by Rozsa Gaston
"Um-mm, I don't actually. Derek, this is—"
"Max Berenboim. Other Worlds Press. How do you do?" He slapped two business cards on the Round Table then reached out to shake Derek Simpson's hand.
Quickly, Hint picked up one of the cards.
"Derek Simpson. Story Tales Press." The Englishman's gaze swept neutrally over Jack's eye patch.
"Nice to meet you. You aren't stealing Hint away from her American publishers, are you?" Jack asked.
"Are you connected with Other Worlds magazine?" Derek picked up the business card and scanned it.
"Distantly." Jack turned to Hint, who was also studying the card he had presented her. Amusement shone in her eyes when she finally met his glance. Was she laughing at the eye patch or the fake business card? He looked forward to finding out later.
"Hint has done some projects for us," he continued, turning back to Derek. "And we want her to do more."
Jack reached for the sketch of the pixie fairy she'd just shown Simpson. "Is this some of your latest work?" he asked Hint. The heart-shaped face of his niece stared back at him, next to a dog that was a dead ringer for Percy.
Derek Simpson deftly swept the sketch his way and turned it over before Jack could take hold of it.
"Good chap, we're just in the midst of a business meeting here. Could you snag Ms. Daniels some other time, perhaps?"
"Ms. Daniels, could you call my office first thing Monday morning? I've got a project you'd be perfect for, and I want to catch you before someone else does."
"What's the project about, Max?" She played along, her eyes gleaming.
"Monday morning, Ms. Daniels. Can't give away professional secrets to the competition." He turned to Derek Simpson and made a short bow. "Sir, you are in the company of a most gifted artist."
"I know," the pinstriped Englishman replied, his tone curt. "Good evening, sir." He dipped his head as if to say, "You're done here."
"I'll call you first thing Monday, Max," Hint said.
"Fantastic. I'll have my secretary draw up a preliminary contract."
"Have her call me first. My rates have gone up," she countered.
Little minx. Smart move. Jack smiled to see the other man's eyebrow shoot up.
"Since you won the Caldecott Award, I can understand why," Jack said, hoping he'd gotten right the name of the top award for illustrators of children's picture books.
"I… uh, it was actually another award," Hint said.
"You're the best there is, and you know it," Jack said, looking her straight in the eye. "Talk to you Monday." He turned to Derek Simpson. "Goodbye."
"Cheers," the Englishman replied, giving him a polite but firm look that all but shouted 'Get lost now.'
****
Hint sat back, stunned. She had wanted to break out laughing the moment she saw Jack with the eye patch. But it wasn't the moment. She had a business deal to seal and Jack Whitby, a.k.a. Max Berenboim, had just raised her stock in the eyes of Derek Simpson. She needed to seize her advantage now.
"You aren't intending to sign an exclusive with Other Worlds are you?" Derek asked, looking worried. She was surprised to see beads of sweat on the Englishman's brow.
"I hadn't intended to, but it depends on the terms," she replied, taking a long sip of her seltzer water with lime. An irresistible cockiness had seized her, thanks to the bolstering effect of Jack's compliments.
"Well, don't. We'll offer you better terms," he said seriously, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Excuse me?" She couldn't believe her ears. He had no idea what terms Max Berenboim intended to offer, never mind that no such person as Max Berenboim of Other Worlds Press actually existed.
"I want you for our Pixie World series. It's a new imprint with a ten-book rollout we're launching in the spring of next year.
"Are the stories written yet?" She looked at him, wide-eyed.
"Two of the ten. We're looking for a strong image for our main character. It's a young fairy girl, just like the one you've drawn here. Your character would be perfect for the slot."
"I'm flattered," she said, her heart warming to think her character based on Marguerite had made the biggest impression on Derek Simpson, out of all her drawings.
"Looks like you're busy, too," he replied.
"My fall schedule will start filling up on Monday," she countered, reminding him of the offer from the man with the eye patch who'd just left.
