Chapter Six
“Hey Clara,” Harry called as she passed, “some guy from the U of O was here asking for you. He left a note. It’s on your desk.”
Nick. Clara’s mouth silently formed his name. He’d said he’d be back soon for more books. Today?
At the counter, Harry chatted with a sixty-something couple dressed in motorcycle leathers.
“Here’s our boss lady.” His grin etched deep parentheses in his tan cheeks. “Molly and Dave brought us a stack of books. Good stuff.”
On her way to the counter, Clara nearly tripped over Lulu, who twined around her ankles in greeting.
“Move it, kitty. I’ll feed you in a moment.” She extended her hand to the couple, first her, then him. Both were pink-cheeked and beaming, as if they’d started their morning with a bracing bike ride. Or perhaps something even more fun.
Dave slid his hand around his wife’s waist. “We’re cleaning out the attic. Going to move to a smaller place, spend more time on the road. Hope you can use some of this.”
Clara glanced at the pile of books on the counter. “I’m sure we can. Do you prefer store credit or cash?”
“Cash, please. We can use the gas money.” He slapped his wife on her leather-clad behind. “Got places to go with my sweetie. Maybe Baja.”
Clara quickly flipped through the books, mostly hardbacks, including several coffee table books with gorgeous photos of exotic lands, and one more for the special collection: a leather-clad volume entitled The Brothels of Paris in the Belle Époque.
Molly grinned and winked. “This one’s an old favorite. Lots of good memories there.” She patted Clara’s hand. “Enjoy, darling.”
Clara made them an offer, which they accepted. She smiled as they fired up their huge Honda Goldwing and pulled away. Seeing an older couple so much in love and having so much adventurous fun gave her a whisper of hope for her own future.
She retired to her desk behind the wooden screen to tackle paperwork: bills, orders, bills, advertisements from publishers, more bills and, on top, a folded piece of notepaper. She opened it carefully.
Even his handwriting was beautiful—bold, slanted script.
Clara,
I’d like to come by this afternoon with my assistant Darcy to get started.
About one? If that doesn’t suit, please give me a call.
I look forward to seeing you again.
Nick
One o’clock. That left her—she checked her watch—three hours. She took a few deep breaths to steady her jangly nerves. Three hours to brace herself before Nick’s tall, strong form strode through the front door of her bookshop. Before his low, husky voice vibrated in her bones. Before his dark eyes pushed past her defenses, before the warmth of his body heated her skin…
Enough!
Clara folded the note, slid it into her desk drawer, and set to work. The deep pile of paperwork awaiting her attention almost kept her mind off Nick’s impending visit. Almost.
All morning, she found herself glancing at the clock. Just two more hours, just one…
This is dumb. I’m getting all worked up over nothing.
She opened her desk drawer and swept the remaining paperwork inside. There was no reason to let Nick see how flustered he’d made her. Satisfied, she gave the desktop a polish with the edge of her long, silk scarf.
Sunlight streaming in through the picture window made the bookshop warm and stuffy. Clara opened the top buttons of her satin blouse and checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall, then rebuttoned both buttons, then unbuttoned one.
Stop dithering.
Her hand strayed to her throat. Where was Jared’s necklace? She clearly remembered laying it on the bathroom counter before her shower—a silver Celtic knot on a black leather thong. Had it fallen somewhere? Or had she just forgotten to put it on? Nick would arrive in less than an hour, and for the first time in as long as she remembered, she wasn’t wearing anything of Jared’s. She was defenseless. Her stomach gave a queasy little lurch.
“Memories do not live in things,” she reminded herself with a whisper. “Memories live in our hearts.”
The affirmation helped a little, but her nerves still crackled with tension. Gotta move. Go shelve some books.
When she came out from behind the screen, the fringe on her scarf snagged on a book cover from the self-help section and tumbled the volume to the floor. She bent to pick it up and read the title: Yes, You Can Enjoy Life after Loss.
Blinking hard, she peered up and down the aisle. No one. Just voices up front, Harry and a customer discussing classic comic books. But somehow, the air around her sizzled, as if a lightning strike were imminent. The brass bell above the front door tinkled, and the little hairs on the back of her neck rose in response.
A woman’s voice, then Harry’s. “She’s back there, behind the screen.”
She straightened her spine and turned to face the customer.
She’s stunning. Taller than Clara and a good fifteen years younger, the visitor strode forward with the assured carriage of a comic-book super-heroine, maybe one of Wonder Woman’s Amazon clan. Swirling tattoos covered her bare arms. Long, gleaming blue-black hair fell over her shoulders and down to her narrow waist. Her tight jeans were slashed to reveal smooth, ivory skin, and her heavy leather biker boots clomped on the floor, coming nearer and nearer. Pale blue eyes locked onto Clara’s and narrowed.
