Mad About You (boxed set of beloved romances)

by Stephanie Bond

  He swallowed hard, shaking his head. No way.

  There were no such things as magic lamps and mobile carpets and genies and wishes. Yet his paper's headline taunted him. A wise second wish, Master. He leaned heavily against the car. He was absolutely, positively losing his mind.

  "Greetings, Master."

  Ladden jerked his head around, straightening when he saw the skinny homeless man from his store, swathed in yards of pale fabric and still sporting his black turban. The man looked completely at ease, as if he often passed time at the base of a billboard. Ladden's mouth twisted—the oddball probably did.

  "You," he said, striding toward the man, "have some explaining to do."

  The man grinned, revealing white, gapped teeth. "Your lady saw the signs this morning. She was quite surprised."

  Ladden's stomach lurched. "No more surprised than I was." He tried to keep his voice calm. He was, after all, dealing with a maniac. "Or, I wager, her boyfriend," he added dryly. Then he frowned. "How do you know she saw them?"

  Another grin. "I was with her, of course."

  "Of course," Ladden said.

  "My last master wasted his wishes foolishly," the man said with a sad face. Then he brightened. "But you... you are a good man with a big heart and—how you say—a big head?" He tapped his finger to his temple.

  Ladden pursed his lips. "I hope you mean smart."

  "Ah, yes—smart," the man affirmed. "A wise master. Have you thought about your final wish?"

  "Wait a minute." Ladden threw up his hands, shaking his head. "I am standing beside a busy highway talking to some kook in a turban who is trying to convince me he has the power to grant me anything I want."

  The man frowned. "I cannot grant any wish. I am unable to take a life, to bring someone back to life, or to make someone fall in love." His face lit in another grin as he lifted a bony finger. "But I can help." He winked. "She is beautiful, your Jasmine. She reminds me of a princess I once knew."

  "Okay, okay," Ladden said, clasping the man by his arm and steering him back to the car. "You're some rich lunatic who goes around eavesdropping on people and trying to make them happy. But I can assure you," he said sternly, waving back to the billboards, "this did not make anyone happy. Because of you, I am in deep hooey."

  "Hooey?" the man asked.

  "Horse shit," he clarified.

  "Ah, camel dung," the man said, nodding.

  Ladden sighed, guiding the man toward the passenger door and getting him settled. He waited for a break in the speeding traffic to walk around and climb in on the driver's side.

  "Call whoever you have to call to get rid of those things," Ladden said as he turned over the ignition.

  "They will be gone soon," the man promised.

  "Good," he said as he pulled out on the highway. "Now I've got to come up with an explanation for Jasmine."

  "Remember," the man said, when Ladden dropped him off in front of the homeless shelter a few minutes later. "A final wish—do not waste it."

  Ladden smirked, then pulled away and drove as fast as he could to the rear entrance of his store. "Jasmine," he practiced, as he unlocked and swung open the back door, "you're not going to believe this, but—"

  Ladden stopped, eyeing the carpet that once again lay draped over the table he was saving for Jasmine. He glanced at the corner where he had left it, rolled and standing on its end, then bit the inside of his cheek. He kept walking through the connecting door and into his showroom.

  "But there's this madman with a turban who—"

  He stopped again, glancing toward his front door where a crowd of people had gathered, including Uncle Ernie, Aunt Silvie, various other friends and relatives, and several photographers who were capturing the front of his store on film. His heart thudded in his chest as he unlocked the door to admit his uncle and aunt. Instead, a stocky, suited man pushed his way inside, then closed behind him, shutting out Uncle Ernie and Aunt Silvie.

  "Ladden Sanderson?" he barked.

  Ladden frowned at the man and crossed his arms. "Yes."

  The man flashed a badge, then shoved it back into his breast pocket. "Security, governor's office. Mr. Sanderson, if you so much as look at, talk to, or think about Jasmine Crowne again, you will be sorry. Is that understood?"

