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Midnight Cravings
Elizabeth Harbison
A TASTE FOR TROUBLETo sexy police chief Dan Duvall, a man of few words, Beldon's annual "Rocky Top Chili Cookoff" was one huge pain in the posterior. The locals got rowdy, and his sleepy little town was overrun with city slickers. Bah!But this year, one visiting New Yorker turned the entire burg upside down! The moment willowy, whip-smart Josephine Ross set foot in Beldon, all hell broke loose–from sneaky thefts to saucy scandals–irritating the heck out of the hardworking lawman. Dan sure wasn't ready to have his heart broken by another sexy city girl, so why on earth was he dreaming about Josie's kissable lips–and hoping against hope that she'd be his?



Josie Ross was the quintessential city girl. Haughty. Impatient. Quick-witted and quick-tempered.
Beldon police chief Dan Duvall knew from bitter experience to avoid her type.

So why did he keep thinking about her?

Why did his blood course through his veins like a thoroughbred on a racetrack every time he caught even a glimpse of her? Why did his fingers itch to touch her, to tousle that oh-so-perfect hair? Why did he ache to taste her?

Why did his mind keep creeping back to thoughts of her that could never be repeated aloud in church?

It had to stop.

It just had to.
Dear Reader,

Not only does Special Edition bring you the joys of life, love and family—but we also capitalize on our authors’ many talents in storytelling. In our spotlight, Christine Rimmer’s exciting new miniseries, VIKING BRIDES, is the epitome of innovative reading. The first book, The Reluctant Princess, details the transformation of an everyday woman to glorious royal—with a Viking lover to match! Christine tells us, “For several years, I’ve dreamed of creating a modern-day country where the ways of the legendary Norsemen would still hold sway. I imagined what fun it would be to match up the most macho of men, the Vikings, with contemporary American heroines. Oh, the culture clash—oh, the lovely potential for lots of romantic fireworks! This dream became VIKING BRIDES.” Don’t miss this fabulous series!

Our Readers’ Ring selection is Judy Duarte’s Almost Perfect, a darling tale of how good friends fall in love as they join forces to raise two orphaned kids. This one will get you talking! Next, Gina Wilkins delights us with Faith, Hope and Family, in which a tormented heroine returns to save her family and faces the man she’s always loved. You’ll love Elizabeth Harbison’s Midnight Cravings, in which a sassy publicist and a small-town police chief fall hard for each other and give in to a sizzling attraction.

The Unexpected Wedding Guest, by Patricia McLinn, brings together an unlikely couple who share an unexpected kiss. Newcomer to Special Edition Kate Welsh is no stranger to fresh plot twists, in Substitute Daddy, in which a heroine carries her deceased twin’s baby and has feelings for the last man on earth she should love—her snooty brother-in-law.

As you can see, we have a story for every reader’s taste. Stay tuned next month for six more top picks from Special Edition!

Sincerely,

Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor

Midnight Cravings
Elizabeth Harbison

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Thanks to the good friends who helped me whip this book into shape: Annie Jones, Elaine Fox, Marsha Nuccio and Mary Blayney.
You guys are the best!

ELIZABETH HARBISON
has been an avid reader for as long as she can remember. After devouring the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden series in grade school, she moved on to the suspense of Mary Stewart, Dorothy Eden and Daphne du Maurier, just to name a few. From there it was a natural progression to writing, although early efforts have been securely hidden away in the back of a closet.
After authoring three cookbooks, Elizabeth turned her hand to writing romances and hasn’t looked back. Her second book for Silhouette Romance, Wife without a Past, was a 1998 finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA
Award in the “Best Traditional Romance” category.
Elizabeth lives in Maryland with her husband, John, daughter Mary Paige, and son Jack, as well as two dogs, Bailey and Zuzu. She loves to hear from readers and you can write to her c/o Box 1636, Germantown, MD 20875.

HUSBAND CONSERVE
1. Select the best man you can find and brush him carefully to rid him of indifference. Be careful not to beat him as you would an egg or cream, for that will make him tough and apt to froth at the mouth.
2. Lift him gently into the home-preserving kettle and tie him with strong cords of affection. Do not sear with sarcasm, for that causes spitting and sputtering, which may result in spontaneous combustion. Scramble when difficulties arise.
3. Do not soak him in liquor. Excessive draughts make him mushy and spongy with your friends, and in the Deep South, stewed husbands have never been popular.
4. Let him simmer at will. Stuff him one hour before taking him out or before asking a great favor of him.
5. Flavor with an oil of happiness, one ounce of understanding and a bushel of fun and laughter.
6. Should he seem weak or troubled with feminine infatuations, smother him in onions and garlic, and treble your charm.
7. Do not spoil him with overindulgence, but serve him daily on a platter of strength and courage, garnished with clean shirts and trousers.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue

