Mr. Valentine Read online

  His anxiety level dropped several notches. “No problem. I’ll just leave out the football and emphasize the writing class. A bio doesn’t have to reveal my gender.”

  “That’s true, but I think a picture will.”

  “They want a picture of me?”

  “No, they want a picture of Candy Valentine.”

  He cringed anew at the pseudonym. “I hope you told them you weren’t photogenic. Ugly, even.”

  “I tried, but she said they didn’t care. I said I had nothing recent, but that didn’t matter to her, either. She was getting very suspicious, and I was afraid she might start asking the wrong questions, so finally I agreed to come up with something.”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck. Then he glanced at her. “Would you consider it?”

  “Sending a picture of me? I don’t know what else we can do.”

  He caught her use of “we.” She considered herself part of this project now. At least there was that. “I’d sure appreciate it if you could find a picture, then. This should be the last thing I have to ask of you.”

  “It’s no problem, really. I believe in finishing what I start. And obviously this isn’t quite finished.”

  “No,” Jack said, gazing at her and remembering the explosive nature of their kiss. “I guess not.”

  AT LUNCH THE NEXT DAY Krysta sat down and placed a manila envelope next to her tray. “I went home last night and started going through pictures, but I didn’t have very many of myself.” She glanced at Jack. Much as she tried to retain the sisterly attitude she’d always had toward him, it was slipping fast. “I guess people don’t keep a lot of pictures of themselves around. Just of other people.” She didn’t mention that while searching for the right picture she’d replayed their shared kisses many times over in her mind. That second kiss had really rocked her. She’d never been kissed with such abandon or responded with such gusto herself. Thank God she’d come to her senses and pulled away. Once again she’d put her reaction down to the unusual nature of the moment. Discovering Jack wasn’t the person she’d imagined had flustered her more than a little.

  “I hope you didn’t spend much time on this picture business.” He slathered his hot dog with mustard. “We’re just throwing something at them to satisfy their public relations department.”

  “You sound as if appearances don’t matter.”

  “They don’t, in this case. All that really matters is the manuscript.” He took a large bite.

  As she watched him ingest the preservative-filled hot dog she reminded herself that although he might have given her the most exciting kiss of her life, he was still just plain Jack, a guy who needed direction, both in matters of diet and business. She’d concentrate on the most important first. “I agree the manuscript is important, but so is your image. Stephanie already has a mental picture of Candy Valentine as a competent, imaginative person with a lot of confidence in herself. The picture we send should support that mental image.”

  He finished chewing and swallowed. “How can we miss? You’re a competent, imaginative person with a lot of confidence in yourself. I’m sure that comes across on camera.” He reached for the envelope. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Wait.” She snatched it back. “Let me present them and explain my reasoning for each one. Then we’ll choose.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Good thing I didn’t let you proofread my manuscript. It’d probably still be in rewrites while you searched for that last little typo.”

  She gasped. “You didn’t send it in with mistakes, did you, Jack?”

  He leaned toward her, his blue eyes serious behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes, Krysta, I probably did, exhausted as I was. But I threw caution to the winds and sent it in, anyway. And look what happened.”

  “You were lucky!” She wondered how Jack had made it this far in life, disorganized and sloppy as he seemed to be. “Mistakes undermine your credibility. I’m certainly glad I didn’t know about this before I bargained on your behalf yesterday. I might not have had the confidence to push so hard, knowing there were probably misplaced commas and heaven knows what else lurking in that manuscript.”

  “Lots of good sex.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the teasing light there, but behind the teasing burned a more potent fire, one that brought back the memory of their explosive kiss from the day before. “So Stephanie said.” She took a quick gulp of water and opened the envelope. “Okay. I narrowed it down to three.”

  “Sounds like plenty of choices to me.”

  “I’m not so sure.” She pulled out the top one, a black and white shot she’d had taken to mail out with her resume three years ago. “This is actually the most correct thing to send. But it may be too polished for someone who’s just a beginner. Not spontaneous enough, after the way I protested about sending a picture in the first place.”

  Jack took the picture by the edges. She was surprised he handled it with such care, given his general tendencies.

  He studied it intently before looking up at her with a critical eye. “The photographer didn’t capture your spirit. This is quite beautiful, but it’s also a little flat.”

  She bristled. “He’s an excellent photographer with a studio in Seattle. I told him I wanted this for professional purposes, and I think he made me look very professional. Derek complimented me on that picture when he saw it in the personnel files.”

  “I’m sure he did. It’s Hamilton’s sort of picture.”

  “Which points out his good business sense. This picture helped me get the job here at Rainier. You’re awfully hard on Derek, Jack. He’s never done anything to you, and you could probably learn some things from him that would help you now that you’re moving into a new career.”

  He looked so much like a belligerent little boy who’d been chastised that she laughed. “Be honest, now. Derek is not a bad guy.”

  The belligerence cleared from his eyes and he smiled. “You’re right. In fact, he’s a real inspiration.”

  She didn’t trust that kind of turnaround from a man like Jack. And she had a new respect for his use of words now that she knew about his writing. “That didn’t sound particularly sincere.”