  Chapter Seven

  LADDEN FLICKED HIS GAZE over the stocky man standing before him. Inch for inch and pound for pound, they were a match. But with a badge and the weight of the governor's office behind him, the suited man had the upper hand, and by the smug look on his face, he knew it.

  Ladden's mind raced as he considered the alternatives. He could deny he had anything to do with the billboards and risk looking like a fool, or he could lie and take responsibility for the ads and prove he was a fool.

  Or he could try to turn the tables. And at this point, what did he have to lose? Certainly not his dignity. Assuming a wide-legged stance, he said, "I didn't catch your name, friend."

  The man's expression remained stony. "Duncan, but I'm no friend."

  Crossing his arms slowly, Ladden said, "Well, Duncan, I didn't realize Governor McDonald was Ms. Crowne's personal keeper."

  Duncan's left eyebrow rose a fraction. "Let's just say he's concerned about a very close acquaintance."

  Ladden gave the man a tight smile. "Was this visit at the request of Ms. Crowne, or did the governor take it upon himself to come to her rescue?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  Which meant Jasmine probably didn't know about it, he thought with a little zing of relief. "Funny, but I'm wondering what bothers the governor more—the fact that those billboards are directed toward a 'close acquaintance' of his, or the fact that the messages replaced his campaign ads."

  Duncan narrowed his eyes and turned to leave. "Watch your step, Sanderson. Trey McDonald could buy and sell you a thousand times."

  Despite the reality of the man's words, Ladden raised his voice after Duncan's retreating back. "That might be true, but I'll wager that Jasmine Crowne can't be bought."

  The bullish man stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Listen, pal, I know she's a looker, but get real." He glanced around Ladden's messy showroom. "Do you honestly think the lady is going to dump the governor for this?"

  Ladden frowned, stricken. The man was right, of course.

  "Besides," Duncan said, his voice deceptively innocent, "I'd hate to see the fire marshal or the health inspector hanging around here all the time."

  Anger sparked deep in his gut, but Ladden remained outwardly calm. "I run an honest business and I have nothing to hide," he told the man, spreading his hands wide.

  "I was thinking more along the lines of your family's bar." Duncan's mouth twisted. "Cousins, I believe?"

  "That sounds like extortion," he said between clenched teeth.

  The man shrugged his thick shoulders. "Don't make it hard on yourself. If you ask me, the gov's doing you a favor—keeping you from humiliating yourself even more." Duncan jerked his head toward the crowd. "As for all those reporters out there, this billboard thing was a little joke that got out of hand, right?"

  Ladden nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek.

  "And you're a big supporter of the governor, right?"

  Once again, Ladden nodded.

  The man lowered his chin. "And you'll stay away from Jasmine Crowne."

  Ladden clenched his fists. "She comes here to buy furniture for her clients."

  Duncan leaned toward him, shaking his head as if Ladden were dense. "This Crowne woman has her sights set on being the first lady of the state. You think she's going to risk that just to shop in some junk store?" The man snorted, then exited Ladden's Castle with a bang.

  Ladden listened as the sound of the clanging bell faded, the noise obscured by the rising din of the crowd outside. His aunt pecked on the glass and waved. In a daze, he opened the door and held up his hands to stave off the swell of nearly two dozen bodies. Immediately, microphones were shoved in his face.

&n
bsp; "Mr. Sanderson, are you having an affair with Governor McDonald's girlfriend?"

  "Mr. Sanderson, how long have you been sleeping with Jasmine Crowne?"

  "Mr. Sanderson, have you made a cuckold out of the most powerful man in the state?"

  He winced, waving his aunt and uncle into the safety of the store. "This is a place of business, and I would appreciate it if you would all leave."

  "Sir," a woman shouted, "will you comment on the billboards that link you romantically to Jasmine Crowne?"

  He glanced at the cameras and saw Duncan standing in the back, apart from the crowd. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Although the odds of conjuring up any kind of smile under the circumstances seemed insurmountable, he forced the corners of his mouth upward and took a deep breath. "Ms. Crowne and I are... business associates. I have acquired several pieces of antique furniture at her request for use in her clients' homes and businesses, including her recent job of refurbishing the governor's mansion." He swallowed hard before continuing. "The billboards are a practical joke between friends that got out of hand. I have the utmost respect for Governor McDonald and I apologize if my, um, sense of humor has embarrassed either Ms. Crowne or the governor."

