by SHIRLEY HAILSTOCK
CHAPTER 1
The rhythm caught his attention; the steady, tapping cadence of high heels clicking against hard wood flooring. No one else would have noticed, there were so many other sounds in the mall vying for dominance, but Averal Ballentine could pick out the tune those taps were making. He wished he had his saxophone. It might be fun to try to accompany the heels-to-wood-to-horn sound.
As it was, he sat cramped behind a table filled with books. Feeling confined even though the space was adequate for a man his size, he couldn’t wait for this shift to be over. He wasn't used to being stationary or having a crowd around him. He wanted to move, stand, walk. He didn’t like doing booksignings. Maybe that was why his mind had wandered, and he’d heard the tapping noise. If this hadn’t been his hometown store he would have refused the offer to sign. He peered down the long line in front of him. All hope of getting away early was lost.
Looking up, he smiled at the woman in front of him and handed her the book he’d just scrawled in. "Happy reading," he said with a perfunctory smile. She returned the smile and moved aside for the next woman in line. He heard the sound again, heels against the flooring. His concentration heightened. The steps were unhurried, relaxed but determined, as if the wearer knew exactly where she was going. He glanced up.
The first things he saw were her feet. She wore red, shiny shoes with heels like stilts. They supported shapely legs clad in black stocking with seams rising up the back. An assortment of running shoes had padded past him in the last two hours. Even women in business suits and silk dresses wore them. The floor of the Princeton bookstore was alive with the likes of Nike, Reebok, and Adidas. This woman, though, knew how to complete an ensemble, and what an ensemble it was. His eyes traced the seams of her sexy stockings from ankle to thigh, noticing as they disappeared like rose stems under a straight black dress. Around her neck hung a bright red scarf. A gold pin anchored the knot to her left shoulder, allowing the ends to cascade over her back and down her arm. The bright color contrasted with her dark skin tones and made him forget his purpose in being there.
A voice called him back to the desk in front of him, and he signed books almost automatically while his mind remained on the woman in the black dress straight down the aisle from where he sat. He hadn’t seen her face yet, but the rest of her was packaged to his specifications. He’d say she was average height, by no means short, but neither would she stand eye-to-eye with him. Even from that distance he was sure her head would clear his shoulder if he stood, and he was six feet tall. From the back her dress angled in at the waist and rounded out over luscious hips. She stood straight, unlike many women whose postures gave away a major portion of their personality traits. This woman was sure of herself, confident in her ability to handle things, probably good at sizing up situations. Averal would bet she’d be asked directions by tourists, even in a foreign country. She had an I-know-what-I’m doing kind of aura.
He cocked his head and signed another book. "Enjoy it," he said, and winked at a giggly college student who explained she was a business management major. His book was required reading, but she'd have bought it even if it weren't.
Averal wondered what attracted him to the woman. The personality assessment he’d just made wouldn’t fit his usual type, but there was something about this one that got his juices flowing before he’d even seen her. She browsed through the non-fiction section. She didn't look as if she'd just come from an office. Neither did she look as if she were on her way to the nearest trendy party. She wasn't wearing or carrying a coat. It was thirty degrees outside, so she must work in the mall, although the small identification tag worn by store employees was missing from the unbroken expanse of dark material covering her from her throat to hemline.
The line for Averal's autographed book momentarily thinned, giving him time to watch her more thoroughly. She lifted a book from the shelf. It was his. He could see his face on the jacket cover as she opened it. He wondered where she worked, and why she was interested in a book on stress. She looked relaxed, more in control of herself than many of the women he'd seen today. Most of them were rushing back to work, to day care centers to retrieve children, or home to prepare meals. The woman at the back of the bookstore looked as if she had no need to rush anywhere.
She had clear skin the color of brown sugar. Her profile was tall and straight, almost queenly, and the way her dress fit was downright sinful. It molded over her breasts, angled in at the waist, and hugged her hips as it tapered down to legs that could rival the Garden State Parkway in length.
Averal shook his head. He hadn't assessed a woman this closely since...he couldn’t remember when, it must have been as long ago as his college days, yet there was a magnetism that drew him toward this one.
She closed the book. He mentally telegraphed her a message: Buy it. At least he could autograph it and find out her name. She turned it over, looking at the photograph on the back.
His line was back, growing again. He stole glances at her between snatches of conversation as one person replaced another, each wanting a book. Everyone in line, it appeared, wanted a moment of his time. He tried to see her face, but her back was still toward him. His eyes involuntarily dropped to her seamed hose.