"It'll start filling up now, if you agree. I propose we make a preliminary commitment this evening and fill in the details this week. I'm back in my office Tuesday morning. We can arrange a conference call to hash out the particulars then. Would that work?"
Hint couldn't believe her ears. Suddenly, she was a hot commodity. She needed to think about money, fast. She considered her existing hourly rate per project. With Jack's effusive compliments ringing in her ears, she doubled it. The she remembered Derek's promise to beat Other World's rates, whatever they were. She doubled the number again."It depends on what you're offering," she told him.
"I'm offering a ten-book commitment over a one-year period."
"An advance and percentage of sales?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"My rates are high," she bluffed.
"So I heard."
She named an absurdly high figure.
"Fine," the Englishman replied.
Now she knew she was dreaming. This would all be over in several minutes and she'd be out on the street hustling for her next project, as usual. Only this time, she'd have a boyfriend who moonlighted as a pirate. She wanted to burst into laughter.
Derek Simpson began scribbling something on the piece of paper he'd pulled out of his jacket pocket. Hint remained silent. Stunned by what was taking place, she had lost her ability to speak. Instead, she took another long sip of her drink.
"There." He pushed the paper toward her. With yellow and pink copies attached, it was a one page initial agreement between Story Tales Press and herself. He'd filled in a time period of one year and a per-book figure that was more than her total income of the year before.
"This isn't an exclusive, is it?" she asked, referring to the terms of the contract.
"No. It's not. But I hope you will give us the majority of your time on this project."
She smiled but refrained from replying while she went through the contract, line by line. Never explain, never complain sprang to mind. She would be busy with other commitments, most importantly ones with the man masquerading as Max Berenboim. They wouldn't be work-related either, but Derek Simpson didn't need to know that.
"Where do I sign?" She finally said, after satisfying herself that it wasn't an exclusive and that rights were appropriately assigned.
He indicated the line, and she signed with a flourish, after correcting her first name to Hinton. Then, pushing the contract across the table, she gave him a satisfied smile. Not dazzling. Just quietly full of professional confidence.
"Well done, Ms. Daniels. I'd be pleased if you could join me for dinner, if you're free." He gave her an assessing look, as if testing the temperature of her response.
"I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have plans," she told him, thinking of Jack. Every cell in her body informed her he was waiting outside. "Shall I expect your call on Tuesday?"
"Yes. My secretary will contact you Tuesday morning to set up a conference call," he said. "We'll hash out details then. So sorry you can't join me for dinner."
"Likewise," she replied. "It's been delightful, and I look forward to working with you on this project."
As Hint eased out of her chair, he rose with her. They shook hands, then she picked up her portfolio and sailed out of the Roundtable Room, head held high. She had just signed the most significant professional contract of her career. At least two inches taller than when she'd entered the hotel, she breezed through the lobby. As she approached the revolving doors, a doorman opened one of the side entrance doors for her and shot her an admiring look.
Out on the sidewalk, she turned toward Grand Central Station. So much had just happened she couldn't even think. Fingering the signed contract in her pocketbook, she felt as if music played all around her, an otherworldly melody from the land of fairies. Who did she have more to thank for the good luck that had just befallen her? Jack, with his clever ruse, or his niece Marguerite, with the divine pixie fairy inspiration the girl had given her?
Stopping for the light on the corner of Sixth Avenue, she smiled. People she had known for less than one full week had catapulted her into a whole new successful future. She laughed out loud.
"That funny, huh?" Out of nowhere, Jack Whitby stood next to her, eye patch in place.
"You." She reached out to hug him.
"No. Max Berenboim." He grabbed her arm and steered her rapidly across the street. "Until we get on the train." He smiled wickedly then whispered in her ear, "I want to make sure your English friend isn't anywhere nearby. Did you leave him back at the hotel?"
"Yes. He asked me to dinner, but I told him I had plans."
