The Right Medicine Page 5

  Marie stared back at the older woman, somehow unable to fix her gaze. "Yes. No. I mean, I don't—"

  Joanne extended a wrinkled hand in Marie's direction. "Slow down there." She had to be in her seventies, but with her batik skirt and sleek silver braid, sometimes looked more like a willowy teenager gone prematurely gray.

  Joanne dropped her rag and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. "What's wrong, doll? That Cecil done some—"

  She fell silent as the ponytailed man materialized at her side.

  "Morning, Marie." He smiled, and his even teeth shone white beneath his aquiline nose.

  Marie sighed. "It's way past noon, Cecil. How long have you been here?"

  He swiveled his head and glared at the clock. "Oh, since nine. Time flies when you're having fun."

  Marie groaned. "Short cappuccino, Joanne. Double foam, nix the caffeine."

  "Hey, Marie," Cecil said, when Joanne went to steam the milk. "About our dinner tonight..."

  Marie adjusted her new frames and fumbled for an excuse. Somehow, in light of her lunchtime encounter, eating with Cecil seemed downright unappetizing.

  "I have some revisions to do."

  Marie smiled as his meaning dawned.

  "Oh, Cecil, of course I understand. I have a little project I'm working on myself." She drew a sharp breath, wondering where on earth that had come from.

  "You do?" Cecil asked, his gray eyes narrowing. At one time Marie would have called the color smoldering, like embers. But right now it looked... like smog.

  She pulled two singles from her wallet as Joanne set her coffee down in front of her, puzzling at her new perspective. Surely, twenty minutes with a handsome optician wouldn't—

  "A book?" Cecil pressed.

  "Has to be romance," Joanne chimed in, securing the lid on the paper cup.

  But Marie just turned the color of a very ripe tomato, picked up her cappuccino and left.

  This time of day, right before closing, Marie normally perused the aisles to be certain everything was shelved properly. The upscale store paid its staff well to ensure a user-friendly environment for the average book buyer. But occasionally there were slip-ups, like when a new employee mistakenly placed Growing Old Gracefully in with New Age category books.

  Marie resisted the urge to linger in the paperback romance section. Her feet ached and her back was sore from all the bending and stooping involved in reviewing the day's new arrivals. She'd arranged two author signings and helped coordinate an event for the mystery book club that was originally scheduled to meet in the cafe, but got bumped by a big-name local musician who'd agreed to play there on Monday. A real coup for Books & Bistro, but a major headache for Marie, who needed to accommodate the sure-fire crowd that live music brought, while avoiding the ire of her hard-core mystery fans. They, after all, bought more books on a regular basis than any other group—apart from romance aficionados. As a compromise, she'd offered to help sponsor a "Who Done It" wine and cheese tasting in the store's lounge area, complete with samplings from "mystery" local vineyards whose identities would be revealed at the evening's end.

  Marie blew a hard breath and sent a loose lock of hair flying. And to think she'd gotten into the bookstore business because she loved to read! She rarely ever had time for it. Which is why she was so often caught red-handed over her Danish and coffee with something just as steamy as her java.

  She paused mid-stride, trying to remember which way she was going. Somehow her eye had fallen on one of those gloriously embossed crimson covers, the kind boasting a manly hero with an admirable show of muscle. The title said something about a pirate and his mistress. Marie studied the male model's tawny ponytail, comparing it to Cecil's. Well, he certainly had Cecil's hair, but the body definitely belonged to...

  Marie snatched her glasses off her nose and humphed into the air. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes was all he'd had. Yet somehow it had been enough to leave his mark. She'd felt as branded by his smile as by the hottest, deepest kiss. As ravaged by his eyes, as... Marie cleared her throat and placed her glasses back squarely where they belonged. She smiled pleasantly at a passing patron who nabbed the pirate book off the shelf and openly ogled its cover. Then blushed at the thought that she had probably looked just like that only hours ago—right in the center of the spectacle shop.

  Chapter Two

  David made himself as comfortable as possible at the tiny cafe table. But no matter how he positioned his legs, his knees knocked against the low table top.