Finally she moved toward the cashier. He followed her progress until a heavy set woman of about fifty blocked his view. She handed him his book and he warmly returned her smile, trying to keep an unnoticed account of Ms.-Black-Dress-Red Shoes. Lucky for him, there were three people at the checkout line in front of her.
"It's for my husband," the fifty-year-old said. "His name is George."
Averal wrote the standard inscription on the title page and signed it with his flowing yet unreadable signature. "Thank you, ma'am. I hope he enjoys it."
"Oh, he will enjoy it," she said, beaming a tobacco-stained smile. "He enjoyed your last three books."
Averal smiled and she left. Another woman came to the table, which displayed several copies of his book, Managing Business Related Stress: A Users Guide. He took the book she offered and asked her name.
At the counter the woman was still there. Her long, black hair was mostly piled up on her head. Several curls spilled down her neck and over her shoulders. Its darkness disappeared down her back, lost in the midnight-colored fabric of her dress.
His customer left, and another appeared. This time it was a man. Even though his book was non-fiction and more men read non-fiction than women, women made more purchases.
He glanced at the counter. The cashier was waiting on the woman now.
Averal’s mouth went dry. He had to force himself to remain seated. He wanted to go to her and introduce himself. He was interested in her, a stranger. He didn’t know her name, but he wanted to. He was interested, and he hadn’t been interested seriously in a woman in years. He knew why. It wasn’t the women. He pushed them back. Women he dated knew he wasn’t the marrying kind. Whenever someone got serious he immediately broke things off. He’d been serious once; even married once. The marriage didn’t work, and he no longer wanted to be married or seriously involved. It led to complications he couldn’t explain.
***
Nefertiti Kincaid clenched her jaws, then forced herself to visibly relax them. She was holding a book on stress, and she was as tense as they come. Averal Ballentine. She looked at the photo on the back of the book. Anger ran through her as swift as lightning. Every time she thought of him and the impact he would have over her life, her blood pressure when up. And beginning Monday she didn’t know how she would control it or her tongue. Her grandmother, who’d coined her nickname, Never, had often told her, "You should think first and speak second." But somehow she’d hadn’t remembered to do it until the words had already been uttered.
"Will that be all?" the store clerk asked, startling her out of her thoughts.
"Yes," Never said, stepping up to the counter.
The cash register made a high-pitch clacky sound as it rapidly calculated the cost of her purchase. Never handed the clerk two twenty dollar bills. When the cashier counted her change she said, "If you'd like to have your book autographed, Averal Ballentine lives here in Princeton. We're lucky to have him here tonight for a book signing. He's sitting over there." She pointed somewhere over Never's left shoulder.
Never noticed the tone of the clerk's voice as she spoke of Averal Ballentine. She obviously thought there was sunlight just so it could shine on him. Never followed the line of the woman's finger.
It was on the tip of tongue to say, "No, thank you. It's bad enough I have to buy the book. I certainly don't want to talk to the author," but she managed this one time to keep the words inside. She tossed her head quickly to glance at the man at the table. He was looking in her direction. Light brown eyes captured hers and something in her stomach changed. She couldn’t put a name to it; lurched, rolled, dropped, she tested but nothing in her experience fit what had happened to her. She had to admit the photograph on the book jacket was far below the quality of the original. She pulled her eyes away.
Never accepted the bag and her change then turned around. Averal Ballentine was signing someone’s book. His head was down and she looked at the short, wavy hair that circled his head. On impulse she started for the table. She would have him sign her book. Never straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly. In front of her was only one person. He moved before she got there. A wide smile was on Averal Ballentine’s face when his eyes focused on her. She didn’t return it, but her stomach flipped over and her feet faltered. She caught herself and checked the floor. She was sure she’d find a hole which had caught her heel, but there was none there. Nothing had caused her to trip except the look in the man’s eyes in front of her. And her hands were suddenly cold, yet her body was warm, more warm than the heat in the store called for. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt heat burning her ears. Again she felt herself clenching her teeth together, yet she continued to walk forward.
He still smiled at her. She refused. After all what did she have to smile about. He had every reason. She doubted there was any stress in his life, yet in hers it was only the beginning.
His eyes didn’t move as she approached him. They were clear, amber-colored and dancing as if he were happy about something. She could see only half of his body since he was sitting. She was glad of the high heels she wore. She needed the height to give her confidence to face the man who had no idea of the impact he would have on her livelihood. He was having an impact on her person too. She pushed it down, refusing to allow it to blossom into anything like attraction or arousal.