Prologue
In Chief of Police Dan Duvall’s view, the annual Rocky Top Chili Cook-off was always a huge pain in the butt.
The problem wasn’t just the drunks—although there were plenty of them, thanks to the fact that the contest was sponsored by the local Rocky Top Beer Company—it was the tourists. Everyone in the little town of Beldon, North Carolina (pop. 8,356), sprang to life like citizens of Brigadoon to cater to the visitors. For one long weekend each year, the normally calm residents of the town frantically set up kiosks to sell T-shirts, snacks and four-dollar sodas to all the hot, thirsty, gassy out-of-towners.
“So I’m thinking I’ll just sell beans, you know?” Dan’s brother, Jerry, was saying to him as they walked down the shady sidewalk next to Main Street. It was a week before the contest was set to begin and Jerry was, as usual, plotting a get-rich-quick scheme. “Pinto, kidney, green. Because what do people want when they’re making chili? Beans. I’ll make a fortune.”
Dan looked at Jerry in disbelief. “This is it? This is the great investment opportunity you had to tell me about?” He looked at the broken-down gazebo old Jeb Currier had offered to lease to Jerry for the week at the “bargain” rate of nine hundred bucks. It was on a small patch of grass off Main Street, right under the old billboard that read Beldon: Home of the Pea Bean. Only some idiot had spray-painted an r over the e in Bean, presumably—and aptly—misspelling brain.
“Yup. You could finally get a safe job. Hell, you already got shot in the butt in the line of duty….”
“It was my hip,” Dan said, with little patience. Eight years ago, Dan had made the mistake of making time with a platinum-blond cook-off contestant from the Deep South. Her chili wasn’t so good, but she had other talents. Unfortunately, she also turned out to have a husband, and when he found her with Dan, he did what any gun-toting drunk would do: took one bad shot and passed out.
Jerry didn’t know the whole story. He, along with the rest of the town, just knew Dan had been shot by one of the tourists.
“Yeah, whatever,” Jerry scoffed. “So, you interested?”
“No.” How many times would he have to say it?
“I wish everyone would stop thinking of the contest tourists as a gold mine. It’s like feeding seagulls at the beach. They’ll just keep coming back.”
“That’s what we want.” Jerry flipped his hair back out of his eyes. “You’re missing the whole point, bro’.”
“No, no, that is the point. That is exactly the point. Every year this town is overrun by bossy, impatient—and sometimes gun-wielding—city folks, and everyone here leaps to serve them. I realize that it’s motivated by greed, but with every illegal soda stand, unlicensed T-shirt shop and uninspected bean gazebo, the job of every member of my force gets harder. We’re talking about six hard-working men and women who end up having to work around the clock, with little or no thanks, every single year for this thing. Don’t you get that?”
Jerry looked at him for a moment, then hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his skintight designer jeans. “I’m going into the bean business, man, and you can join me or not.”
Dan looked at Jerry and shook his head. “Get a real job.”
“Okay, give one to me. Deputize me.”
Dan should have seen this coming. It, too, happened every year. “Not gonna happen, Jer.”
“Come on,” Jerry whined. “You just said you’re shorthanded. I’ll do a great job. Give me a chance. Give me a badge. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to get girls.”
“Forget it. If you can’t get girls without a badge, you’re not gonna get them with one.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jerry said defensively. “All the chicks go for you.”
Dan held up a hand. “Don’t say another word. Not one word.”
“Danny Duvall!” a voice called behind him.
Dan turned to see the stout figure of Buzz Dewey, president of the Rocky Top Beer Company, approaching as quickly as his short legs could carry his Tweedledum figure. By the time he’d crossed Main Street, he was huffing and puffing.
“Hey, Buzz.” The man’s pallor and physique always made Dan feel like he was a time bomb, ticking down to zero. “Slow down.”
“I’m fine,” Buzz rasped. “Come on, let’s walk. Doc says I need air-obic exercise every day.”
“All right.” They started walking down Main Street, in the shade of tall pin oak trees and colorful little storefronts. There was Smith’s Pharmacy, established in 1925, and Liz Clemens’s flower shop and the Beldon Cake Bakery…. It would have been the perfect setting for just about any Frank Capra movie.
“So how are we set for security this year, Danny?”
“Same as always,” Dan said, stopping in front of the Steak ’n’ Eggs so that Buzz didn’t overexert himself.
“I ask because it’s extra important this year,” Buzz said, eyeing something behind Dan. Probably the faded photo of a cheeseburger and fries that was taped to the window.
“Why is that?”
Buzz returned his attention to Dan and hiked his brown polyester pants up over his considerable girth until his belt was almost to his armpits. “We’ve got a celebrity cookbook author, Beatrice Beaujold, coming. Wrote a book on what to cook for men. Spicy things, meaty things, snacks, desserts—what real men like.” Buzz looked even hungrier. “Idea being to get ’em to propose marriage, I believe.”
“Oh, that book.” Dan had read an article in the paper about the feminist backlash against the cookbook a few weeks ago.
Buzz nodded. “I get the feeling the author’s a real delicate lady-type. I don’t want her to be offended by the, uh, rowdy behavior of some of our townsfolk during the cook-off.”
When a beer company sponsors a chili cook-off, you’ve got to expect rowdy behavior, Dan thought. The station got calls all night from fussy city folks—no doubt in silk pajamas and slumber masks—complaining about the noise. There was no way he could keep the entire town quiet for one prissy lady.
But Dan couldn’t bear to break that news to Buzz, who looked as if one more worry would send him into the coronary he’d been tempting for the past decade or two.
“Take a look at this,” Buzz said, taking a rolled-up magazine out of his back pocket. He handed it to Dan. “This is all the protection she’s bringing.”
There, circled, was a photo of a beautiful, willowy woman with copper hair and a smile as high voltage as anything Dan had ever seen coming out of Hollywood. The caption read “Page-turner Promotions’s newest member, Josephine Ross, at the Zebra Room.”
“She doesn’t look like much of a bodyguard,” Dan said. What she looked like was a whip-smart, sexy city girl. If he didn’t know better than to get involved with that kind, he’d probably be putty in her hands. But he did know better. He’d known better since college when he’d made the stupid mistake of handing his heart on a silver platter to a city girl who used it like a rubber ball, bouncing it around until it went flat. It had been flat ever since. Especially where whip-smart, sexy city girls were concerned.
“Exactly! Look at her, can’t be more’n twenty-five and if she weighs more than my left leg, I’ll eat my hat. If anything, she’s going to draw even more rowdy attention!”
As if the small police force didn’t have enough to deal with. They didn’t have the time to serve as private security for the author. In fact, if Dan asked them for any more overtime, he was afraid he was going to get resignations. He’d probably have to take care of this one himself.
“How about this, Buzz?” he said. “How about I, personally, keep an extra good eye on your cookbook author?” That way, at least he could give the other officers a break. Besides, how much attention was one little old cookbook author going to need?
Buzz swabbed a handkerchief across his damp forehead and looked grateful. “That’d be real good of you,” he said. “You’re a good man, Danny. A good cop. Just like your daddy.”
“Well, thanks, Buzz.” All of Beldon had thought the world of the late Jack Duvall, whom Dan had replaced as police chief.
“Ms. Beaujold arrives Thursday afternoon,” Buzz continued. “If you could be at the Silver Moon Inn, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be there, don’t you worry about a thing,” Dan said, resigned. The cook-off was really going to happen. Again.
And something about the picture Buzz had shown him of Josephine Ross made him think this year was going to be even more trouble than usual. He was definitely going to stay out of this woman’s way.

Chapter One
SWEET POTATO PUDDING
(from page 14 of The Way to a Man’s Heart by Beatrice Beaujold)

Want him to think you’re sweet enough to marry? This one’ll do the trick!

4 cups milk
3 cups grated sweet potato
4 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup sugar
½ cup flour
2 teaspoons cinnamon
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ cup butter
1 teaspoon salt

Combine everything in a large mixing bowl, then pour it into a casserole dish.

Bake at 350°F for 2 hours, serve, and watch your dreams come true!

