Jane Bites Back (3 page)

“What are you doing out here?”

She turned to see him watching her. His dark hair was swept back, and his eyes seemed to stare directly into her soul. When he smiled her heart skipped a beat.

“Watching the storm,” she answered.

He walked toward her, his limp only barely noticeable. From what she’d heard of him, she’d expected it to be more pronounced. But nothing about him was exactly as he was described. It was as if he appeared in different forms to everyone he met.

“It suits you,” he said when he was standing beside her. “The storm, I mean.” He put an arm around her waist. “They all think of you as a quiet afternoon,” he said. “But inside you rage with passion, don’t you?”

She said nothing. How was it he could know her so well? Already she felt as if she’d known him for years, but it had been only a day since her arrival.

“The night shows stars and women in a better light,” he said
as thunder rumbled overhead. “Come inside. You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

She allowed him to lead her back into the drawing room. But he didn’t stop there. Instead he led her down the hallway lined with portraits and landscapes and into a bedroom. His bedroom. She paused, looking at the enormous bed of carved mahogany, its sides hung with ruby red velvet draperies. The sheets were a tangled nest, as if he’d just risen from them. Throughout the room candles burned, warming the air and filling it with the faint scent of flowers.

“I can’t,” Jane told him, suddenly afraid.

“Of course you can,” he said. “There’s nothing to fear.”

She trembled as he turned and began undressing her. She closed her eyes for fear that looking at him would make her flee from the room. His fingers moved deftly over her body, slipping her dress from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. Then he was undoing the laces of her stays. She barely breathed as he took them from her. Finally, he removed her chemise and she stood before him naked.

When his hands cupped her breasts she gasped, and when his mouth touched her skin she felt her knees buckle. He caught her, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed. He placed her atop the sheets and stepped back. She watched through half-closed eyes as he removed his clothes. His chest was lean, his skin pale as milk. When he stepped from his trousers she glanced briefly at his manhood before looking away.

Then he was beside her, his hand stroking her as he told her how beautiful she was. His kisses covered her face, her neck, her breasts and stomach. His hands drew from her such pleasure that her breath caught in her throat.

In seconds he was on top of her, looking down into her face.

His eyes bore into her, and she could not look away. Outside the storm raged, the wind blowing one of the windows open and letting in the rain. At that moment he leaned down and kissed her. His mouth moved to her neck.

As his teeth pierced her flesh her eyes flew open.

Chapter 3

J
ANE WALKED INTO
F
LYLEAF
B
OOKS CARRYING THE VERY LARGE,
very hot, and very black coffee she’d picked up to banish the headache left behind by the wine. Worse than the headache was the lingering memory of her dream.
I behaved so badly
, she thought.
Not at all like a lady
.

“Nice of you to come in,” Lucy teased. She pushed a lock of long, curly black hair behind her ear.

In her early twenties, Lucy Sebring was sarcastic, funny, and fiercely intelligent. At her interview two years ago she’d told Jane that she’d left college to play in an all-girl punk rock band whose song titles were lifted from well-known feminist works. After six months on the road together the four of them had all started to get their periods at the same time. They’d broken up one night when, in front of an audience, the bass player deliberately launched into “The Female Eunuch” while the singer shouted the opening lyrics of “Ain’t I a Woman?” The resulting name-calling soon escalated into accusations and tears and ended spectacularly when the drummer, a mousy former philosophy major who had long passages from Valerie Solanas’s
SCUM Manifesto
tattooed on her body, stood up and screamed, “Betty Friedan can’t write for shit!” Lucy had related the story with such skill that Jane had hired her on the spot.

“By the way,” Lucy said as Jane took off her coat and hung it up, “you might want to take a look at today’s paper.” She nodded to the copy of the
Daily Inquirer
, which was open on the counter.

Jane picked it up and scanned the front page. “Meade College receives endowment from retired state senator?” she asked, reading the lead.

“Below that,” said Lucy.

Jane looked. “Brakeston Lady Beavers advance to district playoffs,” she read.

“Give me that,” said Lucy, snatching the paper from her. She began to read. “‘Noted author Melodie Gladstone was found wandering down Main Street early this morning after police received calls from several concerned citizens. According to Officer Pete Bear, one of two officers who responded to the scene, Gladstone appeared to be intoxicated or perhaps under the influence of an unknown substance. Gladstone is the author of the bestselling
Waiting for Mr. Darcy
and was in town for a reading at Flyleaf Books.’”

Lucy flipped the page. “There’s a picture,” she said.

Jane looked at the shot of Melodie Gladstone. She was in the street, flanked by the two police officers, each of whom gripped one of her arms. Her hair was a rat’s nest, and her eyes were ringed with mascara and eye shadow. Her face wore a lost expression, and her mouth was slightly open.

“Good heavens,” said Jane. “It looks as if they’ve caught a rabid raccoon. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’d had her stuffed and mounted on the wall at the station.”

“You drove her back to the hotel,” Lucy said. “Did anything happen?”

Jane shook her head. “I dropped her off and went home,” she replied. “Although now that I think of it, she did say something about wanting to get a drink.”

“Well, I’d say she got more like six or seven drinks,” Lucy commented. “Just wait until this story gets out. Little Miss Perfect is going to lose a lot of readers.”

“The poor dear,” said Jane.

“Yes,” Lucy agreed. “I weep for her.”