“Clara?”
She nodded, clutching the fallen book to her chest like a shield.
The young woman held out her hand. Soft and smooth, it held no promise of Clara’s imminent demise.
“I’m Darcy Jones, Dr. Papadopoulos’s assistant. He told me to meet him here. We’re going to look at the sexy books, right?” She squeezed Clara’s hand and winked. “Nice way to spend an afternoon. So, where they at?”
“I, um, the erotica section is back there. I’ll get the key.” Blushing like a radioactive raspberry, she slid behind the counter.
The key to the red door dangled from Harry’s bony finger. “You want me to handle this?”
She took a deep breath, then gave him a tight smile. “No thanks, Harry. I’ve been avoiding the red room long enough. I’ll let her in. Her boss should be along soon. Tall guy, curly hair, Greek name. Please show him back when he arrives.”
Harry arched his wiry eyebrows but relinquished the key.
She unlocked the red door and waved Darcy into the small room. The younger woman pulled a tablet from her leather messenger bag. Its reflected light lent her pale eyes a slightly sinister gleam. As her fingers flicked across the screen, she sashayed slowly around the room, her hips sliding from side to side like a 1920s movie vamp. She paused here and there to pull out a book, check her tablet, and then place it in a growing pile on the antique settee.
“This okay?” She inclined her head toward the pile of books. “He gave me a pretty long list.”
“Sure, of course. Can I, um, be of assistance?”
She swiveled, trailed her gaze down Clara’s body, then her scarlet lips stretched in a slow smile. “Oh, I’ll bet you could.”
Clara spluttered and stepped back, not sure whether Darcy’s tone was flirtatious or mocking.
The assistant trailed her hand over the book spines until she reached the volume she was looking for. She caressed the cover and waggled her eyebrows. “I especially like this one. Tales from a Dressing Table.”
She leafed through the pages, her vivid lips forming silent Oh’s as she read.
“Look.” She showed Clara an art nouveau drawing of two maidens cavorting naked on a bed, surrounded by piles of frothy discarded skirts and a little pug dog who licked his mistress’s ankle while she writhed under her friend’s caresses.
Darcy moved in closer, lowered her voice, and turned the page. “It gets better. See?” She showed her a drawing of two women with elaborate upswept hair, naked but for stockings and delicate high-heeled shoes, each rubbing her crotch atop a severed male head with a long pigtail. Clara’s stomach lurched. She backed slowly toward the door, fumbling behind her. But instead of the hard, wooden door frame, her hand encountered something more pliable. And warm.
“Hello, Clara.”
She jumped so hard she nearly knocked them both to the floor.
Nick’s hand closed over her arm, pulled her around to face him, close enough to see the golden flecks glimmering in his dark irises, close enough to inhale his woodsy cologne.
“Steady, now.” He chuckled. “I see you’ve met my assistant.”
Keeping his hand on Clara’s shoulder, Nick reached for the book, which Darcy obediently surrendered, her eyes downcast.
“You’ll have to forgive her. Darcy takes delight in shocking people.” He released Clara’s shoulder and flipped through the pages. “You’re not the first to be startled by Franz von Bayros. His work got him exiled from more than one city.”
She peeked over his shoulder. A woman reclined on a couch, enjoying the attentions of her dog’s tongue between her legs.
“He drew many forbidden fetishes: bestiality, necrophilia. Like our Darcy, he liked to shock.”
“I had no idea we had something like this back here. Gives me the creeps.”
Nick closed the book, placed it atop the pile on the settee. “I’ll be glad to take it off your hands.”
“Please do.” The startling images with their leering smiles made the rosy little room too warm, too stuffy. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
Again, his warm, heavy hand fell on her shoulder. He leaned in closer, his dark eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, dear lady. My interest in such kinky material is purely academic. You’re safe with me.” Nick slid his hand down her arm until her hand rested in his. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her and, in her imagination, his hand continued to travel over the silky fabric of her blouse, then inside, sliding over her bare skin…
He held her gaze for a long moment, a hint of a smile on his full lips.
Darcy’s voice broke the spell. “Here’s another one from your list, Professor.”
He whispered in her ear, “Back to work.” His breath brushed against her skin like a kiss.
She was jolted by a sudden urge to flee—away from the close little room full of disturbing, titillating images—away from the press of Darcy’s teasing pale eyes and Nick’s inviting dark ones. Back to the safety of cookbooks and hobby books and mysteries.
“Right. Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” She closed the red door behind her, then leaned against the wall to catch her breath.
Clearly, she’d been wrong; she wasn’t ready to face the back room. It was too intoxicating, too unsettling. And so was Nick.