Late Thursday afternoon, Josie Ross stood in the lobby of the Silver Moon Inn, cell phone and briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other, and laptop computer slung over her shoulder, wondering if this was really where she was supposed to be or if someone at Page-turner Promotions had made a mistake.
She sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter. If someone at the PR firm had made a mistake, it was bound to be herself since, at just a couple of months on the job, she was the newest member of the team. Somehow she’d lucked into promoting and assisting Beatrice Beaujold, one of Page-turner’s biggest clients and a major cookbook author, this weekend at the Rocky Top Chili Cook-off, so it was absolutely imperative that she make no mistakes.
This job was too important to her to risk losing it because she didn’t do right by one of their most important clients.
So she’d done her homework, learning all about the history of the contest, the town and, particularly, the author. She’d asked Beatrice’s editor for her impressions of the author, along with any special information Josie might need to know. The editor had complied, and that letter had arrived that morning as Josie was leaving. Now it, along with all of her notes and the generous appearance-fee check the brewery had cut for Beatrice, was tucked safely away in her locked briefcase in a large manila envelope marked Beatrice Beaujold.
Josie was prepared. It felt good.
With her confidence refreshed, Josie walked through the dark-wood lobby, looking for some sign of either the front desk or Beatrice Beaujold herself.
“Hey, baby,” said a dark, bearded man with foam encircling his mouth and a crocheted beer-can hat on his head. He raised a beer mug and sloshed some of the foamy head onto the floor. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” He gave a lascivious grin and winked.
Josie just kept walking, marveling at how certain types of people—and specifically, the worst types of men—could be found anywhere and everywhere. She had a feeling that she would see more of them this weekend than usual.
What would Lyle think if he could see her now? Lyle Bancroft had been Josie’s fiancé for nearly five years. He’d left her at the altar the night of their wedding rehearsal. His reasoning, when he could finally be found to give it, was that Josie was too middle-class. Too practical. She wasn’t a Bancroft sort of woman. It all added up to the same thing: she wasn’t a debutante.
And if Lyle could see her now, in a somewhat shabby inn, surrounded by drunks and the smell of browning onions and chili spice, he would probably feel completely justified in his assessment of her. And, she knew now, he would probably be right.
Josie wandered around for a couple of minutes, unable to find anything that made this look like an inn rather than a frat house. Finally, she stopped a sharp-featured woman with bleached-blond hair and roots as black and gray as half-burned coals. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would you happen to know where the check-in desk is?”
“Chicken disk?” the woman repeated with a thick Southern accent. Her teeth were just a little larger than they should have been.
Josie hesitated. “I’m looking for the check-in desk.” She said it loud and clear, the way one might when speaking to someone whose first language wasn’t English. “You know, for my key.” She made a key-turning motion in the air.
The woman stared at Josie’s hand for a minute, then said in rapid-fire tones, “Yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.”
Josie listened with a complete lack of comprehension, leaning forward and straining to pick out even one or two words that she recognized. “Sorry,” she said, with an appreciative smile, when the woman ceased making noise. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
The woman looked exasperated. “I sayed, yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.” She gestured into the other room as if Josie were an idiot. “Thar.”
“Ah.” Josie nodded as if it had meant something.
“I see. Thank you very much.” She walked in the direction the woman had indicated, and found herself in a darkened hallway. With a doubtful glance backward, she kept walking and followed the hall around until it dead-ended in a foyer. From there she followed the sound of voices until she found herself right back in the room where she’d started, and right smack in front of the surprised face of the woman who’d directed her.
Josie gave a quick, polite smile and continued to follow the crowd to a doorway that had, moments earlier, been closed, but which was now open to reveal a large and obvious check-in area.
There was also a large display of Beatrice Beaujold’s book, The Way to a Man’s Heart: 100 Spicy Man-Luring Recipes.
Good. This was the right place.
After making a few minor aesthetic adjustments to the display, she moved to the end of the check-in line and took out her PalmPilot to review the weekend’s agenda. Thursday night: Beatrice signs books, talks with fans. Friday morning: book signing preliminary round, Beatrice judges. Friday night: free. Saturday: Beatrice—
“Can I help you, miss?”
Josie jerked her attention back to see a pale wisp of a brunette behind the desk. She had a faintly frightened look, like a small animal in the shadow of a large one. “Yes.” Josie snapped her PalmPilot shut and slipped it in her pocket. “Can you tell me if Beatrice Beaujold has checked in yet?”
“I don’t know,” the girl answered vaguely.
Her accent was light and Josie could understand her without any trouble, but when she didn’t say anything further, Josie wondered if the girl had trouble understanding her.
“It’s Beaujold,” she said. “B-E-A-U-J-O-L-D.” Silence. “Could you check, please?”
“Why, yes, yes, I could.”
Josie waited again while the girl did nothing.
“Would you?” she asked finally, realizing that this game was all about picking the right words.
“Certainly,” the girl responded, and looked at the computer screen before her. “No, she hasn’t arrived yet.” She nodded very seriously. “That’s what I thought.”
“Thanks for looking,” Josie said with some irritation. She set her bags down and took her wallet out of her purse. “I guess I’ll just go ahead and check in myself.”
Blank stare.
“My name’s Josephine Ross.” She gestured toward the computer. “I think you’ll find I’m in the room adjoining Ms. Beaujold’s suite. In fact, since I reserved both rooms, I may as well do the check-in for both now. I’ll give Ms. Beaujold her key when she comes in.” It was one small thing she could do to make things a little easier for Beatrice when she arrived. Josie took her brand-new company credit card out, set it on the counter and stepped back to wait. The smell of beer hung in the air like mist.
The girl took the card, ran it through the slider, then tapped at the computer with one finger. It took her about ten minutes, but she finally looked up and announced, “This card’s been declined.”
“What?” Josie’s jaw dropped.
“It was declined.” The girl started to take a pair of scissors out of the drawer.
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Josie snatched the card from the girl. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’ll call the company. Meanwhile, just use this one.” She foraged in her purse for her personal credit card and prayed there was enough room on it to cover expenses. Her savings had dipped very, very low while she was looking for a job. Page-turner had hired her just in the nick of time.
She waited uncomfortably for about five minutes until the girl handed the card back to her, along with a carbon slip for her signature. “I’ve signed you in. I’ll just get your keys.” Remarkably, she turned to do so without being specifically asked.
When she got the large brass keys, Josie thanked the girl, picked up her case and stepped away from the counter so the next poor guest could try their luck with her. Slipping the keys into her pocket, she took the company credit card back out of her purse and opened her cell phone so she could find out what the problem was.
Unfortunately, the phone registered that it couldn’t find a signal. She moved around the room, then out onto the deck, hauling her luggage along with her and watching the face of the phone for some sign of life.
“It’s no use, there’s no cell tower around here,” a kind-faced woman with bright blue eyes and apple cheeks said to Josie.
Josie felt like a foreigner abroad upon spotting an American compatriot. “You already tried?”
The woman smiled and took a similar phone out of her purse. “I’ve been trying since ten miles outside of Charlotte.”
“Well.” Josie put the phone away. “I guess I can do without it for a few days. Somehow.” She’d just use her card and fill out an expense report when she got back. She set her heavy bags down and held out her hand. “Josie Ross.”
The woman took it and smiled. “Dolores Singer. But you can call me Buffy.” She must have taken a lot of flack for her nickname in the past because before Josie could respond, she held up a hand and said, “Yes, seriously. To my great misfortune, I was a fan of Family Affair as a child and my father started calling me Buffy. Before I knew what hit me, it stuck. He meant well.”