"You do. Let's go left here, so we get off the same street as the hotel. I don't want him noticing us together, since he doesn't know your plans are with me." He winked at her.
"I feel like a couple of gypsies, pulling off a job," she said, giggling.
"That's us. Pirate Man and his sidekick, Ms. Raised-Her-Rates."
"You mean Ms. Dog Whisperer."
"Yes." His expression grew serious. "That's just what I mean."
"Listen, Jack. I've got a signed contract in my bag, and you're the reason why."
"Does that mean you'll be nice to me for the rest of the evening?" he asked, his eyes sparking.
Hint elbowed him sharply. "That means you're my hero, at least for the time being. No guarantees about the evening."
He sighed. "Aargh, methinks I've earned a kiss or two, wench."
"That's not how it works, Pirate Man. But I'm impressed." She broke into peals of laughter. "How in the world did you think up that eye patch disguise?"
"I didn't. Marguerite did. That's what was in the goody bag she gave me."
She shook her head in amazement. "Your niece was the inspiration for my pixie fairy. She's the one I really need to thank."
"How about if you give me the kisses for her, and I'll pass them on next time I see her?"
"How about if we go back and look for Percy?" She punched his arm playfully.
"How about if we look for Percy then celebrate your new contract?"
She nodded, joy bubbling up inside. She had plenty to celebrate this evening. Despite enormous distractions from her career over the past five days, she had just landed a plum assignment.
And a new man in her life.
But as with Derek Simpson, she wasn't mixing business with pleasure. She might be partially indebted to Jack for the signed contract now in her hand, but when it came to personal feelings, his pleasure would have to wait on hers. She had a feeling it would, if the night before had been any indication. If only they could find Percy, she would be ready to focus the entirety of her feelings on the man in the eye patch beside her.
****
Back in Bronxville, they hopped into Jack's car at the train station. Hint's feelings of elation were now wearing off at the thought of not yet finding the schnoodle.
"Jack, this is it — our final night to find him. What should we do?"
"I thought you might be too worked up to do any more dog hunting today. Sure you want to go out looking for him now?"
She glanced at her watch. It was two minutes past nine. Night had fallen. Another long night for Percy, out there alone somewhere.
"Let's spend another hour looking for him," she said.
"Where to, Dog Whisperer?"
"Why don't we drive up to Scarsdale again and circle around his neighborhood?" she suggested. "Remember what Marguerite said today? Percy is more likely to make his way back home than to my place in Bronxville."
"From the mouths of babes, pearls of wisdom," he said, his warm gaze heating her insides.
"And don't forget her idea about grilling steaks in Tom and Nicole's backyard tomorrow," she reminded him.
"Let's check to see what their grill setup looks like. We might need to bring our own equipment or fill up their propane tank or something."
"Okay," she agreed, rolling down her window then leaning back in the seat.
As they drove through the warm night air, electricity rippled through her. She couldn't believe what Jack had pulled off at the Algonquin. Even more amazing was the amount of thought and effort he had put into it. He had tracked her movements just as she had tracked his, the day Annabel, the Blonde Bombshell, had invited him to the Stanhope. He had wanted to know what the real deal was between her and Derek Simpson, just as she had wanted to know if he was still involved with Annabel. They had both passed muster — one secretly, one openly.
"A penny for your thoughts," Jack said, looking over at her.
"I've got too many at the moment." She shook her head. Her thoughts were miles away from dog hunting. She tried to refocus.
"How about just one of them?" he pressed.
"Well, what exactly do we say to Tom and Nic if we haven't found Percy by the time they arrive tomorrow?"
"We tell them the truth."
"Do you tell them or do I?" she asked.
"I will. You've done enough." He pulled the car to a stop in Percy's owners' driveway for the second time that day.
"You've done just as much as I have," she pointed out.
"We've knocked ourselves out, haven't we?"
Hint nodded. "It doesn't seem fair. We've worked like dogs to find him. And you got beaten up for your troubles." She reached out and traced a line down the left side of his face, along the edge of the bruise.
