4 Four Play (5 page)

And Louise, fondly known as Geez Louise in the publishing industry, had landed Roslynn her first book contract with Perpetual Pleasures Press—the most respected name in romance fiction.

But now? But today? Lord help me, I was the one seeking assistance. Geez Louise had demanded it. “Get help!” she ordered me over the phone. “Get Roslynn!” she had said. “And get some sex on the page! Sex, sex, sex!”

“Sex,” I muttered forlornly, and Rosylnn looked up from the computer.

Her face softened considerably, and she assured me our brainstorming session would do wonders. “We’ll get this plot rolling, Jessie. I promise.”

“But I’ve lost my touch, Roslynn. No sex scenes. Zero.” I snapped my fingers. “Zip.”

“Zero?” She gasped. “Zip?”

“The problem is my premise,” I said. “But I swear it’s a good premise. Willow LaSwann is masquerading as a man.”

“No!”

“Yes! As you can imagine, the situation is most harrowing. Willow even cut her hair! She wept as her lovely golden locks dropped to the floor, but what else could she do? She’s impersonating a rancher.”

Roslynn cringed at the horror of it.

“She’s been wearing men’s clothing for weeks,” I explained. “And of course the poor girl has to bind herself up.”

“Let me guess. To hide her figure?”

“Correct,” I said. “Willow is endowed with a most womanly physique. But she’s determined to keep her ranch, and she knows the law. Women are not allowed to own land in Wilcox County. Her dearly-departed Uncle Hazard knew the rules, too. When he left Willow his ranch, he made sure to identify her, not as his favorite niece, but as his nephew. Will!”

I threw my hands up. “So therein lies the problem.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you see? The owner of the neighboring ranch, the ruggedly handsome Kipp Jupiter, doesn’t know Willow’s a woman. So how the heck do I write a sex scene into this mess?”

“How?” Roslynn shooed Snowflake from
Sensual and Scintillating
and began searching the index. “Adelé Nightingale doesn’t write gay romance, correct?”

“Correct. Adelé has nothing against that genre, but I doubt she could pull it off. And it gets even trickier since Will-slash-Willow really is female. Kipp Jupiter would have to be bisexual if he were to seduce Will-slash-Willow in his—that’s Kipp’s—current state of ignorance.” I shook my head. “And I doubt Adelé’s fans would accept that.”

I watched Roslynn rifle through her reference material. “I’ve searched in there a few hundred times,” I told her and continued the saga. “Willow finds herself exceedingly attracted to Kipp. But if she reveals her true identity, she’s afraid Kipp will report her to the sheriff and confiscate her land. Willow-slash-Will readily handles the duties on the ranch. But Kipp?” I shook my head. “She’s losing sleep over him.”

“Sooo?” I asked my guest. “Any ideas?”

Roslynn blinked twice. “Do you happen to have an Advil?”

Chapter 6

I located the Advil and hauled out my own copy of
S and S
. And Roslynn, Snowflake, and I were wracking our brains, trying to resolve Willow LaSwann’s conundrum, when Wilson called.

I hadn’t expected to hear from him that morning. “Shouldn’t you be looking for the killer?” I asked.

“Where are you?”

“You called me on my land line, Wilson. I’m home. Roslynn came over for that brainstorming session I told you about.”

“I guess it’s fitting you’re working on sex scenes.”

“Not yet. We’re still deciding how Kipp will learn Willow’s true identity. We’re thinking an accident. Willow will get gored by a bull, and Kipp will find her—who he thinks is a him—and somehow her-slash-his shirt will need to be removed to administer first aid. And voila! Breasts.”

“Huh?”

I gave Roslynn a thumbs down and spoke to Wilson. “It’s too bloody, isn’t it?”

He took an audible breath. “Have you looked out your windows lately? Go check Sullivan Street.”

“Why must every phone conversation we have fill me with dread?” I asked as I headed across the room.

Roslynn and Snowflake followed, and soon the three of us stood at the windows, staring at the scene below. Two police cars were parked in front of The Stone Fountain, and a crowd was gathering in the street. As more and more people congregated, traffic at the corner of Sullivan and Vine became heavier and heavier.

“What in the world? What’s going on, Wilson?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

I leaned toward the window to get a better view. “Is that Alistair Pritt down there? What’s he doing?”

“You mean, you actually know the guy? You recognize him?”