“I loved that show.” Josie laughed, remembering that she even had a Mrs. Beasley doll once. “So, I’m guessing from your accent that you’re not from these parts.”
“Nope. Cleveland. How about you?”
“Manhattan. It feels like another planet.”
“I know what you mean,” Buffy agreed. “I like it. It’s so laid-back here. Very relaxing.”
Josie thought that forced relaxation was anything but relaxing, but she didn’t say it. “So, are you here for the chili cook-off? Representing Ohio with some Cincinnati-style chili, perhaps?”
Buffy shook her head. “Actually, I came to meet Beatrice Beaujold. She’s the one who wrote the manluring cookbook. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude.”
“You do? Why?”
“It’s thanks to her that I’m engaged to be married.”
“Really?” Josie asked, ever a sucker for romance, as long as it wasn’t close enough to break her heart.
“Because of her recipes?”
“I think so.” Buffy blushed. “He actually fell to his knees two bites into her sweet potato pudding at a Memorial Day picnic.” She shrugged. “All I can think is that it had something to do with the recipe because I sure didn’t see it coming.”
Josie was extremely skeptical, but she knew it was her job to foster this idea, not to discourage it. Rather than lie, she just remained silent.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I guess crazier things have happened.”
Josie smiled. “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but I need to go to my room to use the phone.”
“The rooms here don’t have phones.”
“What?”
“No phones in the rooms.”
Josie closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “So I’m guessing fax machines are out of the question.”
“Afraid so.” Buffy gave an understanding smile.
“It’s a little bit of a time warp, but I think it adds to the peaceful atmosphere.”
Josie sighed. This was not making her feel peaceful.
“Try the little hall just inside the front door,” Buffy suggested. “I think I saw a pay phone there.”
Josie thanked her and carried her things back into the hallway Buffy had described and set her heavy suitcase down. Sure enough, there was a pay phone, but it was about a hundred years old and the reception crackled like lightning before she even pressed zero for the operator. She fidgeted with the wire, trying to find a position in which the line was quiet enough to make a call, but it didn’t work.
Exasperated, she muttered an oath about tiny backward towns and put the phone down. God willing, there would be a working phone in her room. She’d go on up and make her call quickly so she didn’t miss Beatrice’s arrival. Satisfied with her plan, she went to pick up her suitcase.
It was gone.
How on earth had someone taken her suitcase? She had not been more than three feet away from it, and there was no one else around. How could someone have slipped in, taken the case and run off with it without her hearing a thing, all in the span of about a minute and a half?
She looked around, thinking someone must have moved it for some reason. It was no place obvious. She ran upstairs to check Beatrice’s room and her own, where she left the rest of her things. When she came back downstairs, she asked the girl at the check-in desk if someone who worked there had taken it to a back room, but she was only met with a blank stare and a contention that “We don’t have a back room for suitcases.”
“Is there a manager on duty?” Josie asked the girl, trying valiantly to keep her voice courteous even though she wanted to scream at the girl to wake up.
“There’s the owner. I guess you’d call her a manager.”
“Good,” Josie said, trying to take control of the situation. She thought of the check for Beatrice. The letter from her editor. “Would you please ask her to come speak with me?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Maybe she can help me get this sorted out.”
“Okay.” Smile. Nod.
Every muscle in Josie’s body tensed. “Could you do it now?”
“Oh. Okay.” She disappeared into a room behind the desk, and Josie took another look around the lobby. She covered the whole thing, everywhere she’d been. It was nowhere. She was about to go outside and check the wide wraparound front porch, when she was interrupted by a gentle Southern voice, like that of a character in Gone With the Wind.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ross?”
She turned to see a woman standing at the counter who looked like she was playing a Southern dame in a movie, her fingertips touching the forearm of one of the most shockingly handsome men Josie had ever seen.
“Ms. Ross, I’m Myrtle Fairfield and this is Dan Duvall,” the woman said, in that quiet, sweet voice steel magnolias tended to have. “He’s with the police. I understand you’ve had a little problem with your suitcase. Mr. Duvall is here to help.”
She wouldn’t have pegged him as a policeman. He looked more like a movie star. He was tall, with wavy dark hair and clear eyes the blue of a summer sky. Faint lines fanned out from the corners, giving him the pleasant expression of a man who smiled a lot.
“Thanks for your concern, Officer,” Josie said, all too aware that she hadn’t had the chance to go to her room and freshen up since the two-hour flight and three-hour drive here this morning. Alarm bells went off in her head, giving her the foolish impulse to primp and make herself more presentable for this Adonis, even as she realized that she shouldn’t care what he thought of her personally. She wasn’t only irritated by her reaction to him, she was surprised by it. It had been ages since she’d felt that stir in her chest, but this kind of guy—one so gorgeous you just knew he had a stable of women to choose from—was not the kind of guy she wanted to start thinking romantic thoughts about.
He smiled, showing even white teeth and a dent that could almost be called a dimple. “Call me Dan,” he said. “Please.”
She swallowed. Hard. “All right, Dan.”
He took a step closer to her. He smelled good. Like Ivory soap and clean clothes. Somehow Josie found that reassuring.
“So your bag was stolen,” he said. “Were you hurt in the attack?”
“No, no, there was no attack.” She tried to will her pounding heart to calm down. “I wasn’t there.”
“You weren’t there.”
“No. Well, yes.” He had her flustered. This was bad. “I mean, I was just a couple of feet away. See, I set it down for a moment while I tried to make a call at the pay phone off the lobby. The phone didn’t work, so it couldn’t have been longer than a minute or so, but when I hung up, it was gone.” She tossed an apologetic look to Myrtle. “I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Please, please, please let there be a logical explanation, she prayed, returning her thoughts to the more important problem at hand.
“It’s no trouble,” Myrtle answered, but she looked very troubled.
“You say you left it over there?” Dan asked, indicating the hallway, where now there was a small crowd of people, apparently having a contest to see who could toss the most peanuts in the air and catch them in their mouths.
“Yes,” Josie said. “Right there where all the peanuts are on the floor now.”
Dan Duvall’s voice grew about one hundred and five percent less sympathetic than it had been when he’d first walked over. “And you weren’t keeping an eye on it?”
She swallowed a terse retort. “I got a little distracted for just a minute. But, as I said, I was only a couple of feet away.”
“You shouldn’t have left your things unattended. Anyone could come along and pick ’em up.”
“That seems obvious now.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around?” Myrtle asked, kneading her crepey hands.
“I’ll get the details,” Dan said, patting the older woman’s thin shoulder. “It looks like Lily Rose needs some help at the counter now.” He gestured toward the girl at the check-in counter, who was now looking fretful and fluttering her hands like birds in front of her as she tried to help an increasingly long line of impatient guests.
Myrtle gave an exclamation and bustled over to help poor Lily Rose, muttering about beer drinkers.
Dan Duvall smiled after her, then turned back to Josie, his smile disappearing, and asked for a description of the missing items.
She gave it to him, noticing that he didn’t bother to write any of it down. “There was an envelope in the side pocket that was clearly marked with the name Beatrice Beaujold,” she explained. “It occurred to me that maybe someone at the hotel had taken it up to Beatrice’s room, thinking it was hers, but it wasn’t there when I looked.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“Nothing very interesting to anyone but me. Beatrice’s bio and picture, and some flyers and information about this contest. My own notes.” She took a short breath. “A check for Beatrice. Her appearance fee from the brewery.”
“Well, it’s not like someone else could endorse it and cash it.”
“Maybe not, but she’s expecting to pick it up when she gets here.”
“I understand. You didn’t lose any cash?”
“No.” She tried to sound calm.