  "Mr. Sanderson," the reporter persisted, "are you saying you're not interested in Jasmine Crowne?"

  For one crazy instant, Ladden was tempted to say that yes, he was very much interested in Jasmine Crowne, that he loved her smile and her hair and the way her skin smelled, and that he'd be willing to challenge the power of the governor's office just to be near her... but he would be gambling with his cousins' business, painting himself as a nut, and Jasmine would never speak to him again—if indeed she would now, anyway. "I explained the nature of our relationship. I'm sorry if it isn't juicy enough for a scoop."

  He ducked back into the store and locked the door, feeling nauseated. He desperately needed to get away from here. Although he rarely used the window blinds, he lowered the ones that worked, stirring up a good amount of dust and dimming the interior of the store.

  "Beats all I ever did see," Ernie boomed, thumping Ladden on the back. A grin split his broad face as he informed Silvie, "He inherited my smarts, you know."

  Ladden gasped for air while Silvie laughed. "Ernie drove me to work this morning and when he saw those billboards, he nearly ran off the road." His aunt patted his arm. "It's very romantic, Ladden. I had no idea your Jasmine used to date the governor. No wonder she looked so familiar."

  "Not used to," Ladden corrected, keeping his voice calm. "She still does."

  Ernie whistled low. "Brass balls," he said with raw admiration. "You inherited those from me, too."

  "My, it must have cost you a bundle," his aunt said, her voice singsongy.

  "You can't imagine," Ladden muttered. His chances with Jasmine had gone from zero into the negative range.

  "Business must be better than I thought," Ernie said. "Or are you counting on a big insurance settlement?"

  He then realized in exasperation that he'd let the eccentric man who could verify his story about the earthquake slip through his fingers. "A friend of mine bought the billboards as a joke."

  "What was Jasmine's reaction?" Silvie asked.

  He ran his hand over his face. "I have no idea."

  "You haven't talked to her?"

  "Nope. Listen," he said, ushering them into the storeroom. "I know you two need to get to work. Maybe the rear entrance will be clear. And I'd appreciate it If you didn't talk to any reporters, okay?"

  "All right," his aunt agreed hesitantly, clearly feeling left out. "Will you call me later and let me know what Jasmine—" She stopped, her brow furrowing. "What an unusual rug."

  Ladden followed her finger and bit down hard on his tongue. The notorious rug lay draped over the collection of old trunks, a good ten feet from the table where he'd last seen it. "That, Aunt Silvie, is an understatement. I promise I'll call you later." He steered them out into the alley. A couple of spectators loitered even here, and a photographer stood, snapping his big truck from every angle. Shaking his head in frustration, Ladden slammed the door behind them, glared at the rug, then strode into the showroom to use the telephone. He had twenty-seven messages.

  Most of them were crank calls from relatives and friends, laughing uproariously over his stunt. He ground his teeth. Two radio stations requested live interviews, and someone from the headquarters of Trey McDonald's opponent seemed eager to speak to him. But wedged between the nonsense was a call from the rug expert who said she would stop by the next day, and a brief message from Jasmine that sent his pulse climbing. He listened to her words three times, becoming more depressed with each replay. She sounded polite, yet mortified—and why wouldn't she be? His mind spun, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her.

  Still holding the phone, Ladden sat down in a lumpy wing chair and stared into space. Never had he felt quite so out of control. Between the mysterious earthquake, the generous gift from Mrs. Pickney, the turbaned stranger, and all the hullabaloo surrounding Jasmine and the billboards, he didn't have a clue what to do next.

  A burgeoning headache he'd tried to ignore for the last hour had finally battled its way to the surface, jackhammering his temples. If he were a serious drinking man, he'd be on his way to oblivion right now. But he had the overwhelming fear that if he turned his back on his predicament even for a moment, something more bizarre might happen.