  A ponytailed man wearing a forest green apron walked over, notepad in hand. "What will it be tonight?" he asked, his light eyes squinting.

  David peered over the server's shoulders and into the book aisles. Well, he certainly couldn't order her. How much simpler life would be if you could just ask for what you really wanted. Marie McCloud, please. Single, with a dash of daring.

  The waiter impatiently shuffled his feet.

  "Coffee?" he asked, flipping his too-long ponytail over his shoulder.

  If the man had to wear one, David decided, it would be much to his advantage to shear it an inch or two.

  "Sure," David said, lowering his voice. "Say, you know any women in here?"

  The waiter shot him a disgusted look.

  Well, so maybe he wasn't into women. But, hey, he at least had to know who his coworkers were.

  "Decaf or regular," the waiter deadpanned.

  David read his name tag. "Look, Cecil."

  Cecil raised one skeptical eyebrow.

  "It's Cecil, right?"

  "If you're in here to read, you're in the wrong section." He jutted his chin in the opposite direction. "Plenty of books over there."

  David turned his head just in time to see the swish of a floral print skirt disappear behind the newsstand. His pulse shot up and his internal thermostat skyrocketed. The cold Virginia fall couldn't touch the current fire in his veins.

  "I'll give you a minute to make up your mind," Cecil said, turning to go.

  "No, wait!" David reached out a hand and the waiter recoiled. Not that it necessarily mattered to David. The only person he cared about right now stood about five foot six and had the smile of a vixen.

  "Do you know that woman over there?"

  Cecil raised an eyebrow. "You know, there's a ladies' night at the bar down the street..."

  "Decaf is fine," David said, pushing back in his chair with a scowl.

  What was this guy's problem? All David had done was ask one little innocent question. Okay, so maybe it was two.

  Cecil returned quickly with a lukewarm cup of sludge that he passed off as coffee.

  "Anything else?" he asked, setting down the ceramic mug.

  Nothing, apparently, that this guy would help him with.

  David studied the neat geometric patterns on the imitation tile floor, as Cecil tore a sheet from his pad and laid the check on the table.

  "Listen..." Cecil surprised David by softening his businesslike tone. "Didn't mean to come off hard as nails earlier. It's been kind of a long day, if you know what I mean."

  "Don't worry about it," David said, forcing a smile. Waiter-with-an-attitude probably wanted a tip.

  Cecil pushed his pencil behind his ear in a professorial fashion and appeared to study his surly customer.

  "Is it someone special? Or are you just in here shopping?"

  David sighed and sipped from his cup. "I hate to shop."

  "Ah, but you love to buy." Cecil folded his arms in front of him and looked smug when David didn't answer. "The direct approach always works well for me."

  David gave Cecil's narrow shoulders a second look, wondering what he'd missed. A ladies' man? This guy? Well, he'd heard that some women liked the ultrasensitive, underfed type...

  "Of course"—Cecil beamed—"it helps that women love artists."

  "You're a painter?"

  "Better yet. I write."

  Better for this place, David guessed, casting a quick glance around the packed cafe. A few
couples here and there. But mainly, plenty of women. Single women, David gauged, from what he knew of Covesville.

  "So, then. You're into literary types, too?" David flashed Cecil his best let's-be-buds smile.

  Cecil laughed. "Let's just say I've been around enough to know you can't always judge a book by its cover. And when you get between those covers..." He grinned. "You read me?" he asked with a wink. "These brainy girls"—his pale gray eyes scanned the room—"really dig a mind link. Give them an intellectual connection, and they're all yours."

  "Mind link?"

  "Sure, you know. Talk about Plato, or Voltaire. Meet them on their level."

  The between the covers part, David understood, and Plato he'd heard of. But Voltaire sounded more like a fast car than an aphrodisiac. "So, it's books we're talking?"

  "Of course, books." Cecil nabbed the bill off the table and scribbled some notes on its back. "Here are a few recommendations. And stick your nose in a Publishers Weekly. See what's hot."