“Well, that’s good. I’m afraid I’m not sure how much we can do to help you,” he said, looking as if he didn’t want to do anything at all to help. “But we’ll certainly be on the lookout.”
There was the sound of smashing glass in the corner and Dan Duvall’s eyes jerked to the scene. His mouth went tight.
“’S’all right,” someone called, waving a feeble hand. “’N’accident.”
A muscle ticked in Dan’s jaw.
Josie tried to get his attention back. “Do you want me to write the description down?” she asked, trying to sound helpful although she was annoyed at how little concern he was showing for her loss. “So you don’t forget?”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll let you know if it turns up.” He gave a short nod and turned to go.
“Wait a minute.”
He turned back, his face a mask of patience. “Ma’am?”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
He raised an eyebrow, apparently waiting for her to elaborate.
“I mean, that stuff is really important to me, even though it isn’t particularly interesting to anyone else. I need it back.” She thought of the letter Beatrice’s editor, Susan Pringle, had written. She’d barely had a moment to glance at it, but the first paragraph had mentioned there were some “special challenges” when handling Beatrice in public. It had also said that there was some “confidential material” in the letter and that Josie should be careful not to let it go astray, but before Josie had been able to read further, her flight had been announced and she’d put the letter away.
She’d intended to read it on the plane, but the flight had been turbulent, and as soon as she’d gotten off the plane, she’d had to drive a car, and…well, she just hadn’t gotten to read the note.
At the time it had seemed so offhand it hadn’t occurred to Josie that it was any more important or confidential than any personnel file. Now her mind reeled with imagined possibilities.
“I really need my briefcase back,” she emphasized. “Should I go to the police station and fill out an official report?”
“You could,” he said, a hint of slow molasses in his accent. “But there’s really no point.”
“It would make me feel better to know it was properly reported.”
“You’re reporting it now.”
“I am,” she said, trying to keep from gritting her teeth. “But are you?”
He gave a maddeningly lazy smile. “Why, yes, ma’am. I am. I don’t have time to go into the station to take your report right this minute, but I’ll file it as soon as I can.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, suspecting he was patronizing her. “Look, there were some really important papers in that envelope. I’d feel better seeing someone commit this report to black and white right now.” Though she thought better of it an instant later, she couldn’t resist adding, “The way most police would.”
“I see.”
“So where is the station house?”
“Corner of Elm and Magnolia. But we’re really shorthanded. If you go in they’ll just have you wait until the chief of police gets in and that’s—”
“Good,” she said, her voice tense. “I’m eager to speak with him.”
He smiled again. Not a friendly smile, but an amused one. On a different person, under different circumstances, it might have been boyish, mischievous. “I’ve got a feeling you may change your mind about that,” he said.
“I won’t.” She gave a polite smile and turned to leave the room. A minute later, she stepped into the muggy sunshine and walked purposefully out to the street. God knew where she was going to go once she got there, but she had the feeling that Dan might be watching her, smugly assuming she’d get lost, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her standing on the sidewalk wringing her hands and trying to figure out which way to go.
Luck was on her side. As soon as she reached the sidewalk she saw that the sign on the nearest cross street indicated it was Elm. So she kept on walking, as if she’d lived here all her life and knew just where to go.
When she was safely out of sight of the inn, she slowed her pace and looked around. The street was about twice as wide as the little suburban street she’d grown up on, and it was lined with tall, shady oaks. Enormous Victorian mansions faced out, looking for all the world as if they had been drawn by Walt Disney. As a matter of fact, the people looked like that, too. A couple of older women stood on either side of a garden fence, each wearing floppy hats and gardening gloves, talking and smiling and nodding to Josie as she passed.
It was hard to reconcile the fact that she’d been robbed, since she felt so completely safe walking through the streets alone. It was a feeling she wasn’t entirely familiar with, since part of her was always on alert when she walked in the city.
By contrast, the pace was so leisurely in this town that Josie actually felt as if her own heart rate had slowed to about half its usual pace, despite the urgency of getting her things back. Why bother to pound any faster? it probably thought. There’s nothing in Beldon to get excited about.
Where the houses stopped, a large, verdant stretch of woods started. In Manhattan, this kind of change signaled dangerous isolation, but in Beldon it was just a pleasant break before a lovely little row of storefronts with apartments over them. The shops all had elaborate colonial facades and were painted in vivid colors. The quaintness was so uniform that Josie wondered if there was a penalty for having a plain building.
That question was answered, though, when she got to the police station. It was a redbrick box, with nothing to distinguish it except a cement sign over the door that read, in block letters, Police Station.
Josie took a short, bolstering breath and opened the creaking wooden door to go inside. There were three empty desks, a single bookshelf with volumes with titles such as Beldon Police Report, April ’72—August ’73, and a plain, round clock with black hands that told her it had taken approximately seven minutes for her to walk there from the inn.
This was one small town.
“Hello?” Josie called out. “Is anyone here?”
There was a startled exclamation and the clanging of metal before a man called, “Hello? Who’s there?”
“No one you know,” Josie answered. “Just a visitor to the town. I’m looking for the chief of police.”
“Er, he’s not in.”
“Who are you?”
Long pause. “I’m…uh…Deputy Fife…er. No, Deputy Pfeiffer.”
“Well, could you come out and talk to me, Deputy Pfeiffer? I have a robbery to report.”
“Don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m not. Do I have to be from here to report a crime?” she asked, annoyed. What was it going to take to get someone to act responsibly around here? Or just to act?
“I’m a little…indisposed.”
She counted to five before saying, “Look, Deputy, I’m sure you’re very busy, but would it kill you to come out and have a word with me?”
A moment passed before he said, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Another moment passed. “I’m locked in.”
“What?” She didn’t even bother to hide her astonishment.
“Well, uh, I was cleaning one of the cells and I let the door shut behind me.” A beat passed. “Can you let me out?”
“How?” Amazing. As if she didn’t already have enough to handle, now she had to free the police from jail. It was incredible. This was like a bad sitcom.
“I, uh, left the keys in there on the wall.”
She looked around at the walls. There was nothing on them except the clock, some FBI Wanted posters that looked to be several years old, and a Vargas Girl calendar that was, on closer inspection, from 1959.
“I don’t see any keys hanging on the wall,” she called.
“Must have left them in my desk, then,” the voice returned. “See the desk by the door? One with the pinup-girls calendar?”
“Yes.”
“Try the top drawer.”
She couldn’t believe she had to release the deputy from a jail cell before she could report her stolen bags. How in the world did she end up in this ridiculous town? Why wasn’t it rife with criminals, since the police were so inept?
If she weren’t an honest person she’d consider robbing a bank right about now.
In fact, if things with Page-turner didn’t work out after this weekend, she’d keep it in mind, she thought wryly.
“I’m looking,” she said, opening the drawer. There were some pens and pencils, a couple of paper clips bent out of shape, a pack of cinnamon gum, a set of handcuffs and a cracked black-and-white photo of a handsome young man in a police uniform, flanked by what appeared to be his proud parents.
Josie lingered on the picture for a moment, wondering who the man was and what his story was, then set it down.
“Find them?” the voice called from the back.
“Not yet.”
“Look in the back of the drawer.”
She pulled it out as far as it would go, then reached in. Sure enough, she snagged a set of keys on a large brass ring. “I think I found them,” she said, slamming the drawer shut just as the front door creaked open and Dan Duvall came in.
“Officer Duvall,” she said in a clipped voice, closing her hand around the cold set of keys. “I thought you were too busy to come into the station.”
For a moment he didn’t speak. He looked at her, then at the key ring in her hand. Then he asked, “What the hell are you doing going through my desk?”

