And this woman possessed it, in abundance.
Her gaze met his. But caution framed her fine features.
“Yes?” she asked, in a flat, heard-it-all-before tone. But he caught the hint of a musical voice, with a soft Southern accent.
“Is that a good book?” he said.
She measured him with a cool gaze. As if she were trying to figure out where this line was going, and if she cared to listen.
Feeling his opportunity slipping away, he pressed on: “If it’s not a good book, I’d feel bad.”
Curiosity flickered in her eyes.
“Why would you feel bad?” she asked.
Time for the money shot.
“Because I wrote it.”
She blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Check out the inside of the back cover.”
She flipped to the back. It was his second novel, One Night, which had been originally published in hardcover, and had been issued in paperback four months ago. He’d supplied his publisher with a recent picture for the mass-market edition.
She examined the photo, looked at him.
She smiled, hesitantly. “You’re Mark Justice?”
“I don’t normally go around putting myself out like this,” he said. “But when I see a beautiful woman reading my work . . . well, I had to stop by to introduce myself.”
She favored him with a smile that displayed a flawless set of pearly whites.
He wanted to pump his fist in the air, like a football player who’d scored a game-winning touchdown.
“Mark Justice is my pen name,” he said. “My real name is Andrew Wilson. And you are?”
“Lalamika,” she said. “Most people simply call me Mika.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mika.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. She had soft skin, slender fingers, manicured nails. The sensation of her skin against his made him tingle. He gave her hand a firm squeeze before he released it.
“Mind if I have a seat?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
He slid into the chair across from her. Her perfume reached him—a jasmine scent—and filled his head with sweet fantasies.
She tapped the book. “To answer your first question, this is an excellent novel. I’m thoroughly enjoying it.”
“Thanks. Want me to sign it for you?”
“Would you, please? I’d love that.”
He unclipped the pen from his shirt pocket and inscribed, To Mika, the loveliest woman ever to grace a Starbucks, on the title page. He signed “Mark Justice” with a bold, looping signature.
“Thanks so much. I’ll treasure this.”
Her eyes, radiating warmth and interest, took him in. Being the focus of her attention gave him a temporary brain freeze. She was so beautiful that he could scarcely believe he was sitting in front of her.
Get it together, man, or she’s gonna boot you from the table.
Thankfully, she spoke first.
“I’ve never met a published author before,” she said.
His mind kicked back into gear. “Not surprising. Writers are generally an introverted bunch. We spend most of our time locked alone in cubbyholes, scribbling away.”
“What brought you out of solitude this morning?”
“A little birdie told me that if I did go out, I’d meet a lovely woman who enjoys my books.”
Her laughter was like celestial music.
“Actually, I come here every Tuesday morning to write,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“I stopped in for a coffee break.” She raised her cup to her lips, sipped. “Do you find it distracting to write in public? It can get rather noisy in here.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I need the social element sometimes, breaks up the monotony of sitting at home.”
“Hmm.” She ran her fingers through her hair. He wanted to lose his hands in those silky black strands. “Do you write for a living, Andrew?”
“Been doing it for nine months now. I’ve been blessed to be able to make a good living doing what I love.”
“It’s certainly a blessing. But I wonder, why do you use a pseudonym? Do you have something to hide?” Mirth gleamed in her eyes.
“You want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know where the pen name came from,” he said. “Really. It just popped into my head one day.”
“Is that so?”
“I was trying to write stuff under my real name, for a while, and not getting anywhere—and then this idea for a thriller came to me, along with the idea that I should write it under the name of Mark Justice. That book turned out to be The Comeback, the first novel I published.”
“Fascinating.” She smiled. “I love that name Mark Justice. It makes me think of strength, bravery.”
He grinned. “He’s my heroic alter ego.”
He wanted to transition the conversation to more personal matters. She didn’t wear a wedding band, but that didn’t mean she was single. And if she was single, she still could be involved in a serious relationship.
“So, Mika. What do you do when you aren’t making Starbucks runs?”
“Whatever strikes my fancy. I have a broad variety of interests. Music, art, literature, films. I love to dance.”
“You move like a dancer, I noticed. Graceful.”
“I took lessons as a child. I suppose they’ve stayed with me over the years.”
“That’s cool. I like to dance, too.”
“I love to salsa. Can you do that?”
“Matter of fact, I can. I learned a couple of years ago.”
“You’re an interesting man.” She leaned closer. “So, can I ask you a question, Andrew?”
“Shoot.”
“Why do men avoid asking the questions that are obviously on their minds?”
He sat back. She’d caught him off guard.
She laughed.
“Of course, you’d like to know if we have common interests,” she said. “It’s a perfectly appropriate question. But there are other topics that need to be discussed first.”