“I do. That’s Alistair Amesworth Pritt.” I explained Alistair owns a coffee shop in my old neighborhood. “And yes, I recognize him. He’s a rather large, bald specimen, no?”

“I’ll take your word for it. So his business is near your old house? Maybe that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Does Ian know this guy?” he asked, and my sense of dread continued to grow. “Or maybe Amanda is friends with him,” he added as my blood pressure hit the stratosphere.

Why was Wilson wondering about my low-down, no-good, cheating, and altogether despicable ex-husband Ian? Or his equally despicable new wife Amanda?

I handed Roslynn the phone and hunted around in the nearby desk for my binoculars. I lifted them to my eyes and spit out a string of four-letter words.

“What?” Rosylnn asked. She set the phone down next to Snowflake, and we wrestled each other for the binoculars until I noticed Wilson was still talking.

I gave up on the binoculars and returned to the phone.

“What?” I said irritably.

“Is it as bad as the dispatcher says?” he asked.

Roslynn stumbled backwards into the chair at my desk, and I rescued the binoculars as they slipped from her grasp.

“Yes,” I said. “I do believe it is.”

***

“Borderline Pornographer!” one poster read. “Ban Bad Books!” read another. “The Queen of Smut!” Alistair Pritt’s poster even had a red arrow pointing upward, evidently at my condo and yours truly.

“Jessie!” Wilson said, perhaps for the second or third time. “Would you please tell me what’s going on.”

“I think it’s a book-banning demonstration. I think it’s against me.”

“What?”

“Against me and my books. Apparently they’re smut.” I returned the binoculars to my eyes and quoted the most noxious placards for Wilson’s edification.

He let the words sink in, and again asked if Ian knew Alistair. “Did he set him up to this?”

I was considering my ex when Roslynn started to stir. She reached for the binoculars, and we silently agreed to switch places.

“Jessie?” Wilson asked, and I told him Ian definitely knew Alistair.

“But Ian would never encourage something like this.”

“Let me guess. His new wife the social-climber wouldn’t allow it.”

“As much as Amanda loves it when I get bad publicity, she hates it more if I get any attention whatsoever.” I shrugged at Snowflake. “She called me about it just last week.”

“What?” Wilson asked, and I noticed Roslynn was listening also.

I explained that the new Mrs. Crawcheck had scolded me about the Romance Writers Hall of Fame. “She claimed I got myself inducted just to destroy her social standing. I told her that was an extra perk I had not anticipated.”

“You’re sure she didn’t mastermind what’s going on down there?” Wilson asked, and I insisted Amanda didn’t have the brains to mastermind anything.

I stood up next to Roslynn. “No,” I said. “I think Alistair came up with this all on his own. He’s always disapproved of my books.”

“How do you know that? And don’t say intuition.”

“It’s more than that. He refused to let me write in his shop.”

“What?” Wilson asked.

“What?” Roslynn scowled.

I shrugged. “This was years ago,” I told them. “I went into the Hava Java for a latte, but when I sat down with my laptop, Alistair told me to turn it off.” I imitated his voice. “‘I know what you have on that computer, Missy. This is a family-friendly establishment, Missy.’”

Roslynn shook her head and resumed scanning the scene below.

I returned to my own voice. “It was so odd, I still remember it. Alistair kept calling me Missy and kept pointing to a picture of his family he keeps behind the counter. He has no children, but apparently there were plenty of nieces and nephews who needed protecting from the likes of me.”

“I hope you set him straight,” Wilson said.

“Not really. I got sick of arguing and left after about the tenth Missy. Trust me, the latte wasn’t that good.”

I was distracted by a gasp from Roslynn, glanced down to where the binoculars were directed, and repeated my string of four-letter words.

“Let me guess,” Wilson said. “Beak just showed up.”

“Lucky me.”

He hesitated. “Maybe it is lucky.”

“Excuse me? Jimmy Beak is down there.”

“But you said it yourself last night, Jessie. You have no car, and now you can hide from Beak, and Pritt. Three good reasons to stay home.”

“Lucky me.”

Wilson ignored the sarcasm. “
Singular Sensation
will get done in no time.”

“
Seduction
!” I snapped and hung up.

***

I tossed the phone onto my desk. “That man!”

“Is darling,” Roslynn said. “When’s the wedding?”

“Can we change the subject please?”

“Good idea.
A Singular Seduction
awaits.” She dropped the binoculars on my desk, and we headed back to the couch.