Chapter Two
CHOCOLATE PUDDING
(from page 86 of The Way to a Man’s Heart by Beatrice Beaujold)

Chocolate makes you feel like you’re in love…or in lust. The better the chocolate, the better the lust….

1 cup sugar
¼ cup cornstarch
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pure chili powder
8 oz. bitter chocolate, chopped
2 egg yolks
2
/
cups milk
2 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons vanilla

In a heavy saucepan, whisk together sugar, cornstarch, salt and chili powder. Then add chocolate.

Whisk egg yolks and milk together and gradually whisk into chocolate mixture. Bring mixture just to a boil over moderate heat, whisking constantly, and boil 1 minute, whisking. Remove pan from heat and whisk in butter and vanilla.

Divide pudding between 6 ramekins or small custard bowls. Chill and serve.

“Your desk?” Josie asked, looking around at the other desks. “I didn’t go through your desk.”
In the back, there was the faint sound of Deputy Pfeiffer clearing his throat.
Dan strode over to Josie and took the key ring from her hand. “My keys,” he said, in a low, controlled voice, “were in my desk.” He thumped his hand on the desk in front of her. “So I repeat, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Deputy Pfeiffer—” whom she dearly hoped outranked Dan Duvall “—locked himself in a cell back there and asked me to get his keys for him so he could get out. I’m doing just that.”
Dan looked incredulous. “Deputy Pfeiffer?”
She felt her face grow warm, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. “Yes, Deputy Pfeiffer,” she said, gesturing toward the open doorway in the back. “He locked himself in and asked me to get the keys for him.”
“Oh, I’ll bet he did,” Dan said, shaking his head. Then he laughed. He actually laughed.
At her.
“Just what’s so funny?”
“Usually, people like you are begging me to lock the troublemakers up, they’re not coming in and springing them.”
“I’m not springing anyone. I came in here to file a proper report and I found your deputy locked in.”
A long moment stretched thin in silence while he looked at her in a way that made her skin tingle from head to toe.
“Honey, I don’t even have a deputy.”
Horrible realization came over her like a bucket of cold water. “Oh, my God.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t you think it was a little strange that the deputy was locked up in a cell?”
“Yes, of course.” It was hard to defend what was, in retrospect, such an idiotic action, but she tried.
“But so far the police department has been so efficiency-challenged that nothing about it could surprise me.”
“Well, we keep the criminals locked up here in Beldon. What do they do with them where you come from?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment. “All right, I get it. Who is he really?”
Without averting his eyes from hers, he called, “Tell her your real name, Deputy.”
After a moment, the voice answered, “Henry Lawtell.”
“What are you in for?”
“No good reason!”
Still holding her gaze, Dan said, “Henry’s in jail for the third time this year after drinking a trough of beer and riding his motorcycle into the statue of Alexander Beldon in the town center. Naked.”
“Oh.”
The corners of his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to smile. “Didn’t the name Deputy Pfeiffer sound familiar to you?”
Deputy Pfeiffer. Deputy Fife. Of course it did, she just hadn’t made the connection. Suddenly, it seemed painfully obvious. Humiliation burned in her cheeks, made worse by the fact that she knew he could see it.
“You all right, Ms. Ross?” He stood up and made a show of ushering her into his chair. “You look a little flushed. Guess you’re not used to the heat down here.”
“I’m fine.” She shrugged her arm out of his warm grasp. “We have heat in New York.”
He gave her a long gaze, which made her wonder if it was an offense to snap at a police officer in this town. She wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of playing out her own Mayberry Midnight Express.
“Different kind of heat,” he said.
“Bring her back here so I can get a look at her,” Henry called from his jail cell. “She sounds real cute.”
“Oh, she is,” Dan drawled, looking her over so brazenly that she felt as if she’d been touched.
But she didn’t want to be touched, she reminded herself. She had a lot of troubles to deal with right now; she definitely didn’t need to add a man to the mix. She already knew she didn’t have good luck with men—there was no point in even trying.
Too bad her body didn’t agree with her mind on that. Every time she looked at Dan, her pulse quickened and her nerves sprang to life. Even now, the flush in her cheeks flamed so hot she thought her eyelashes might get singed.
“But she’s a pain in the ass,” he added.
Josie stood tall, hoping he didn’t notice her agitation. “This is hardly professional behavior, Officer.”
“No?”
“Certainly not.”
“Sweetheart, if I were to behave professionally, I’d have slapped the cuffs on you the minute I walked in and saw you going through my desk and stealing my keys in order to release a prisoner.” One side of his mouth curled into a smile. “That what you want?”
Suddenly, she had the distinct impression that those handcuffs had seen less criminal action than personal. Her face went hot again.
She swallowed hard. “No, thank you. And for your information, if I had gone back there and seen that man wasn’t in uniform, I would not have let him out.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Satisfied that she’d redeemed herself at least a little, she said, “I’d like to speak with your supervisor now, please.”
“What’s she look like, Danny?” Henry called from the back.
Josie and Dan exchanged glances, each challenging the other.
“She looks pissed,” Dan said.
“No, I mean, like, what color hair does she have?”
“’Bout the color of that dark lager you pickled yourself in the other night.” Judging by the way he looked at her, for a moment Josie thought he might reach out and touch her. “What do you call that color?” he asked, with the kind of cocky pirate smile that Josie sometimes, on the right person, found irresistible.
“Does your chief approve of you talking to people this way when they come in for help?”
“He approves of everything I do.”
The mental list she was making of his offenses was growing by the second. By the time she was finished talking with his boss, she wouldn’t be surprised—or sorry—if he was fired on the spot. “We’ll see about that. You do realize I’m here to see the chief, right? I assume he’s not locked in a cell or bound and gagged in a closet.”
“Nope. Around here, you can tell the police by the fact that they’re not locked up.”
“That seems to be the only distinction,” she said.
“Can you call him on your radio and get him here?”
“No need to do that, he’s here.”
She looked around toward the door, expecting to see a kindly gray-haired man who could save her from the unsavory scrutiny of Dan Duvall. Although if he was here, why on earth hadn’t he stepped in earlier? “Where?”
“Right here.” He splayed his arms wide and smiled even wider.
She felt it coming a split second before he said it.
“I’m the police chief.”
Josie’s stomach felt like a popped balloon. “Of course you are,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I’ve seen this movie before.”
Dan laughed. “You wanted to talk to me about something? The insubordination of one of my men, I believe?”
