Angels And Elves (The Baby Bet #1)

by Joan Elliott Pickart

  When heated desire began to pulse within her once again, she spun around and marched back into the living room. As she flopped down onto the sofa, she told herself that Forrest was no longer in the house and, therefore, she should automatically stop thinking about him.

  Fat chance, she thought, mentally throwing up her hands in defeat. Forrest was not easily dismissed from a woman’s mind. And her body? Good grief, it was going absolutely nuts.

  “Perdition, Jillian,” she said aloud. “What is your problem?”

  Forget it, she decided in the next instant. She had postponed the internal discussion with herself regarding her startling responses to Forrest’s kiss and touch. Now she was going beyond postponing. She was canceling the inner dialogue. Forrest was The Project, nothing more.

  Yes, all right, she knew she had been swept away to an unknown place when Forrest had kissed her. But since she was fully aware of her unsettling reactions to him, she was in fine shape.

  “You’re splendidly in control, Ms. Jones-Jenkins,” she said, with a decisive nod. “You may carry on with The Project.”

  She would read a book until she was sleepy enough to go to bed, she mused, getting to her feet. As per her vacation routine, it would be a novel far removed from the kind she wrote. She’d read a thriller, scare the socks off herself, and have a wonderful time.

  What a satisfying feeling it was to know she was in complete charge of her own life.

  Five

  The next day was clear but crisp, typical weather for February.

  Jillian dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a fisherman’s-knit sweater, then took a flannel-lined windbreaker from the closet. She set the jacket next to the empty picnic hamper, along with a canvas tote bag that would serve as her purse for the outing. She’d called the marina manager earlier and arranged to have gas put in the boat. She was ready to go. At nine o’clock, she thought, rolling her eyes heavenward.

  She always slept late during her vacation, the lazy mornings being one of her indulgences. But today? Her eyes had popped open at 7:00 a.m., and she’d known instantly that there was no chance of her drifting back into blissful sleep.

  She glanced at her watch.

  Nine-oh-two. This was ridiculous. At this rate, it would seem as though a week had passed before Forrest arrived. She’d write a newsy letter to her parents about the high points of the book-signing tour. Excellent idea.

  The letter was written, sealed, stamped, and outside in the mailbox to be picked up by the postman by nine forty-five.

  With a snort of self-disgust, she wandered around the living room, straightening throw pillows that didn’t need straightening, picking up and setting back in place a variety of knickknacks, watering plants that had already been tended to by the housekeeper.

  Oh, bother, she fumed, she was acting like an adolescent waiting for the captain of the high-school football team to pick her up for a date. What in the blue blazes was the matter with her? Her behavior was absurd.

  At the sound of a car approaching, Jillian started quickly toward one of the front windows, then stopped dead in her tracks. She forced herself to sit down in an easy chair, and began to examine her fingernails as though they were the most fascinating ten little things she’d ever seen.

  When Forrest rang the doorbell, she decided, she would count to sixty before she went to answer the summons. Very good.

  * * *

  Forrest got out of his car and stood quietly for a moment, his gaze sweeping over Jillian’s house.

  It really was attractive, he mused. It was similar to the one Andrea had designed for her and John, and was a popular style in that area of California. He liked it, and he liked the way Jillian had decorated the interior.

  Jillian. He’d read another of her books after returning to his apartment the night before, and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

  The hero had been the captain of a sailing ship. The heroine had managed to stow away on the vessel to escape marrying a lecherous older man her heartless father had promised her to.

  After a rocky beginning to their relationship, they had slowly fallen in love and shared many adventures, including an escape from the evil clutches of the vengeful would-be husband.

  In the end, the hero had given up his life on the high seas to settle down on land and run a shipping company. The happy couple had selected a house, set a date for the wedding, and were discussing how many children they wanted as the story drew to a close.

  Ah, fantasy, Forrest thought wistfully. Jillian’s novel had produced for the hero and heroine all the things he wanted for himself—love, a wife, children, a home.

  But in the era Jillian had written about, the heroine didn’t have a demanding career outside the home. In present times, what he wanted simply wasn’t his to have. Two-career marriages did not meet his standards of how a family should function. Damn.

  He pushed aside his bleak thoughts and headed for the front door, eager to begin the outing with Jillian. And eager to have her open the door so he could be the recipient of one of her sunshine smiles.

  At the door, he pressed the bell, hearing it chime inside the house.

  * * *

  “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine,” Jillian said, “and thirty.”

  She jumped to her feet.

  A person just didn’t realize how long sixty seconds were until she started counting them off. Thirty seconds were certainly enough of a delay.

  She started toward the entry hall, ignoring the fact that she was practically running. When she flung the door open, the smile that lit up her face was genuine.

  Forrest MacAllister, her mind hummed. And she was very, very glad to see him.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping back. “Come in.” Sinful. Forrest in faded jeans, a dark blue sweater, and a white windbreaker was so ruggedly handsome it was sinful. “How are you this morning?” She closed the door behind him.

  “I’m ready to sail the high seas,” he said, matching her smile. How was it possible that each time he saw Jillian she appeared even more lovely? “I wish I had one of those shirts with the billowing sleeves like Roman wears.”

