, had
not been helpful. An ominous black cloud with a single raindrop
beneath it was partly obscured by a gray sun. A cartoon thermometer
called for a high of seventy-three degrees.