"I guess we both know life doesn't work that way. Who gets what's fair?" His words were grim, but not his hands when he reached for the arm she'd extended to touch his face.
Hint tried to pull back, but he held tight, pulling her toward him.
"Who gets what's fair?" she repeated. "People who use a little magic, that's who." The thought had just popped into her head.
"So what kind of magic is on the menu, tonight?" he asked, lowering his head to meet her eyes.
"Dog-catching magic. Let's go," she ordered, reclaiming her arm.
For a second, his smile seemed sly, almost wolf-like. She shivered and quickly got out of the car.
The moon was low in the sky, with a promise of soon-to-be-full magnificence. She breathed in deeply, to the rhythm of rustling leaves. The warm, summer air smelled so fragrant, it made her dizzy.
"Let's check out their grill," she suggested.
Jack reached into the open window of the passenger side and clicked open the glove compartment. He grabbed a flashlight.
Together they opened the trellis gate and entered the back patio of their friends' home. As they passed through it, the flowery scent grew stronger. Heavy wisteria vines covered the trellis, the grapelike blossom clusters everywhere.
Jack squatted and lifted the propane tank under the grill standing in one corner. "It's at least half full. Enough for our barbecue tomorrow."
"What about tongs and all the grill tools? Do we need to bring our own?" she asked, relieved.
Jack beamed the flashlight over the contours of Tom and Nic's sizeable outdoor grill. "They've got all that stuff here on the side."
"Fine. But what about smelly clothes?"
"We'll look for them tomorrow," he said. Tom's probably got some old tee shirts in the tool shed for when he works on his engines."
"Good. Let's take a walk."
"Yes. Let's." Holding the flashlight before him, he put his arm around her shoulders. They walked to the front of the house, calling Percy's name.
After a few minutes, she led the way to Tom and Nic's hanging porch swing. She dropped into it, Jack next to her. The sounds and smells of four nights earlier returned to her — Fox
Meadow Park, the statue of Diana gleaming white in the moonlight. She remembered the wild, percussive flamenco music. Suddenly, it was in her ears again.
"I hear music," she said.
"Shut your eyes."
Without answering, she obeyed. His hands covered her eyes. She breathed in the scent of them — woodsy and something more. Relaxing, she leaned back against his chest. In a minute, another vibration joined the flamenco drumbeat. The thump of Jack's heartbeat filled Hint's ear.
"Do you hear it?" he whispered.
"Yes," she murmured back.
"Then use your magic and listen for Percy. If you heard the music, you'll hear his breathing. He's out there somewhere, taking dog breaths, right now."
She sank deeper into Jack's arms, her eyes still shut. He stroked her hair, sliding his fingers over her earlobes and down the back of her neck, each caress a current of electricity cloaked in velvet.
Second by second, she moved beyond the hint of music to a more subtle sound — the sound of Percy's quiet pants. She visualized the schnoodle lying in tall grass, breathing in the same night air as she, waiting for her to find him.
Then it vanished. A strange noise came from the direction of the meadow behind the house, like the sound of a dog howling. She sat up sharply.
"What was that?" she cried.
As Jack cocked his head to listen, she admired his strong jawline profiled against the moon.
The noise sounded again. Against a backdrop of noisy crickets, an animal was howling at the moon. The sound rose and fell, each howl lasting several seconds.
"What is it? That's not a wolf, is it?" She couldn't believe her ears.
They both sat stock-still for a moment, but the howling had stopped.
"It's not a dog," Jack said, slowly, concern on his face.
"Oh, no," she said, fearful. "It sounds like something other-worldly. What do you think it was?"
"I don't know," he answered, hesitating.
"You do know." She searched his face, sure he was holding back. "What was it?"
"It wasn't a wolf. There are no wolves in this area."
"Then what was it?" And does it eat dogs? A lump began to form in her throat.