  “Roman?” Jillian repeated, obviously confused. “My Roman?”

  “Yes, the hero in Rapture in the Wind. I read it last night. Great book, really great.”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” she said, dipping her head slightly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We’d better be on our way. We have to stop at a deli and fill up the picnic hamper.”

  “Sure, let’s go.” He paused, no hint of a smile remaining. “I came in here talking a blue streak, and didn’t greet you the way I intended.”

  “You didn’t?”

  He took one step to close the distance between them, then framed her face in his hands. A shiver coursed through Jillian as she looked directly into the warm brown depths of his eyes.

  “No, Jillian, I didn’t.”

  Forrest’s mouth melted over hers, his tongue slipping between her parted lips.

  Jillian placed her hands around his waist, then moved them up his back, savoring the feel of the taut muscles beneath her palms. She met his questing tongue with her own, the now familiar heat of desire beginning to pulse through her. He tasted like minty toothpaste, smelled like soap and fresh air, felt like heaven itself.

  The kiss deepened and their hearts beat with wild tempos.

  Forrest finally lifted his head and drew a ragged breath.

  “Good morning, Jillian,” he said, his voice gritty with passion.

  “Good morning, Forrest,” she whispered.

  Slowly, reluctantly, they stepped back, dropping their hands to their sides, seeing their desire mirrored in the smoky hues of each other’s eyes. The sensual mist that had encased them began to fade into oblivion. They were once again in Jillian’s entry hall.

  The kiss was over, but not forgotten.

  “We’re off, fair maiden,” Forrest said, pointing one finger in the air. “Mayhap we shall encounter pirates on the seas, but fear not, for I shal
l protect you against the miscreants.”

  “Oh, good night,” she said, with a burst of laughter. “Who writes your dialogue?”

  “I do,” he said, grinning. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Stick with architecture, Forrest. Or as we say in the business, ‘Don’t quit your day job.’”

  “Oh.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, they were surrounded by water as Forrest steered the twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser with expertise. Jillian sat on a stool next to where he stood, the semienclosed bridge sheltering her from the wind.

  The ocean was choppy and appeared more green than blue. The sky that had been bright and clear earlier was now a blue gray, and dotted with darkening clouds.

  “We’d better tune in to the Coast Guard weather channel,” Forrest said. “We don’t want to get caught out here in a storm.”

  Jillian tended to the radio, adjusting it by following instructions on a card taped to it.

  “Even though it’s a little choppy,” Forrest said, “there’s still a peacefulness about being on the water. There’s no one else within our view, either.”

  “And no telephone, no computer,” Jillian added, ticking off the items on her fingers. “No galleys, no deadline, no—”

  “Got it,” he said, laughing. “You’re on vacation today.”

  She nodded decisively. “In spades.”

  “I respect that. If you put your mind to it, I bet you could have a very healthy balance of work and play in your life. A lot of people don’t, you know. They get centered on their careers, and there isn’t room for anything else. You’ve at least got an idea of how it should be.”

  That was debatable, Jillian mused. According to Deedee, Lorraine, some of her other friends, and even her agent, she was a workaholic during the months she was writing a book. Except for occasional outings, she only surfaced during the adventuresome two-week hiatuses that occurred two or three times a year.

  Should she explain all that to Forrest? No, it wasn’t necessary. For all she knew, he would be long gone before her two weeks were up, not completing his stint of being The Project. She might not even have enough time to shape up his attitudes toward balancing work and play.

  Jillian glanced quickly at Forrest, then stared unseeing at the churning water.

  A strange sense of emptiness had swept over her, she realized, as she’d entertained the prospect of Forrest walking out of her life.

  Perdition, Jillian, she admonished herself. Stop being ridiculous. It didn’t matter which one of them faded into the sunset first, because at the end of her vacation their time together would be over. Finished. Kaput. That funny feeling in her stomach had been...hunger. Yes, of course, that was it. She was hungry.

  “Forrest, there’s a cove a few miles up ahead. It might not be quite so windy there, the water calmer, and we could eat lunch without having to chase all the food across the table.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s check it out.”

  The cove was edged with trees that acted as a windbreak and the water was smoother. Forrest cut the engine, dropped anchor, and they went below. The cabin was small, but every inch had been put to use. The decor was dark wood with kelly green accents.

  The table where Jillian placed the containers of food she took from the hamper was bolted to the floor. The minuscule stove and refrigerator had always reminded her of dollhouse furniture, she told Forrest, and she adored the double bed, which was surrounded by built-in drawers on all four sides.

  “It’s like sleeping in a secret cave,” she said, sitting down at the table.

  Forrest chuckled as he sat opposite her. “That’s your writer’s imagination at work. Someone else would probably say the bed was a hole-in-the-wall where the carpenter got tired of making drawers.”

  “Architecture, Forrest,” she said, laughing. “Stick to architecture.”

  All traces of his smile faded. “I really like your laughter. It’s a delightful sound, like wind chimes or tinkling bells.”

  “I... Thank you. That was a lovely thing to say.”