“Such as?”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“You get right down to it,” he said. He tried to avoid showing how surprised he was that she was interested in him. Only in his wildest fantasies had he ever imagined that he’d have a shot with a woman like her. But here she was, coming on to him. He half-mused that someone had hired her to play an elaborate joke on him, like in that crazy MTV show, Punk’d.
“I’ve been accused of being direct more than once,” she said, in an utterly serious tone. “I stand guilty as charged.”
“Well, see this?” He waved his unadorned ring finger.
“Don’t take this as an insult, but that doesn’t mean anything. Far too many married men walk around without wearing their rings.”
“I’m flying solo,” he said. “You?”
Smiling, she wriggled her bare ring finger.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said. They laughed.
“No, I’m not married,” she said.
“Boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “Nothing serious at the moment. How about you?” “Same story.” He thought of Carmen, then switched off the thought. Carmen was just a friend.
“Are you gay? Are you a supposedly straight man on the down low, as they call it?” She smiled. “Don’t laugh, a woman has to ask these questions these days.”
“I’m strictly for the ladies. You?”
“Now that’s a funny question. But I suppose it goes both ways.”
“Do you?” He grinned.
“Absolutely not.”
“Any kids?”
“None. Do you have any children, Andrew?”
“I’ve got three, and a fourth on the way.”
Her smile froze.
“Relax, I was talking about my novels. They’re like children to me.”
She laughed lightly. “Funny man. You got me with that one.”
She sipp
ed her coffee, her gaze never leaving his face.
Stunning looks, sophisticated, down-to-earth, and intelligent. He wanted to pinch himself. It was too good to be true.
She tilted her head. “I see the gears in your mind turning. What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“We might be able to arrange that.”
“Do you live in the area?”
“I’m staying in Buckhead. Near Lenox.”
“That’s a nice side of town,” he said. “I’m about fifteen minutes south of here. We could meet for dinner somewhere in Buckhead, or Midtown. There’re a lot of good restaurants in both of those areas.”
“I haven’t agreed to dinner yet.” She crossed her slender arms on the table. “May I be direct, again?”
“Go ahead.”
“I place a premium on my time, Andrew. I don’t do the casual dating thing that most people do these days. It’s a waste of time and energy. I know what I want, and I don’t accept anything less—from the very beginning. Can you handle that?”
Could he handle it? Was she serious? She had him ready to throw his little black book in the trash.
But he stroked his chin, played it cool, as if he had to give her words some consideration.
“I can respect you having high standards,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your time, promise.”
“How can you be so confident about that?”
“I don’t play games. If I’m interested in a woman, she gets my undivided attention. I’m thirty-one, not twenty-one. I’ve already sowed my wild oats.”
“Good answer.” She leaned back in her seat, smiled. “I’ll remember that you said that, too.”
“Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll call you and we can set a time for dinner.”
“I don’t give out my number—not even to handsome, successful novelists.” She softened her words with a smile. “Give me yours, please.”
He was disappointed, but he wasn’t going to let it show. He took his business card out of his wallet. “My cell number is on here. That’s always the best way to reach me.”
She tucked away the card in her purse, glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run. It was a pleasure meeting you, Andrew.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
“We’ll talk again soon.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Count on it. Ciao.”
He watched her leave. When she pushed through the exit doors, the men in the café released a group sigh—Andrew included.
A young guy with a puffy Afro had been watching Andrew and Mika talk. He flashed a gap-toothed smile. “Lucky-ass Negro.”
Andrew laughed and pointed at the man’s Frappuccino. “Stop sipping on that hater-ade, brother.”
He returned to his table. He had stopped writing in the middle of a paragraph, normally an easy place to resume his flow, but words eluded him. He couldn’t get Mika out of his head.
He hoped that she called him soon.
Chapter 6
When Andrew returned home, he heard noises coming from the basement.
It was half-past noon. He hadn’t managed to do much writing at Starbucks. Thoughts of Mika made it difficult to focus on his story.
He’d been fighting to keep his attention away from his cell phone. Wondering when she was going to call. Or if she was going to call. She might’ve only been playing a game with him, flirting. When the cell phones of people around him chirped, his heart leaped.
She’ll call me, he told himself. Give her some time.
But it hadn’t rung once.
Trying to get her out of his mind, he went home. He aimed to work for a couple of hours, and then stop by Eric’s place to play basketball.
But when he walked inside, the laptop case dangling from his shoulder, the sounds coming from the basement immediately set his nerves on edge.
He laid the laptop against the hallway wall. He moved toward the door that led downstairs, opened it.
Deep shadows blanketed the staircase, layered the basement floor. But it sounded as if someone were playing a video game down there, just out of sight. A war game. Probably Ghost Recon, which was in his game collection.