“That’s very funny. Who’s your boss, Chief?” She reached into her purse and took out her PalmPilot.
“I’d like the name, number and address, please.”
“That’d be the mayor. You can find him at City Hall.”
“Fine.”
“But I don’t think you’re gonna like him as much as you like me.”
“Meaning…?”
“I’m your best hope for satisfaction here.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “What the—”
“In the matter of your stolen property, that is.” He looked at her as if he couldn’t possibly have meant anything else. “Now, as I told you before, we’re doing all we can to get your suitcase back, but it might just take some time. You can come on into the station every day and file more reports, but all that’s gonna do is keep us from getting out to where we might find your things.”
“I don’t get the impression that you’re out looking for my things, anyway.” She put the idea of him satisfying her out of her mind as best she could.
“I don’t know what else you want me to do. Send an APB out to the state police? If someone stole your suitcase, they’ve probably either hidden it away in their room—in which case, we can’t search every room—or they’ve rifled through it and tossed it somewhere outside, in which case we’ll come across it any time now.”
“Or maybe they’re wandering around with it right now, or shoving it into the car trunk so they can get away with it.”
He laughed. “I’ll keep an eye out for that, too.”
It was hopeless. She may as well just go shopping for new clothes, because she was never going to see her old ones again. She’d also have to find a fax machine somewhere in this town and hope that someone in the office had copies of everything except the letter to fax to her.
But before she did anything else, she had to contact the brewery and ask them to cut another check for Beatrice.
“Thanks for your help, Chief.” Josie was unable to keep the edge off her tone. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel safe.” She turned to go but was stopped by a strong hand on her upper arm.
He turned her to face him and his expression was serious. “You’re safe, Ms. Ross. Don’t doubt that.”
For just a moment, she didn’t. He was tall and strong and obviously capable, at least in a physical sense. It had been so long since she’d had someone to lean on that, for just one insane moment, she would have liked to fall into the cloak of his arms and let the whole outside world disappear.
She shook herself out of the thought immediately. “Thanks. But at this point, I would settle for simply being dressed this weekend.”
His gaze swept over her like wind. “Look dressed to me.”
Funny, for a moment there, she didn’t feel dressed. “This is the only outfit I have now,” she said, swallowing the disconcerting sexual awareness of him that she felt. “My clothes, my shampoo, my toothbrush, everything was in that suitcase.”
Dan’s expression softened. “Listen, I don’t mean to seem insensitive, but there’s always trouble during this contest. The odds of finding a stolen suitcase, with everything else that’s going on, are pretty low. Thieves in this situation tend to do one of two things, as I told you. They either hide the item away, so it can’t be found, or they take what they want and toss the rest. If it’s the latter, we’ll find it. Otherwise, don’t hold your breath.”
“Nice little town you’ve got here.”
“Believe it or not, normally Beldon is a nice place. Maybe not the kind of place you city folks would want to hang out in, but a nice, quiet place. However, during this cook-off, things are a little different. Every year, for this one weekend, the whole town becomes a bar.”
She softened. “I’m sure that’s a nightmare for you, but I don’t get the feeling you’re concerned about my stolen property at all.”
“I am. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”
She looked into his eyes, wondering how many gullible women had heard that very line.
She swallowed hard. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”
He smiled. “That’s more like it. Around here we take things more slowly.”
“I fully appreciate that you do things differently around here,” she said, her voice tight. She was off to a terrible start this weekend. “But I’m only here for four days and I don’t have the luxury of taking things slowly.”
She thought again of the missing envelope, with the letter about Beatrice. It wasn’t as if she could call the editor, tell her the letter had been lost and ask if she could send another copy. Beatrice’s publisher was a major client of Page-turner Promotions and Josie absolutely couldn’t afford to risk alienating the publisher, for fear that they would drop her company altogether. And that the company, in turn, would drop her.
On top of that, Josie thought with horror, what if the confidential information was sensitive in the sense that the public shouldn’t get wind of it? Beatrice was the celebrity author of the moment, and a lot of journalists were trying to tear her down. On top of that, thanks to the theme of her cookbook, Beatrice had come under the feminists’ wrath, so that was another whole group looking for ammo against her.
But Josie couldn’t let Dan Duvall know all of that. Who knew what motivated him? “Look,” she said, “I really need some of the papers that were stolen. For work. They’re not of interest to anyone else, but if you find anything that looks like it could be relevant, you would save me an awful lot of hassle.”
He shrugged. His shoulders were really quite broad under the thin cotton of his shirt. If he wanted to catch criminals, he probably could, bare-handed. “You got it. Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Ross.”
“Ms.,” she corrected automatically, then immediately regretted it.
“Ms.,” he amended, showing the almost-dimple.
“My apologies.” He was dismissing her, there was no doubt about it.
She hesitated. Dismissive or not, he was obviously trying. He didn’t know how important those stolen papers were to her. “I’m sorry about the desk. And—” she gestured “—Deputy Pfeiffer back there. Although, as I said, I wouldn’t have let him out.”
A little warmth came into his eyes and they crinkled at the corners. He was a great-looking man. In fact, he would be a deadly combination for some women. “It’s like I always say, you city folks are just too trusting.”
“We are, huh?” She couldn’t help but smile, albeit reluctantly.
Incredibly, he smiled back. “Oh, yeah.”
A tremor coursed through Josie.
Suddenly there was a loud ruckus at the door. A man who looked like a thin, wiry version of Dan Duvall was led in, apparently against his will, by two older gentlemen.
“I didn’t know it was a wig!” the dark-haired man was protesting loudly.
Dan sighed. “Excuse me,” he said to Josie, and got up from his desk.
Although she was curious about what was going on, the office was so small that there was no way she could stand by unobtrusively and watch. “Please call me at the inn when you’ve found my things,” she said. “I’m in room 508.”
“I know where you are.”
Josie watched as he strode across the room. He moved well, she noticed. Not many men could look graceful and masculine at the same time. It was hard to take her eyes off of him, but she managed, then left.
Dan Duvall did have his hands full, Josie had to admit. Maybe she should have been more patient with him. How many thousands of times had her mother repeated the cliché about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?