  He sighed. Perhaps the sign company was the best place to start. Maybe they would tell him who had rented the billboards. Then at least he'd have a name when he dropped by the shelter to see if the old man would sign an affidavit about the tremor. He ran down the number, and a young man's voice came on the line.

  "Capital Citywide Signs."

  "This is Ladden Sanderson. I'm trying to—"

  "Ah, Mr. Sanderson. Your money arrived this morning."

  "My money?"

  "Yes, sir. Eighteen hundred dollars for eighteen billboards for one day." The man laughed. "Kind of risky to send cash, don't you think? Do you need a receipt?"

  "N-no, thank you." Ladden chose his words carefully. "How did you know the cash was from me?"

  "The stationery envelope with your return address," the man said, his tone puzzled.

  Ladden rummaged around on his desk and withdrew one of the off-white envelopes. He frowned. The old man must have lifted one before, during, or after the earthquake. One thing was sure, if the man had sent nearly two thousand dollars in cash through the mail, he had to be certifiably insane.

  The young man broke into his reverie. "I spotted your messages on the way into the city this morning. Caused quite a traffic jam on the bypass. Caused quite an uproar around here, too. The boss is looking for the salesman who approved suspending the governor's ads for a day." The man made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Heads are going to roll over this one."

  "You have my permission to return the governor's ads as soon as possible," Ladden assured him. "I think I've gotten more than enough exposure."

  "Sure thing, Mr. Sanderson. We appreciate your business." The man chuckled. "And when you're ready to propose, we'll work with you."

  Ladden frowned at the phone and hung up. It rang immediately, vibrating on his lap. He yanked up the handset, then wet his lips. "Hello?"

  Jasmine's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. She gripped the phone hard. He was just quiet, down-to-earth Ladden—the same man with whom she'd been doing business for years. What had changed? The fact that she had seen a more refined side to him? A glimpse of the gentleness beneath the coarse veneer?

  "Hello?" he repeated, and she yanked her attention back to the phone call.

  "Ladden, this is Jasmine."

  "Oh... hello."

  Silence stretched between them. She couldn't very well admit how flattered she felt that he would openly challenge someone as powerful as Trey McDonald for her affection. Although his methods were a bit old-fashioned—and extreme. Her brain formed words of protest, and sh
e spoke at the same time he did.

  "Ladden, about the billboards—"

  "Jasmine, about the billboards—"

  They both stopped, laughing. "Me first," she said. She inhaled deeply and ordered her pulse to slow. "I, um, always considered us friends, but if I've done anything to make you think there's something between... I mean"—she exhaled— "I'm already involved with someone." Her skin tingled, and she was thankful he couldn't see her.

  "Jasmine," his voice rumbled across the line, "most of the state knows who you're involved with."

  He sighed and she heard him fidgeting with the phone, as if he were walking... or pacing.

  "I'm sorry about the billboards—a well-meaning acquaintance of mine thought it would be funny."

  An odd sort of hurt found its way to her heart. "An acquaintance? You mean you didn't have anything to do with it?"

  "Not really," he said with a small laugh. "And my friend seems to be a bit scarce right now, so I don't expect him to step forward and release us from this predicament." He sighed again. "I'm truly sorry, Jasmine. I hope his stunt didn't compromise your relationship with McDonald."

  Flustered, Jasmine said, "Don't worry about Trey. He trusts me. I told him our relationship was strictly business, th-that you have a rug I want for his private quarters."

  "Which reminds me, my rug expert is dropping by tomorrow."

  "Great," she said cheerfully, relieved that the conversation had turned in a more neutral direction. "Call me when you have a price."

  "If I have a price," he corrected.

  "If you have a price."

  "I do need to deliver that table soon."

  She pulled her lower lip into her mouth. "Um, I'm not sure if it would be such a good idea for you to go to the governor's mansion right now."

  "Why not? It might give more validity to our story if we simply act normal."

  "Story?" She glanced around as if someone might hear her. "This isn't a story we made up to cover some clandestine affair."

  "I know."