Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I t surprised Troy to no end that Michaela didn’t call him first thing Friday morning to find out how the date had gone.
By noon, an agonizing need to hear her voice swept over him.
But Troy understood patience and determination, and he had the willpower of an Olympian.
It struck him by midafternoon that Michaela had probably called Alice.
But if that were so, why wasn’t Michaela calling him to say she was working on setting him up with someone else?
But it was Friday, and Troy didn’t have time to ponder the situation. Tonight was Mathilda Sullivan’s book signing, and Troy had to drive up to the city in the midst of San Francisco rush hour because he had to get the scoop.
Without giving Fernsby any forewarning, Troy arrived at the venue half an hour before the signing was scheduled to begin.
The store sat just off Union Square, and the line was—shocker—around the block.
Good God, it was massive, people shuffling forward in groups of two to five.
There had to be at least five hundred people here.
How the hell was he supposed to find Fernsby?
As Troy walked along the line to the front, wanting to get a peek inside, he found his quarry. Second shocker of the night—the man was first in line, wearing his usual staid black suit. Fernsby didn’t know the meaning of casual dress, not even for a book signing.
Before even saying hello, Troy burst out, “What the hell time did you get here? Oh-dark-thirty this morning?”
Fernsby’s stern facade didn’t crack one bit as he drawled, “I didn’t arrive until noon, sir.”
The man had been standing here for over six hours?
Troy leaned in close to murmur, “Didn’t you even get out of line to take a leak?”
Fernsby tipped his head back to look down his long beak of a nose at Troy. “You should know by now, sir, that my control is legendary.”
Troy was struck by the fact that he’d never seen Fernsby even go into the facilities, not ever. Maybe he could hold it all day and only went at night.
Then Fernsby said, “Pray tell, sir, what are you doing here?”
Troy had nothing to hide. “I’m like a dog with a bone, Fernsby. I had to know what was up with you.”
Fernsby raised one mildly irritated brow. “It’s a book signing, sir. I would have told you if you’d asked.”
Troy gaped at him. “But I did.”
Fernsby tapped his temple. “I have a mind like a steel trap, sir. I would recall that.”
Troy couldn’t help coming back at him. “Then your steel trap didn’t spring.”
Their discussion was cut off abruptly when the guy behind Fernsby said, “No cuts in line.”
This time, Fernsby didn’t need to tip his head back to stare down at the man, a chunky guy with round glasses and flushed cheeks. “This gentleman is not cutting in line. He’s not even buying the book.” Then he cold-shouldered the man and said to Troy, “Isn’t that correct, sir?”
Troy shrugged guiltily. “I hadn’t planned on it.” Then he let a wide smile stretch across his face. “I’ll borrow your copy.”
Fernsby gazed at him with a look that said, Think again if you don’t want to come to blows over it.
Wow. The man actually seemed territorial.
Then Fernsby said, “Mathilda Sullivan is the best mystery writer of her time, perhaps surpassed only by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Troy said.
Fernsby rolled his eyes in answer. But then, Troy hadn’t been asking a question.
But he couldn’t help asking the question that had been burning a hole right through his brain cells. “Do you know Mathilda Sullivan? I mean, her detective is named after you.”
Fernsby did his look-down-the-nose thing again. “Sir, she is a world-renowned mystery author. I —” He put a hand to his chest. “—am merely a butler.”
Fernsby had never called himself merely anything. And it wasn’t an answer.
Troy was suddenly waylaid by a vision of Michaela Killian walking down the sidewalk toward them. A mirage, a phantom, a fantasy. She couldn’t be real. He’d conjured her with all his wishful thinking.
Then he forgot his question, forgot the writer, even forgot his own name.
Because the impossible was sometimes possible. And this was no vision. It was Michaela in the flesh.
She looked to Fernsby first. “Fernsby. What are you doing here?” She didn’t even give the man a chance to answer.
“I’m one of Mathilda Sullivan’s biggest fans.
I have every one of her books, and I’ve read them all more than once.
When I got her newsletter, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to get a signed copy. ”
Miracle of miracles, Fernsby smiled. Granted, it wasn’t much more than a slight stretch of his lips, but Troy knew him well enough to recognize that as a Fernsby smile. “My dear Miss Killian, it’s delightful to see you here. And to know that you, too, appreciate a great author of our time.”
