Angels And Elves. Joan Elliott Pickart

book-signing tour, and was good enough to come here before she went home and collapsed. So, let’s hurry right along, shall we? Next?”

      Bless you, Deedee, you’re a wonderful friend, Jillian thought, accepting the book the next woman handed her. Jillian Jones-Jenkins was tired to the point of being numb. Jillian Jones-Jenkins was— Good grief, she was thinking of herself in the abstract, as though she were a character in one of her books. She desperately needed to crawl into bed and not reappear for at least twenty-four hours.

      Ten minutes later, Deedee once again came to the table.

      “I’m going to close the store now,” she announced to the remaining customers. “I’ll unlock the door and let each of you out after you’ve had your book autographed. If any of you are making other purchases as well, please step up to the register.”

      Ah-ha, Jillian thought, it was truth time. The man—the Handsome Hunk, aka H.H.—was going to have to put up or shut up. His skulking-in-the-aisles routine had just been called to a halt by Deedee.

      Jillian inwardly sobered, although her forced smile remained in place.

      She should not be taking the presence of the loitering man so lightly. She had writer friends who had been bothered and actually frightened by mentally off-balance men convinced that a woman who wrote love scenes was automatically available to participate in real sexual encounters. Because she was exhausted to the point of being giddy, she hadn’t given the man serious enough attention. There was a reason for his having been in the store for such a long time, wandering around, and watching her. She was going on red alert as of that very moment.

      She glanced up, only to realize that the man had moved again. A visual sweep of the store found him in the cookbook section, his nose in an open cookbook. Oh, dear heaven, it was upside down!

      A shiver coursed through Jillian, and her smile slid off her chin, despite her efforts to keep it firmly in place. She handed the book she had just signed to the smiling woman, who grasped it eagerly. Only one more customer waited to have a book autographed.

      One more, Jillian thought, then the man was going to have to do something. But what? Oh, Lord, what was he going to do?

      * * *

      This was it, Forrest MacAllister thought. Time had run out. He had to do it now.

      He glanced at the cookbook he was holding, then did a quick double take as he realized that he was holding it upside down. Slamming it shut, he shoved it back onto the shelf.

      Get it together, MacAllister, he told himself firmly. The situation was as good as it was going to get. The witnesses were pared down to the minimum. He had to do what he’d come here to do—have Andrea’s copy of Jillian’s novel autographed.

      Jillian Jones-Jenkins was certainly attractive. The spokeswoman for the store, who was probably Deedee Hamilton, had confirmed what Andrea had told him yesterday—Miss Jones-Jenkins had just returned from an exhausting book-signing tour. Well, if that was what the lovely author looked like totally exhausted, she’d be unbelievable when fully rested.

      Yes, Forrest decided, she was stunning, tired or not. Her wavy, dark brown hair fell gently to just above her shoulders. She had delicate features, sensual lips, and big, gorgeous, gray eyes framed by long black lashes. Those eyes were fantastic.

      At one point during his vigil she’d stood, apparently to relax stiff muscles, and he’d had a delightful view of a slender, yet ultrafeminine figure shown to perfection in a dusty rose suit with a straight skirt, thigh-length jacket, and pale pink silky blouse. She was fairly tall, maybe five-six or -seven, and was, he guessed, about thirty years old.

      All in all, Forrest mentally rambled on, she was a lovely representative of the female species.

      He sighed.

      What Jillian Jones-Jenkins did, or did not, look like had nothing whatsoever to do with why he was there, or the fact that he couldn’t stall any longer.

      Then there was the nagging problem that Andrea, nutsy little sister that she was, wanted him to take on Jillian Jones-Jenkins as an Angels and Elves assignment. Andrea definitely had too much time on her hands. Her idea was crazy, totally bizarre.

      He’d get the book signed by Miss She-needed-to-lighten-up-and-have-some-fun Jillian, deliver it to his sister, and tell her in no uncertain terms that her request was hereby rejected and his answer was an irrevocable no.

      “Thank you so much,” Jillian said, handing over the signed book. “I hope you enjoy it.”

      “I’m sure I will,” the woman said. “Thank you, Miss Jones-Jenkins. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it was to meet you.”

      “Good night, and come again,” Deedee said. She unlocked the door and the woman said goodbye with an added promise to shop there often. “Christy,” Deedee said to the teenager behind the cash register, “off you go. You did splendidly under the gun. That was really quite a crowd we had in here.”

      Gun? Jillian thought, swallowing a near-hysterical bubble of laughter. Deedee could have gone all week without saying the word gun. Oh, Lord, the man with the gun, who read cookbooks upside down, was starting toward her. He was stalking. Yes, perfect word. He had a smooth, athletic gait that was like a panther stalking his prey.

      And she was the prey.

      And he had a gun.

      No, no. Wait. She had to calm down. The man didn’t have a gun. Well, not that she knew of, anyway. Her exhausted brain had simply transferred Deedee’s innocently spoken word into a sinister plot. No, there was not a gun. Was there?

      He was getting closer, she thought, feeling another shiver whisper down her spine. His eyes really were brown. Beautiful eyes. In fact, he was an all-around beautiful man. What a shame that he was a sex maniac, who was about to kidnap her and...

      Jillian jumped to her feet and grabbed the only weapon available to her—the pen she’d been using to autograph the books.

      “Stay back!” she yelled, thrusting the pen toward him. “You come one step closer, you fiend, and I’ll...I’ll ink you to death!”

      Forrest stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock.

      “Pardon me?” he said.

      “Jillian?” Deedee called out. She finished locking the door after an exiting Christy, then went to Jillian’s side. “What’s wrong?”

      “This...this villain has been skulking in the aisles for over two hours.”

      “Villain?” Forrest repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Skulking?”

      “Don’t you move.” Jillian whipped the pen back and forth. “Deedee, call the police. Quickly. Go to the telephone and—”

      “Hey, now wait a minute,” Forrest said.

      “Jillian,” Deedee said, “sweetie, you’re so tired you’re not thinking clearly. I’m certain that Mr.—?” She raised her eyebrows questioningly as she looked at him.

      “MacAllister,” he answered quickly. “Forrest MacAllister, but feel free to call me Forrest.”

      “Right,” Jillian said, with a very unladylike snort of disgust. “You probably made up that name the very second Deedee asked you, you miscreant.”

      “Miscreant?” Forrest said. He looked at Deedee with a frown. “Does she always talk like this? ‘Villain? Skulking? Miscreant?’”

      Deedee shrugged. “She writes historical novels. The jargon of the era sort of...well, sticks to her at times, especially when she’s exhausted or stressed.”

      “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Fascinating.”

      “Deedee!” Jillian shrieked. “Would you please call the police?”

      “Calm down, Jillian,” Deedee