  They continued to gaze at each other, losing track of time, feeling the embers of desire within them begin to grow hotter once again, threatening to burst into consuming flames.

  “Hungry,” Jillian said finally, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

  “Oh, yes,” Forrest said, nodding.

  She shook her head slightly. “For lunch. I’m hungry for lunch.“ She tore her gaze from Forrest’s and reached for a plate. “We certainly bought a lot of different things. This is going to be a gourmet feast.”

  Forrest began to fill a plate while commanding himself to cool off, think about food, and not about grabbing Jillian up and carrying her to the “bed-in-the-wall” where the carpenter had run out of steam.

  They ate without speaking for several minutes, while the boat rocked gently in the secluded cove.

  “You know,” Forrest said, slicing through the silence, “I’ve read two of your books so far. You’ve said that while some authors might reveal portions of themselves in their work, you don’t. However, I did pick up on a common theme in both novels.”

  Jillian glanced up at him. “Oh?” She took a bite of crab salad.

  “Trust. You put a lot of emphasis on trust. Not only did the heroines trust the heros to protect them from physical harm, but emotions were involved, as well. The heroes and heroines came to trust each other with their love, the essence of themselves. They rendered themselves vulnerable, laying it all on the line, and trusting each other to treat that love as the precious gift that it is. In both books there were conversations concerning the extreme importance of trust.”

  “Well, goodness,” Jillian said, forcing a lightness into her voice, “I’d better be on the alert for the glaring error of repeating myself from one book to the next. That is a definite no-no. Although in this particular case...” Her voice trailed off.

  “In this case?” he prompted.

  “The importance of trust in a loving relationship could be justifiably addressed in every one of my books. Without trust, what do two people actually have? Nothing. It’s the foundation that love is centered on, a solid base from which it can grow, if nurtured.”

  She leaned forward, her voice ringing with conviction when she continued speaking.

  “If the trust isn’t there, the couple is fooling themselves, mistaking lust for love. If it is present, then later destroyed, the relationship is over, beyond repair.”

  “That’s a pretty hard stand on the issue.”

  Jillian moved back again, folding her arms over her breasts. “It’s the way I feel, what I believe.”

  “Interesting, especially when you consider the fact that you claim that nothing of you, per se, is in any of your novels.”

  “Oh.” She felt a warm flush on her cheeks. “Well, I...” She frowned.

  “Don’t stress, Jillian,” he said, smiling. “I obviously want to get to know you better, or I wouldn’t be here today. What’s the harm in garnering some details through your books?” He shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

  “It certainly does not. How will you know what might be my opinions and views, and what are imaginary likes and dislikes I gave the characters to make them more believably human?”

  “Well...”

  “For example—” she snatched up a breadstick and waggled it at Forrest “—in the book that’s in production at my publisher’s now, the heroine has a good-luck charm. It’s a little seashell that she always has with her. It might be in her pocket, her reticule, or in a small velvet pouch attached to a ribbon around her neck. She is never without it. When she gives it to the hero as he’s about to go dashing off to face the villain, the hero realizes how deeply she loves him.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is,” she continued, her volume rising as she waved the breadstick in the air, “I have never owned a good-luck charm in my life. You could, in the present state of your tiny mind, assume I personally h
ave a thing for good-luck charms. You would be drawing a conclusion about me that would be totally wrong.”

  Forrest snagged her wrist as it went whizzing by, and took a bite of the breadstick. As he chewed, he stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. After taking a sip of soda, he looked at Jillian again, seeing the very-pleased-with-herself expression on her face.

  “Nope,” he said, “I wouldn’t be wrong at all. Why? I’ll be happy to explain.”

  “Whoopee,” she said dryly. “I can hardly wait.”

  “You’re getting grumpy, Lady Jillian. Are you going to eat the rest of that breadstick?”

  She smacked it into his hand.

  “Thank you. To continue—I wouldn’t focus on the good-luck charm itself, wouldn’t go charging out to buy you a rabbit’s foot to make a favorable impression on you. I would look beyond the charm.”

  “To what?”

  “It’s to whom. You. What message did you convey when the heroine gave the hero her special seashell? Trust. It’s there again, Jillian, loud and clear.”

  Easy, MacAllister, he told himself. Don’t push too hard. But, damn, he’d bet his last dime that Jillian’s marriage had been shattered, and that she had been deeply hurt by a betrayal of trust by the man she’d chosen as her life’s partner.

  What he wanted was for her to trust him enough to tell him about what had happened. But she wasn’t ready for that yet, not even close. Why was her trusting him to that degree so important? Hell, he had no idea.

  “End of dissertation,” he said lightly. “I’m going to have some of that strawberry cheesecake. It’s calling my name. How about you?”

  “What? Oh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll have some later.”

  Perdition and damn it, she thought. She felt terribly exposed, as though Forrest had physically pulled away her protective wall to peer into her heart, her mind, her very soul.

  How had he managed to do that? She didn’t know, but she didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  And it was not going to happen again.

  Six

  As Jillian began to pack the empty containers back into the picnic hamper, she looked at Forrest in surprise when he immediately moved to help her.