  “It should, because I mean it.” He shifted in his chair. “What else do you have?”

  She picked up the second photograph, one of her sitting in Juliet Bancroft’s gazebo during a garden party Juliet had hosted for Rainier employees the previous summer. Krysta had borrowed a lace dress and picture hat from Rosie’s sister for the event, which had been held a couple of weeks before Jack had begun work at the paper plant. Juliet had taken the picture, saying Krysta looked like something out of Victoria magazine against the latticework of the gazebo and a riot of climbing pink roses. That party was where Derek had first noticed her.

  “Now, this is certainly romantic enough to be Candy Valentine.” She handed it to him, waiting while he wiped mustard from his hands with a napkin. “Maybe too romantic,” she added. “They might not take a woman like this seriously enough. But I thought you might go for this one, so I put it in.”

  Jack’s gaze softened as he looked at the picture. Once again he glanced up at her, as if to compare the real woman with the photograph. “Better. Much better. But deceptive. You’re not this sweet.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  He laughed, which dislodged his glasses. He pushed them back up on his nose and grinned at her. “Sorry. But remember that I listened in on the extension while you put the screws to Stephanie Briggs, esteemed senior editor of the prestigious Manchester Publishing House. You won’t be able to pull the demure routine on me any more.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. He was absolutely right, and after the first shock of indignation she discovered she preferred his assessment of her to Derek’s, who had recently thought he was complimenting her by telling her she was a “lovely, uncomplicated girl.” Derek underestimated her, and maybe that was one reason why she couldn’t warm to him.
/>   “Hey, nice pictures,” Bud, the foreman from shipping, commented as he walked past their table carrying a loaded tray. He paused to look at the studio portrait and the gazebo shot. Then he glanced at Krysta. “You entering some beauty contest or something?”

  Her brain went blank.

  “She has a pen pal in Tasmania, and she was wondering what picture to send to her,” Jack said smoothly.

  “Oh.” Bud consulted the pictures again. “The roses one. The other one doesn’t look very friendly.”

  “Thanks,” Krysta said.

  “Anytime. And next time you pay us a visit in shipping, get a hard hat from my office first, okay?”

  “I promise.”

  Bud looked at Jack. “See you at the dock in twenty minutes, Killigan. You can’t make us any money looking at pen pal pictures.”

  “Right.”

  As Bud moved out of earshot, Krysta let out a sigh of relief. “You came up with that pretty fast, Jack.”

  “Don’t forget I write fiction. And we do have to hurry along. What’s the last one you brought?”

  She withdrew the final picture, a snapshot her brother Ned had taken of her during the Father’s Day picnic on the beach. Everyone had brought cameras and they’d produced a stack of shots—the free-for-all volleyball game, everyone taking turns cooking hamburgers, the furious activity surrounding the sand castle they’d built, and her father hoisting a beer with a happy smile on his face. Then, at sunset, Ned had posed Krysta against the same gnarled piece of driftwood she’d used for her shot of her father and his sons. The breeze had ruffled her hair and the joy of the day shone from her face.

  Jack took one look at the picture and nodded. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, shorts and a halter top aren’t very professional. I’m even barefoot, and my hair’s all askew.”

  “It’s perfect.” Jack focused on the picture. “Who took it?”

  “Ned. Why?”

  “He has a great eye. Maybe he should go into it professionally.”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t that kind of a risky occupation?”

  He glanced at her. “Every occupation is risky. Today’s hot career is tomorrow’s unemployment line. You can’t guarantee those four brothers of yours a steady living, Krysta.”

  She lifted her chin. “Maybe not, but I want them to have a darned good head start, which means getting a degree. You may do fine without one, but you’re the exception.”

  He regarded her steadily. “I’d say your brothers’ greatest asset is having you there cheering them on.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Her cheeks warmed.

  “I don’t. At least Ned knows your value. He’s captured it in this picture. Is it the only print?”

  She became more embarrassed. “Well, no. All my brothers reacted like you have to the picture, and Ned had to make copies for everyone. My dad has an eight-by-ten on his dresser. I told Ned he certainly didn’t have to make a print for me, but he said he might as well as long as he was getting copies. He told me to give it to a boyfriend or something.”

  “So how come Hamilton doesn’t have it?”

  It was a puzzling question she had no answer to. “I guess I forgot,” she said.

  “His loss, then.” Jack opened the flap of the chest pocket on his coveralls and tucked the picture carefully inside.

  She still had misgivings about such an informal shot. “Are you sure that’s the right one? To be honest, all three of them have some drawback, in my opinion. I even considered getting somebody to take a roll of me so we’d have more choices.”

  Jack shook his head. “Somebody could take six rolls of film and not get anything better than this.” He patted his pocket. “You look happy, confident, full of life. If they need a mental picture of Candy, this is the one I want them to have.”

  She realized she’d just lost control of the decision. She was used to Jack being more tentative, but in this matter he seemed to know exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t plan to consult her further. Well, it was his career, after all, even if it was her picture he was using.