“I’ve lost my power of concentration,” I said as I plopped down.

“Well you better find your power of concentration. Your job depends on it.”

“Yeah, right.” I reminded my colleague I had just been inducted into the Romance Writers Hall of Fame. “It’s not like I’m about to lose my publishing contract.”

“That’s not what Geez Louise says.”

Okay, so I suddenly recovered my power of concentration. “Excuse me?”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything.” Roslynn grimaced. “But Geez Louise.”

“What about Geez Louise?”

“She’s worried you’re about to lose your contract with PP—”

“What!?”

“—P,” Roslynn finished.

“PPP!?” I repeated. “Perpetual Pleasures Press is about to dump me?”

“Not yet,” she answered, which didn’t exactly relieve my anxiety.

***

Roslynn handed me her copy of
Sensual and Scintillating
as she was leaving. “Two copies are better than one,” she said. “And you need all the help you can get right now.”

I thanked her for her support and saw her to the door. Then I made a nice tidy stack of
S and S
’s on my coffee table and joined Snowflake at the window.

Speaking of needing help.

The crowd below had gotten thicker. Not with more demonstrators, necessarily. But there were plenty of onlookers. Especially disconcerting, Roslynn was down there. In fact, she was making a point of confronting Alistair and Jimmy.

“Is she actually smiling at Jimmy?” I asked the cat. “I thought he was inconsequential nonsense.”

But by the time I re-adjusted my binoculars Roslynn had left, and Candy Poppe and her dog were in the fray. Candy definitely was not smiling, but she had to walk her dog. Trust me, Puddles has a lot of piddle in him.

Candy did her best to sidestep the demonstrators, but she tripped over Puddles’ leash and ended up bumping straight into Jimmy Beak. He shoved his microphone under her nose, but bless his little canine heart, Puddles saved the day. He lifted his leg and aimed, and Jimmy backed off.

“I always did like that dog,” I told Snowflake.

Chapter 7

Roslynn Mayweather was not alone. As Wilson Rye would say, everyone and his brother visited me that day. Let’s start with Frankie Smythe, who arrived while Puddles was still deciding between the nearby fire hydrant and Jimmy Beak’s pant leg.

“You gotta help me out!” he said as I buzzed him in.

I assumed he was in a rush to get away from Jimmy, but he repeated the same exact thing when he got upstairs to my condo.

The dregs in my coffee pot temporarily distracted him, and he made a beeline for the kitchen. “That looks good,” he said, and I had to chuckle. I’m not much of a cook, but Frankie Smythe has always managed to find something of interest in my kitchen.

I made a fresh pot, decaf this time, and Frankie and Snowflake settled themselves on the couch. When he told me how much sugar to ladle into his cup, I wondered how he would ever manage to sit still. But never fear—he found Roslynn’s copy of
Sensual and Scintillating
.

“What’s this?” he asked, and I stopped shoveling sugar to rush right over.

“Oh, nothing,” I sang. I yanked it away and tossed it back on the table, upside-down.

“Do you use those for writing your books?” Wide-eyed, Frankie pointed to the sex manuals. “Like, a two-volume set?”

I ignored the question and served the coffee while my young friend insisted he’s not a kid anymore.

“I do know what sex is.” He frowned at Snowflake. “In theory.”

I tried not to laugh out loud. “All in due time, Mr. Smythe.” I patted his knee and waved at the books. “And yes, I use those for reference material. But whatever you do, don’t tell the people outside.”

“That I’m a virgin? Trust me, Miss Jessie, I don’t advertise it.” He shook his head. “What’s Mr. Pritt doing out there anyway?”

I choked on my coffee, but of course Frankie would know Alistair from the old neighborhood. Keeping in mind he isn’t a kid anymore, I explained the situation.

Frankie seemed unfazed. “I was wondering what the Queen of Smut sign was all about.” He reached for the nearest
Sensual and Scintillating
and nonchalantly sped-read through who knows what.

“Frankie.” I put my hand out, and he relinquished the book. “Let’s talk about your problems,” I said. “What do I ‘gotta’ help you with?”

“Who,” Frankie corrected. “You’ve gotta talk to Ms. Sistina for me.”

“I do hope you mean Lizzie.”

“I mean her mother. She was serious last night, you know? She won’t let me see Lizzie.”

Apparently Frankie had borrowed his father’s Jeep to visit his girlfriend that morning. But Rita had answered the door and refused to let him in.