“That you, Eric?” he said. Eric and his mother were the only people who had keys to his house, and his mom sure wouldn’t be playing games.
There was no response. He heard only simulated machine-gun fire and grenade explosions.
“Hey, are you there, man?”
Electronic blasts answered him.
Eric would never enter his home without first asking him. They were like brothers, but they respected each other’s space. It couldn’t be him.
What kind of burglar would break in to play games? There were no signs of disarray or forced entry. It didn’t make sense that someone would have broken into his house to do this.
What would Mark Justice do in this situation?
Justice spit out a terse reply: Arm yourself with something, and check it out.
He owned a gun. A Smith & Wesson .38. He’d originally purchased the revolver while doing research for a novel. If you wrote about characters that packed heat, it helped if you knew your way around firearms yourself. He’d kept the handgun for security purposes.
But the gun was in his bedroom, in a locked storage case in the nightstand drawer.
If someone truly had invaded his home, would he make it as far as upstairs without getting into a scuffle?
He couldn’t be sure. So he decided on an alternative.
He went to the garage and opened the trunk of his car, where he kept his golf bag. He slid out a Titleist three iron. A whack with one of those would knock anyone out cold.
Club in hand, he returned inside and paused at the basement door.
“For the last time, who’s down there?”
Another explosion, followed by a computerized wail of human agony.
He tightened his grip on the club.
He plunged downstairs.
The PlayStation console sat on the floor. A game, Ghost Recon, was in progress on the projection-screen TV. In the midst of a battle, the soldier on the screen waited for direction from a human player.
But the player, whoever it was, had left.
The basement was empty.
Andrew searched the basement. In addition to the entertainment area, the bar, fitness room, laundry room, storage space, and a bathroom were located down there. All of them were vacant.
The glass double doors that led to the patio were locked, the blinds drawn against the afternoon sun. He parted the blinds. He saw only the green swell of the backyard, elms and pines trembling in a breeze, and a flash of the lake beyond his property. No one running to hide.
He stared at the PlayStation.
“I’m going crazy,” he said.
Had he turned on the game that morning, and forgotten about it? Or neglected to switch it off last night, after the cookout? A bunch of kids had been playing it yesterday.
But he had made numerous rounds of the house last night, putting everything in order. He’d worked out in the fitness room that morning, too. How could he have missed something so obvious? How could he not have at least heard the game before now? The volume was so high it would have gained his attention.
Before he came into the basement, the sounds he’d heard indicated that someone had been playing the game, only a minute ago.
He tapped his fingers against his leg.
A shriek burst from the stereo speakers.
He dropped the golf club. It clattered against the floor.
On the screen, a soldier had been killed. The game was programmed in one-player mode, versus the computer.
He picked up the club.
“You’re jumpy as an old woman,” he said. “Calm down.”
He switched off the PlayStation. He unplugged the controllers, wound the cords around the console, and tucked the unit on a table in the corner, where he kept party games
like Scrabble and Taboo.
He remembered, however, doing this same thing last night. He was sure he had.
He went upstairs. He began to verify that the doors and windows were locked. It didn’t make sense that someone could have slipped inside, as he’d activated the alarm system when he left that morning; it made even less sense that an intruder would’ve been playing a video game. But he had to regain his peace of mind.
As he approached a window in the living room, he detected stealthy movement outside. He snatched away the curtain.
It was one of those gray cats. It perched atop the flower bed. Staring at him.
He met the feline’s steady gaze. It didn’t look away, as most domesticated animals did. It watched him as if they occupied equal footing on the food chain.
Strange, dumb alley cats. He refused to feed them. Sooner or later, they would leave and hassle someone else.
He dropped the curtain, tried to lift the window. It was locked. As it should be.
He confirmed that the rest of the house was secure, too.
He would have to accept that he had forgotten to turn off the video game. It was the only logical explanation.
But this was the third weird thing that had happened since yesterday. There had been the water running in the bathtub. Then the knocked over wineglasses in the china cabinet. Now this.
Was there a connection? Or were all of them unrelated incidents that could be rationally explained?
He didn’t know. And it bothered him. A lot.
Chapter 7
Not quite ready to blame the game incident on a faulty memory, Andrew decided to talk to a couple of people.
First, he called his mother. There was a possibility that she’d visited his house that morning for some reason and brought his nephew, who loved to play video games at Andrew’s place. But Mom said that she hadn’t been there. After promising to stop by later that afternoon to cut her grass, he ended the call.
Eric was next. Andrew and Eric lived in the same subdivision. When they were kids, their families had lived next door to each other, and they had promised that, as adults, they would one day live in the same neighborhood. Eric lived a couple of blocks down the street, in a large, two-story brick house. A white Cadillac Escalade was parked in the driveway. The big yard was as neatly trimmed as the greens on a championship golf course.
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