The two exchanged a glance, and Jane detected a hint of satisfaction in Lucy’s eyes, but they said nothing more. Then Lucy went back to work. She was opening boxes of books that had arrived in the morning’s UPS delivery. This was one of her great pleasures, seeing the new titles come in. Her enthusiasm for them almost always made Jane feel better. She herself had become somewhat resentful of newly published books—much as childless women sometimes regarded new mothers and their infants with a mixture of jealousy and despair—and it was nice to see that someone was still excited by them.

“Oh, look,” Lucy exclaimed, reaching into the first box. “Jane Austen paper dolls. They’re
adorable
. This will be perfect for the Austen section.”

“Austen section?” Jane said, looking up from the bills she had picked up from the counter and was sorting through. “What Austen section?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I told you last week,” she said. “I’m going to put together an Austen section. You saw how popular that Gladstone book is. Just look at all the other Austen stuff we have. Besides her own novels we have novels
about
her. Then there’s
The Jane Austen Cookbook
and the bios and the collected letters. Oh, and I just read in
Publishers Weekly
that someone has written a Jane Austen self-help book.”

“A what?” Jane asked sharply.

“Yeah,” said Lucy. “It’s about figuring out which Jane Austen character you’re most like and then developing a life plan around that personality type. It’s called
Will the Real Elizabeth Bennet Please Stand Up
. Deepak Chopra wrote the introduction. Anyway, it’ll be huge.”

Jane gritted her teeth. She’d hoped the ridiculous cookbook would be the end of the Austen mania. But her popularity had only continued to grow. Just the other day she’d seen in a magazine that dresses based on the fashions of her time were going to be all the rage for proms and summer weddings.

Really, it was all too much, particularly as Jane herself was enjoying none of the benefits associated with being one of the most popular authors of all time. No royalty checks came her way. No one asked her permission to make the book group reading guides or gardening books or knitting patterns that sold by the cartload. The fact that she was for all intents and purposes dead did little to ease her annoyance.

She began the odious task of counting the drawer. She had made her way through the twenties and tens and fives and was starting on the always irritating singles (when one wanted them to make change there were never enough of them, yet when one hoped for a substantial day’s profit there were always too many) when the bell above the door tinkled.

Hoping for a customer, she was slightly disappointed to see Walter Fletcher walking toward her. Dressed in his customary uniform of tan chinos and checked flannel shirt beneath a brown twill jacket embroidered with his name and the name of his house restoration company, he was as cheerful as he always was. In five years Jane hadn’t once seen him frown.

Walter set a paper bag on the counter and slid it toward her. Jane opened it, and the air filled with the scent of cinnamon.

“You didn’t,” said Jane.

“I did,” Walter replied.

Jane reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon bun. Sticky with sugar, it was still warm. She bit into it and groaned. Of all the misconceptions about her kind, the one she’d been most relieved to find untrue was that they lost their ability to enjoy food. True, it nourished her not at all, but the upside was that it also did not increase her figure. She remained precisely the size she had been at her death.

“They came out of the oven not ten minutes ago,” Walter told her.

Jane had tasted many wonderful things during her two centuries, but few compared to the cinnamon buns made by the bakery located a few doors down from her shop. Jane was addicted to them. The fact that Walter had brought her one made her suspicious.

“What do you want?” she asked him.

Walter’s blue eyes sparkled merrily as he watched her lick the sugar glaze from her fingers. “Who says I want something?” he asked, feigning indignation. “Can’t I just bring a friend a cinnamon bun?”

“Come on,” said Jane, taking another bite. “Out with it.”

Walter smiled. “All right,” he said. “I confess. I do have a tiny favor to ask you.”

Jane waited for him to continue. Walter paused, clearly thinking about how to proceed. Before he could speak Jane said, “Walter, we’ve been through this before. I can’t go out with you. I mean—”

“I don’t want to go out with you,” Walter interrupted.

Jane looked at him, surprised.

“I mean, I
do
want to go out with you,” Walter said, blushing. “But I know you won’t—”

“Can’t,” Jane corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

“Can’t,” Walter agreed. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’d like you to come to my New Year’s Eve party.”

Jane groaned. “I detest New Year’s Eve,” she said. “So much fuss and nonsense about another year, all of it cleverly designed to result in the deepest of disappointment.”

“It’s just a party,” Walter said. “There will be champagne.”

“How grand,” said Jane. “And I suppose there will be charades and the Minister’s Cat?”

Walter gave her a look that reminded her far too much of a wounded puppy. “Please?” he said.

Jane took another bite of cinnamon bun and chewed it before answering. “Possibly,” she replied. “But only because you bribed me.”

Walter smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be pleased to have you.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I’ve got to go,” said Walter, looking at his watch. “We’re tearing out Maggie Beecher’s kitchen this morning, and she throws a fit if we’re not there by ten sharp.”

He hurried out before Jane could make any further protests. When he was gone Lucy said, “I don’t know why you won’t go out with him. He’s been asking you for over a year.”

Jane sighed. “We’re just not a good match,” she said.

“Because he’s a carpenter?” asked Lucy.

“No,” Jane said sharply. “And he’s not just a carpenter. He restores old houses, and beautifully. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s just that he … that I … we don’t …” She couldn’t finish the sentence in any way that wouldn’t make her sound like a snob.

“I don’t get it,” said Lucy. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He likes books and art and all the same things you do. Plus he’s a hottie.”