  "Cecil," David said, laying down a five-dollar tip, as Marie and an elderly woman walked by. "Thanks very much."

  Marie leaned against the wall next to the water fountain in the narrow hallway and shook her head at Joanne.

  "It's no use. I just can't pretend any longer."

  "You're trying to tell me that all of this has happened in the last two days," Joanne said. "But my guess is, it's been building longer. I mean, look, I know you were disappointed with that puny excuse for an engagement ring."

  Marie shoved her left hand deeper in the pocket of her nubby brown cardigan.

  "He hasn't got it, Marie. Better you face it now than later. After, say, you've produced two or three kids together and are still waiting on that first advance check from a publisher."

  "But what is it, Joanne? I've spent my whole life looking."

  "Baby," Joanne said, patting her shoulder. "You weren't even born when I started my exploration of the great male species. The only thing I can tell you is when it's there, you know it. And when it ain't, no amount of wishful thinking will make it so."

  Marie stayed still a moment, examining her friend. Though her ivory skin had wrinkled, there was an ageless quality to her features, an impish mischievousness in those coal-black eyes.

  "Joanne, how is it that a hot mama like you never married?"

  "Too busy being hot to cool down for the aisle, I suppose. Or maybe I just missed my chance and didn't know it."

  Marie bit her lip and waited for her to finish.

  "The thing is, Marie, my problem was always the opposite of yours."

  "Opposite?"

  "Yes, sweetie. Too into the physical aspect, that's what I was. Free love and all that. It came with the age. Age of Aquarius. I was an old maid of fifty then, and it was liberating!

  "But for a spring chick like you..." Joanne clamped her hands around Marie's shoulders and stepped closer. "Honey, a nice girl like you deserves to have it all."

  Marie tilted her chin toward the well-meaning older woman. "But I've had that. Don't you see? I've had all that hot-and-bothered stuff. And I ended up with a broken heart."

  "And then you met Cecil, who's about as exciting as a dead fish. And you're finally starting to see that dead fish—like company—stink after three days." She grimaced. "Much less five years."

  "Excuse me..."

  Marie felt her skin go hot as a deep familiar voice rose over Joanne's shoulder.

  "Could you ladies tell me where to find—"

  Joanne stepped aside and there he was. A vision in trim white jeans and a navy sweatshirt that did nothing to conceal the raw power that lay beneath it.

  "Well, what a surprise." He smiled and sent the whole room spiraling. "Marie, isn't it? Marie McCloud?" Oceans of blue crinkled slightly at their corners as the wave of his stare crashed over her.

  "Umm, hmm," was all Marie could manage in the drowning silence.

  Joanne whistled between her teeth and walked back into the store without saying a word.

  "Friend of yours?" David asked, placing his hand up on the wall near Marie's head and inclining his body in her direction.

  Speak, Marie willed herself. Say something. Anything. "You've got quite a memory for names, Mr.—"

  "Actually, it's the faces I remember best," he said, dropping his chin a fraction lower. Not to mention that her body was one David couldn't forget. Somewhere beneath that fuzzy, wool sweater and modestly swishy skirt lay a very womanly form. He'd seen it at least a million times since Thursday. In his daydreams, that is.

  "David," he offered with a smile. "The name is David. David Lake. The optician, remember?"

  As if Marie could forget

  "Although I don't think we were ever officially introduced."

  She looked up at him with those big brown eyes and blinked. "Well, then, you had me at a disadvantage."

  Not as much as he would have liked.

  A fine wash of color was working its way across her face, but she stood her ground—burgundy suede boots planted firmly in place, daring him with her damnably intoxicating eyes.

  "Sorry about that," he said. "Not many clients are really all that interested in knowing my name."

  "I doubt that," she said, stunned at where that courage had come from. Flirting! She was flirting with the most godlike male she'd laid eyes on in a decade and her fiancé was right in the next room!

  "Excuse me..." said another familiar voice.

  Marie swung her head around and choked. "Cecil!" she said, coughing past the lump in her throat.

  "Jeez, Marie," he said, leaning forward and giving her arm a little squeeze. "Just going to the stock room. You look like you've seen a ghost!"