"Hello," he said in a clear baritone voice. It was dark and sexy and exactly what his photo had told her it would be like. Yet hearing the one word made her feel as if she’d been touched; that somehow his hand had reached out and wrapped itself around her arm. She fought the urge to turn her head and check.
"The woman at the counter tells me you’re Averal Ballentine."
"Guilty," he said playfully. Never still didn’t smile. "Would you like me to sign your book?" He glanced at the plastic bag in her hand.
She really didn’t want it him to sign it. She only wanted to get a closer look at him. She wanted him to be old and staid and not abreast of current traditions and changes in business management, but she’d seen his photo and knew he was only in his thirties. She wanted to know how much of an adversary he was going to be. Was he a reasonably man? Could she deal with him, discuss her future and those of the people she managed? But she wouldn’t be able to tell that from a look and a few sentences of conversation. Hopefully, the book would give her some insight into the man behind it. She’d read Averal Ballentine before, but the analyzing she would put into the book this weekend hadn’t been needed before the merger brought him into her life.
"Would you like me to sign your book?" he repeated since she’d taken so long to answer him. Never pulled the book from the bag and handed it to him.
He opened it to the title page and poised his pen over the blank space that looked as if it had been specifically left there for autographing.
"Would you like it inscribed to you?
"No," Never said. "Just a plain signature will be fine."
While he wrote Never gave him a good look. Objectively, she had to say he was good looking. While she didn’t think he would have turned her head if they’d passed each other on the street, he would most definitely have turned a few. Up close his hair tended to wave. It looked soft and smooth and she had the uncanny desire to reach out and touch it, verifying her thoughts. He wore no mustache and his face was clean shaven. When he looked up she saw his eyes and knew they were his most devastating feature. They were a clear brown, almost transparent, and she felt as if he could look into her mind. Quickly she changed her thoughts preventing him from reading what she was thinking.
She reached for the book. He closed it and handed it to her, but when she would have pulled it clear of his hand she felt a slight tug. She met his eyes again. He was holding onto the book and unless she yanked it away she’d have to listen to what he had to say.
"Are you sure you don’t want it personalized?" There was that smile again.
"Absolutely," Never returned a little to fast. He opened his hand. She stuffed the book back into its bag and turned away without the customary ‘thank you.’
It wasn’t like her to be rude. It wasn’t like her to be attracted to a man she’d only nearly met. It wasn’t like her legs to wobble and her knees to threaten non-support, but all of that was happening.
She left the store without a backward glance and went directly to the bus terminal-style lockers outside Penney's Department Store where she'd left her coat. Usually she kept her coat with her when she shopped, but after another day of discovering several more of her friends and co-workers had been fired, she was too hot to cope with holiday shoppers and a bulky coat. It was only October, yet Christmas decorations had sprung up seemingly overnight in the mall and the masses of Princeton's populace were rushing about as if it was Christmas Eve. She pulled her coat free of the locker and slipped her arms into the warm material. Turning up the coat collar she headed for the parking lot. Minutes later she threw the plastic bag, holding Averal Ballentine's book on the seat of her car, slipped behind the wheel and headed home.
Inside her house, Never dropped her keys on the hall table. Her living room was done in a soft white; white walls, white drapes white rug. The sterile expanse was cut up by the sofas done in hunter green and pillows picking up both colors. The wooden accent tables of dark cherry rounded out the room. She found the color scheme had a strangely soothing effect on her senses. Stopping in the center she took the book from the small plastic bag. Turning it to the picture side, she gazed at the color photo. The eyes grabbed her. Even in the store, when their eyes met, she felt he was holding her.
Sitting down she looked at him. Why had he made her legs weak? Why had his voice disturbed her? She could still hear the low tones as if they sang through her blood. She didn’t react like this. It wasn’t in her. Even in her teenage years when most girls fell in and out of love every week, she’d wondered what it was about her that kept her from having those feelings. She had plenty of boyfriends and her share of dates, but there was no one with whom she wanted to swoon, giggle over and talk on the phone for hours and hours. She thought it would come when she went to college, then when she graduated and started to work, but it hadn’t. Yet today she’d forged new territory. She reacted with feelings she was unsure of. She’d wanted to stay and talk to him, but she was scared to and instinct told her to run.
Anger suddenly flared inside her. Why, she didn’t know and didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. She wanted Averal Ballentine to go away and leave her alone, but she also knew that would not happen.
"What gives you the right to throw us out of work?"
