HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT: Chapter Two
10:00 A.M.
Rainy November days were best for daydreaming, Fiona Kennedy decided, and she arranged herself in an indolent slouch at the desk of her Los Angeles bookstore. Norah Jones crooned from the CD player, and the piquant smell of brewing espresso mingled with the pungent scent of old rooms and even older books.
The accounting software seriously needed upgrading, but she couldn't seem to muster the energy to boot up the program, much less do all that point-and-click stuff. The gentle pattering on the windows, the soft whistle of wind, and the cozy dimness lulled her into a state of self-indulgence. The only way she could be more comfortable right now was if she could trade in her casual rust-colored pants and the soft, ivory silk turtleneck for jeans and a sweatshirt.
The awful tension of the past few weeks was gone, now that the lawyers had finally gotten Richard declared dead -- five years after he'd driven his car into a deep, fast-running river.
After years of searching for a body that had never turned up, and years of living in limbo, she was legally a widow, and the official stamp had lifted that last, shadowy weight off her shoulders. She could get on with her life without that thread of doubt holding her back and her friends no longer had any reason to rag on her about "hiding" herself away from the world.
As if. Just because Diana was recently married and Cassie looked to be heading in the same direction, they suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to pair her up.
The idea of getting married again didn't make her want to run screaming in the opposite direction, but she needed some time for herself before she started thinking in those terms again.
Still, men were figuring in her thoughts more frequently lately -- mostly as a physical itch of need. What she needed was a mindless fling, a few days or weeks of hot, guilt-free sex to clear the slate and get back into the groove. She was only thirty-six; there had to be lots and lots of grooves left for her to get back into.
Fiona settled farther back in her old leather desk chair, eyeing the dozens of brochures spread across her desk beside the new accounting software box she was trying to ignore.
Hmmm...work or play?
Work could wait. She shoved the software aside, leaving the colorful jumble of brochures to dominate the big oak desk.
Tahiti. Bahamas. Barbados. Caribbean. Jamaica. Oahu.
The names were like poetry: a cadence of the exotic, of blue seas and white beaches and warm winds, palm trees and lazy nights sipping fruity drinks in an outdoor bar with little white lights sparkling like stars.
Her daydreams had been of the tropical island flavor for months now, and today she'd pick a destination, book a plane ticket, and call Eddie to arrange for him to watch the store and feed her cat. Then she'd buy skimpy new clothes, maybe get her hair cut, and arrange for a facial, pedicure, and manicure before hopping on a plane and thoroughly indulging herself for two weeks straight.
"I want to go scuba diving," she murmured and was answered by a muffled meow from somewhere beneath her desk. "I wasn't asking your opinion, Faustus."
The cat emerged, a huge, pure black male that had left his tomcatting ways behind long ago and packed on some extra pounds. Snobby, contrary, lazy, and solely hers, he was alternately her daily companion and a furry pain in the ass. He stretched, face to the floor, butt and tail arched, and gave another rumbling meow.
Smiling, Fiona scratched his ears on the side, where he liked it best. "Not that you have any idea about these things, but all the girls who've vacationed on the islands tell me the scuba instructors are gorgeous...and easy. I need an affair, Faustus. A hot, totally self-indulgent affair."
Faustus twitched his tail and lumbered down the musty, narrow stacks crammed full of old British books, which she fondly called the British Aisles -- a pun too few people appreciated.
Outside, the wind picked up and the rain splattered against the windows with more force. They'd gotten more rain than usual this year, which was why the idea of sun-drenched tropical isles held such appeal. She had a feeling the lousy weather had also played a part in keeping business so slow this week.
She read through the brochures, weeding them out one by one until her choices had narrowed down to the Caribbean or the Bahamas. If the Caribbean really came with pirates like Captain Jack Sparrow, the choice would've been a no-brainer, but she kept coming back to the Bahamas brochures, which featured lots of diving tours and flashy shots of tanned, hard-bodied scuba instructors.
Fiona grinned. "The Bahamas it is then."
As she reached for the phone, it rang. She picked it up and said briskly, "Kennedy Antiquarian Books. How may I help you?"
Silence. She waited for a few seconds, certain she could hear someone breathing on the other end, then repeated, "Can I help you? Hello?"
The loud click of the line disconnecting was her answer. Fiona held the phone away from her, staring at it with exasperation for a moment before calling her travel agency. Fifteen minutes later, she had her trip booked for early January.