  He glanced at the clock on the cafeteria wall and pushed himself away from the table. “I’d better get back to the dock. Thanks for the picture, Krysta. This really should be the last thing I have to bother you about.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ve enjoyed it.”

  He smiled. “Especially the power negotiating part, right?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, I have to admit it worked. Left to my own devices, I would have been a poorer man.”

  “When will you get the money?”

  “Not for a while, I suppose. I’ve read some magazine articles that say it can be weeks or even months before the contract shows up. Then I have to sign it and return it before the first check will arrive.”

  “Don’t you dare sign that contract without letting me go over it, Jack Killigan.”

  He winked at her. “Pretty soon I’ll have to offer you a cut for all this business management advice.”

  “You most certainly will not! I’m helping you out of friendship, Jack.”

  He picked up his tray and gazed at her. “And you’ve been a good friend, Krysta,” he said. Then he turned and walked toward the tray cart.

  Krysta watched him leave the cafeteria, his physique disguised by the bulky coveralls that everyone in shipping had to wear. She’d never paid much attention to his body before. After all, he’d been just plain Jack, the happy-go-lucky Killigan kid, a boy going nowhere. Not the sort of person Krysta, who planned to do something significant with her life, could relate to.

  But she’d related to him with embarrassing enthusiasm when he’d kissed her yesterday. She’d become aware of broad shoulders, strong arms, and a very talented mouth, attributes she’d never associated with Jack Killigan before.

  She needed to forget that kiss, because she had no intention of becoming involved with Jack. Perhaps she hadn’t guessed that he was a writer but otherwise she knew his personality very well. He wasn’t at all her type.

  4

  AFTER KRYSTA PROVIDED the snapshot of her at the beach, Jack’s view over his computer improved considerably. Before he sent the picture to Manchester Publishing, he took it to a print shop and had them copy it as a two-by-three-foot poster that he tacked on the wall. His second romance novel had been going pretty well, but with the extra advantage of Krysta smiling at him with such tenderness every night, he found his fingers flying over the keys.

  His villain was taking shape nicely, too, thanks to Krysta’s suggestion that Derek Hamilton could be useful to him in his new career. Jack agreed with Krysta that Derek wasn’t such a terrible guy, and he probably didn’t deserve being skewered as the villain in this book, but Jack took great pleasure in doing it, anyway.

  And Jack’s stray cat had a name. One night as he was petting the cat’s thick fur he realized it had much the same shading and color as Krysta’s hair, which might have been why he’d allowed the cat to adopt him in the first place. Even the cat’s green eyes reminded him of Krysta’s.

  He should have figured out sooner why he’d developed such an affinity for the animal, but he’d probably tried not to acknowledge his growing feelings for a woman he couldn’t have. She had her sights firmly set on the likes of Derek, and if that was what she wanted, that was what he wanted her to get.

  He’d counseled himself to be satisfied with the friendship they shared, which had been strengthened by their collaboration on his career. Every lunch hour she’d begin the conversation by asking if he’d seen any sign of the contract yet, because without that he couldn’t begin to expect his first check.

  Krysta had spent that money several times over. A haircut was first on the list, but that wouldn’t take much. Then she’d suggested contact lenses. He’d worn them all through high school and college, but then he’d lost one, and money had been tight, so he’d gone back to an old pair of glasses. After the contact lenses she wanted him to b
uy a car. He’d tried to sell her on the charisma of a Harley, but she’d insisted that a motorcycle was cold, wet and impossible if you wanted to arrive somewhere looking like a person instead of a drowned rat.

  Jack had let her rave on about all the things he should do to improve his situation when the money arrived. He planned to put the whole advance in the bank. Maybe, if he kept saving, he’d be able to quit his day job and write full time. Now, that would be heaven.

  That and having Krysta near him full time. But that was truly out of reach, so he’d concentrate on the other goal and hope that in the chasing of it he’d ease the persistent, painfully sweet ache in his heart.

  TWO WEEKS HAD PASSED uneventfully when Krysta appeared once again on the shipping dock. This time she’d perched a yellow hard hat on her honey-blond hair, and she wore a winter white pantsuit that defined her trim figure beautifully. Jack threw the forklift into neutral and sat there staring at her for the pure joy of it. He must have been blind back in high school.

  She walked over to the idling machine and tipped her face up to look at him. Her gaze was anxious. “Can I see you for a minute? We’ve got trouble.”

  Heart hammering, Jack glanced over at Bud and held up his hand, fingers spread, to indicate he needed a five-minute break.

  Bud waved his approval.

  Jack shut down the forklift and swung to the ground. Trouble. Dammit, he’d known something would go wrong with the book deal. Somebody had read the manuscript and objected to any advance. He still had no contract, and he wasn’t sure what a verbal agreement was worth, especially if it came out that he hadn’t been the one agreeing.

  Once again they headed for Bud’s office. Jack held the door for her, followed her inside and closed it securely. “What kind of trouble?”

  She faced him and took off the hard hat. She was trembling. “I knew it was a mistake for me to pretend to be you. I knew it from the beginning. I can’t imagine what we’ll do now, Jack.”