  He gave David a curious glance. "You be sure she gives you good service, now! If there's anyone here who can get you what you want, it's Marie." Then he slipped between them and headed for the back of the store.

  Marie didn't worry about blushing in front of David anymore. She was sure, by now, that he assumed crimson was her natural color.

  In light of what had just transpired, David seemed remarkably nonchalant. He just propped his hand back up on the wall in its pre-warmed spot and smiled sweetly.

  "Is he always that friendly?" David asked.

  No, she'd been wrong. His hand wasn't propped exactly where it had been before. It was higher now. Off center. In a way that enabled him to stand even closer than the first time. Close enough to leave Marie completely overcome by his delectable aroma. The manly scent that would intoxicate her, if he'd only stay near.

  "Pardon?" she asked. Knowing, just knowing, that whatever he'd said had flown right past her. Boy, this was bad. Badder than bad. She had to find a way out of here so she could think!

  "Cecil."

  "Cecil? You know him?"

  A rich, bubbling laughter erupted from his chest. "No, not really." David paused and cocked one eyebrow. "But he sure seemed to know you. Boyfriend?"

  "No," Marie said, biting her bottom lip. "I mean, friends, yeah, sure. Good ol' Cecil is friends with the world!" Never once in the past five years had she lied about her relationship with Cecil. But since those feelings were now so unclear, was it really lying at this point?

  "Yeah, I know his type," David said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Regular Don Juan."

  "What?" Marie ducked her head and inched back a step so David no longer held her prisoner.

  David dropped his arm to his side. She'd gone from embarrassed red to positively white. "Did I say something to upset you?"

  "No. Not at all." Marie felt the heat well within her like an exploding volcano. "It's just that Cecil..." She gave a noncommittal laugh.

  "Oh, I know," David said, his eyes wide with amazement. "Not what you'd expect at all. But I guess it's romantic to look like a starving artist. I've heard some people find that very exciting."

  "Well, I guess some—"

  "Like you, for instance?"

  "Me? Oh, heavens..." Marie stammered. "Well, you know, I don't think I co
uld really say."

  "But he is popular with the—literary types, I mean."

  Marie wrinkled up her nose. Hey, wait a minute. Wait just one minute! All this talk about Cecil? Oh my God, David wasn't... couldn't possibly be asking because...

  "What," he asked, with utmost innocence. "What in the world are you staring at? Did I get coffee on my sweatshirt or something?"

  "Are you interested in Cecil?"

  David just looked at her for a long moment. A slow grin spread across his face. "Me? Holy cow, me?" He sputtered and began to laugh.

  Marie gripped her own face in horror, realizing her terrible mistake.

  "I only just met him today. Besides," he said, with a teasing grin, "he's not my type."

  Marie arched both eyebrows above her turquoise wire frames.

  "Females, Marie. I like females," he said, emphasizing the word by making a curving gesture with his two sturdy hands.

  "Oh," she said, exhaling slowly. "I'm sorry. So sorry if I implied—"

  "Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose. Not that I'd ever—ever been accused of..."

  She looked positively petrified.

  "It was a misunderstanding," David said, steadying her shoulders in his strong grip. "Really. Let's forget all about it."

  A jolt of sensation ripped through her and she felt somehow awakened by his touch, all over her body.

  "Hey," he said, brushing the back of his hand over her burning cheek. "All's forgiven. Really."

  Forgiven, maybe. Forgotten, never. Marie had the feeling she'd always remember this. No matter what, she couldn't erase the memory of his tender touch, of an attraction so real, so physical that Marie's only punishment would be in his letting go.

  But this was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Despite the way he looked at her, despite the way he made her feel, she'd made her pledge to another man.

  "David," Marie said, her breath catching in her throat. "I'm engaged."

  David blanched and crammed his hands into his jeans pockets.

  "Engaged! Well, isn't that terrific! Ah, what a great coincidence that is."

  "It is?" Marie asked, the blood draining from her face.

  "Why, sure. You're the bookstore manager, aren't you?"