Michaela laughed. If Troy thought Alice Fletcher’s laugh was sweet, holy hell, Michaela’s laugh just about knocked him flat. So sweet. So musical. So entrancing.
“Please, Fernsby, call me Michaela.”
Fernsby continued the flattery. “I knew you were a woman of great discernment when I first met you.”
She put her hand on Fernsby’s arm, and Troy had the outrageous urge to hold out his own so she could touch him too. He had it bad. When was the last time a woman had affected him like this? Had he ever been affected like this?
“Tell me,” Michaela said, “did you start reading the Camilla Fernsby mysteries because the detective has your name?”
Yeah, Fernsby. Why is the detective’s name the same as yours? Troy didn’t say that, but he did wait with bated breath to hear the answer. Or maybe he just liked looking at Michaela.
Fernsby didn’t even smile. “With that name, I knew the mysteries must be superb.”
Damn, it was the same kind of non-answer he’d already given Troy.
Then they discussed every book Mathilda Sullivan had ever written, their favorite scenes, and the fact that neither could pick a favorite book because they both loved them all.
And not once did Michaela look at Troy.
He was obviously chopped liver in her book.
Serendipity? Michaela could only think so.
She hadn’t called Troy to find out how his date had gone, sitting on her hands almost all day to stop herself from picking up the phone and consequently not getting much done.
She hadn’t called Alice either. Michaela had a rule to wait two days before tackling a client, if they hadn’t already called her.
Sometimes people needed time to digest the event.
But Troy was here. And so damned delicious in black jeans and a leather jacket clinging tightly to his incredible form that it was all she could do not to let her mouth water. Thank God Fernsby was here and she could talk books and Mathilda Sullivan.
The flushed guy behind them opened his mouth to mutter, “I suppose she’s not buying a book either.”
Fernsby flashed him a look, and the man clamped his lips shut.
It was rude to take cuts, though. “I’ll stay here until the door opens,” she said, “then go to the back of the line.”
But Fernsby practically snarled, “I’ve been saving this spot. I stood here all afternoon so that you and I could be first in line. So, my dear Michaela, you are not taking cuts.”
The man behind them kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were still shooting daggers.
After Fernsby’s proclamation, she didn’t have a choice.
Two women exited the store, each carrying a box of books.
Michaela had preordered her copy—in fact, it was a requirement to get in.
It would have been a total mob scene if people not only had to wait in line to get a signed copy, but also to pay for it.
Pre-ordering was genius. One woman ticked names off the list while the other handed out books.
The woman with the clipboard stared aghast at Troy when he said he hadn’t bought a book. She stuttered, “Bu-but, sir, we can’t accommodate purchases at this time.”
She seemed to melt beneath the power of Troy’s smile. “I understand completely. I won’t try to buy a book or have one signed, I promise.”
The store clerk sighed as if he’d whispered a sweet nothing, then both moved on.
The man certainly had an effect on the female population. Michaela wanted to slap herself, because he had an effect on her too.
She noticed then that Fernsby was staring at the photo of Mathilda Sullivan on the dust jacket. While he was preoccupied, Michaela could no longer resist asking Troy, “How was your date last night?”
Then she wanted to smack herself again , because she sounded too interested. But no, it was only logical that she should ask.
Troy smiled the same smile that had made the store clerk stutter. “Alice was a delight. I liked her a lot. She’s a wonderful conversationalist. And she’s so accomplished. She was everything you advertised.”
Michaela wanted to scream as he held forth on Alice Fletcher’s amazing qualities.
Her thoughts literally whirling, she had to bite the tip of her tongue not to ask all the questions buzzing in her brain. Did you touch her? Did you kiss her? Did you sleep with her? Are you going to marry her? How many children will you have? Her mind had taken her ten years down the road.
She had to rein herself in, but her smile felt brittle. “That’s so nice.”
She was sure he’d at least kissed the woman. She looked down at his hands. He’d probably touched her too.
The sane voice in her head—which didn’t even sound like her own—shouted, Stop, stop, stop!
It was only that command that allowed her to hear what Troy was saying. “But the truth is, we didn’t click.” He used air quotes to get his meaning across. And with that bone-melting smile, he added, “So you still need to keep looking for someone great for Alice. She deserves the best.”
Michaela was torn between wondering who else to set up Alice with and jumping up and down for joy.
Until he asked, “Do you have anyone else in mind for me?”