What better way to kick off this new phase in her life than starting the new year in an exotic locale she'd never visited before, and indulging in new experiences and adventures?
Several older women came in, browsed a short while, then left. After that, one of her regulars stopped by to pick up a first edition of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath for quite a nice sum.
Fiona began dusting shelves -- a never-ending chore in this old heap of a place -- and was extravagantly flicking the feather duster along to the sweeping rhythm of Andrea Bocelli's magnificent voice when the door chimes tinkled, announcing another customer.
She turned and went still with amazement. Tall, blond, wearing an expensive leather duster, he had to be the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
Next to him she felt plain as mud, and it took her a moment to find her voice. "Hello. May I help you?"
The man put his umbrella in the stand by the door and smiled.
"Is there something in particular you're looking for?" she added.
"I'm not sure, thank you. I thought I would browse for a few minutes." His voice was masculine but not too deep -- a smooth, rich tone suited to his white-blond, blue-eyed good looks -- and held a faint accent.
"Take as much time as you'd like. If you have any questions, please ask."
"I'm on my way to a meeting and time is short, but I'm certain I will find something of interest here." His gaze caught hers, and as she tried not to stare, he smiled again. "Then I will return later. What time do you close?"
"I close at five on weeknights, but I'm open until seven on Saturdays, if you can't make it back by then."
He walked closer, and she admired the way he carried himself. Men this well-groomed and handsome were, alas, all too often gay, but this one -- this one radiated a sexuality that was most definitely for her benefit.
"Thank you. And might I say that I notice you have an accent. A lovely one. Irish, yes?"
"Yes, a transplanted Belfast girl. I can tell you're not from around here yourself. Are you in L.A. for business?"
"Ah, you notice! Then my English is not as good as I hope, despite all my practicing." He gave her a look of mock sorrow, and she couldn't help but smile back at him.
"Your English is very good, actually. I deal regularly with international customers, so I'm more attuned to it. I'm guessing Dutch. Or German."
"You have sharp ears." He made his way slowly toward the closest aisle, trailing a long, well-manicured finger along the worn and faded spines. "I'm a native Berliner, though business takes me all over the world. Even to great cities like Los Angeles."
"Are you a bookseller? Or are antique and collectible books a hobby?" Fiona asked, her gaze following him as he moved toward the case with several rare 18th century French political treatises.
"Old things are my business, as it so happens. Finding, selling...you have a nice selection here."
"Nothing shockingly valuable or rare, but yes," she said, pleased that he'd noticed. "It's a nice collection. I'm quite proud of it."
Fiona returned to her desk. Her customer made his way through a few more aisles, lingering now and then over display cases, and she remained acutely aware of his presence. Then, after ten or so minutes of browsing with no intent that she could discern, the man headed for the door.
"Nothing caught your eye?" she asked and then went warm as she realized how her words might sound to a man who looked like this. He probably had to fight off women on a daily basis.
"There is much here to catch my eye, as I thought, but not enough time to take advantage of it. I will be back before you close today. You can count on that."
An interesting turn of phrase.
He flashed another wide smile, said good-bye, and left.
Even if he was on the odd side, she hoped he would come back. If nothing else, admiring him as he wandered around would be an enjoyable way to pass the time.
Now that she thought of about it, perhaps he'd been trying to flirt with her in his own way. She'd met enough men from around the world to know that flirtation might be universal, but the cultural nuances surrounding it were not.
Fiona smiled ruefully. Yes, indeed, she had men on the brain. Still, how often did a guy who looked like that walk through her door? It'd likely never happen again.
By noon she'd made an appointment to attend an estate auction the following week because the executor had listed books, magazines, maps, and other antique paper items. Shortly after that, she'd sold a bundle of turn-of-the- century sheet music for a good sum to a visiting couple from Santa Barbara.
The customers had barely walked out the door when her phone rang. "Hello, Kennedy Antiquarian Books."
Silence answered.
Again, she could hear someone on the other end of the line, breathing softly. Irritated, she slammed the cordless back on its stand.
Seconds later, the phone rang again.
Knowing it was best to ignore such pranks, Fiona didn't pick up this time. If it was a genuine call -- which she sincerely doubted, given the timing -- the answering machine would pick it up.
She couldn't ignore that tickle of unease as she listened to each ring until the machine switched on -- just in time to pick up the loud click of the disconnect.