She also had Beatrice to consider. It wouldn’t be good for Beatrice’s public image to have her publicist arguing with the chief of police.
Which reminded her, Beatrice must surely have made it to the Silver Moon Inn by now. It was after seven o’clock.
She hurried back through the town, barely noticing the many picture-postcard scenes, to the inn. After a ten-minute search of the lobby and upstairs rooms, Josie feared that Beatrice not only wasn’t there, but she might not be coming at all.
No sooner did she have the thought than the front doors banged open. A round elderly woman, with gray curls atop her apple-cheeked visage, made her way in, using a knotted cane for support. Behind her was a young woman, with lank dark hair and a figure like a toothpick, holding a baby.
It was Beatrice. It had to be. Josie let out a long pent-up breath and thanked God that things were finally going to get back on track.
Her thanks went out just a moment too soon.
“Get the hell out of my way, boy, I don’t need your damn help!”
Josie stopped short and watched in open-mouthed horror as Beatrice Beaujold whacked the bellboy in the shins with her cane.
That’s not Beatrice, Josie thought as the woman raised her cane again and thumped it against the hapless bellboy’s leg. That can’t be her.
But it was her, all right. Josie recognized her from her publicity photos.
Something must have happened that Josie didn’t see, something to justify Beatrice’s outburst. Maybe the bellboy had touched her accidentally, she reasoned. And Beatrice thought he was being fresh.
Josie didn’t quite believe it, but no better explanation was coming to her. There had to be a good reason for what must surely be a rare outburst. Beatrice Beaujold was kind, a grandmother figure, the sort of wise older woman people went to for advice. That was the image her colleagues at Page-turner Promotions had projected for her.
Obviously, she’d just been caught at a bad moment. Josie would have a delicate word with her about publicity and how important it was to maintain a good public image.
She steeled herself and crossed the lobby to where the older woman was still creating a commotion.
“Ms. Beaujold?” Josie said as she drew near.
“Who’s that?” Beatrice snapped, squinting behind thick round glasses.
Josie extended her hand. “I’m Josie Ross, from Page-turner Promotions. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, yeah?” Beatrice looked Josie up and down, as if she were assessing a prize on Let’s Make a Deal.
From the look on her face, Josie expected her to either bid a dollar or ask for the goat behind door number three.
“That all you’re wearing?” Beatrice asked.
“W-what?” Josie stammered, putting a hand to her sleeveless silk blouse. “What I’m wearing?”
“Hardly decent.” Beatrice sniffed and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Go cover yourself, girlie. No one needs to see all that bare flesh.”
Josie glanced at her knee-length skirt and sleeveless white blouse, which she was evidently going to be wearing all weekend unless she could find a decent clothing store, and wondered what Beatrice was seeing that she was not. “I’m sorry, I don’t under—”
“A little modesty never hurt,” Beatrice declared.
There was no answer to that. Josie decided her best bet was to change the subject. “Well. Is this your niece, Ms. Beaujold?” she asked, smiling at the girl with the baby.
Beatrice shot a glance at the young woman with the baby. “Yes. Cher, introduce yourself proper, girl.”
The girl lurched to attention, as much as her stick figure and the chubby baby in her arms would allow. “I’m Cher,” she said dully.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Baby’s Britney, if you can believe that. My brother’s kin.” She widened her eyes, shook her head and all but cranked her index finger in a circle at her temple.
Josie forced a smile. This was no momentary lapse, she realized with horrible certainty. This was Beatrice’s personality. No wonder no one else wanted to take on this job.
No wonder Susan Pringle had written confidentially about “special challenges” with Beatrice. God knew what that letter said, but if it got out…. At best, the public would get wind of some less-than-flattering comments about Beatrice. At worst, Beatrice would get wind of them herself and leave her publisher. Who might then fire Page-turner.
Who would then almost certainly fire Josie.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
“And are they staying for the evening?” Josie asked in a voice not quite her own.
“Weekend,” Beatrice corrected. “I’m stuck with ’em.” She gave Josie a look that challenged her to have a complaint about it.
“Oh.” Josie nodded a little too vigorously. What was she going to do? If word got out that Beatrice was so…unpleasant…it would be terrible for her and for the PR firm. But how was she going to hide it?
Quickly she realized what she had to do, the only thing she could do. She—Beatrice’s publicist—had to keep Beatrice quiet and out of the public eye as much as possible.
No wonder everyone had bowed out so Josie could have this “plum” assignment. No one wanted it!
“Hot as hell in here,” Beatrice said, fanning her face with her hand.
It was the perfect segue. “We’ve reserved a wonderful air-conditioned suite for you on the top floor,” Josie told her. “Plenty of room for all of you. In fact, I think you’ll enjoy it in there. There’s a wide-screen TV, a fully stocked minibar and a refrigerator. You might not want to leave the room once you see it.” She gave a light laugh while sending up a fervent prayer. “Oh, and we sent up some Rocky Top Beer, too, which you can take home with you.”
It was like throwing a cocktail meatball to a hungry rottweiler. Beatrice looked satisfied for a moment, but then she frowned deeply and snarled, “I hope I don’t have to take all them stairs to get up there.” She looked dubiously at the gorgeous sweep of a stairway.
“No, no, there’s an elevator in the hall,” Josie assured her. The pleasant expression she had frozen on her face was beginning to melt. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. She took Beatrice’s key out of her pocket. “Here’s your room key. I’ll show you the way.” She led Beatrice and her small entourage toward the elevator.
“So,” she said as they walked, searching the air for something to say that wouldn’t bring criticism. “I understand you’re going to be cooking some of your famous dishes while you’re here. How fun.”
“Nothing fun about cooking,” Beatrice said, sniffing.
“No?” Josie was surprised. She thought that, at least, was something Beatrice felt warmly about.
“But people love your recipes. Surely you must enjoy creating them.”
Beatrice snorted. “Nope. It’s a gift.” She spat the word as if it were a gnat that had flown into her mouth. “Damn gift. All the women in my family have it. My grandmother, my mother. Sister missed the boat, though. Madge.” Her mouth turned down at the corners into a very unpleasant expression when she said Madge. “She’s jealous that I got it.”
“She doesn’t cook?”
Beatrice heaved her heavy shoulders. “Haven’t seen her in more’n five years.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
Beatrice nodded, and for a moment Josie thought she spotted a little tenderness. “Too bad it ain’t been ten years,” she said.
Josie nodded and pressed the up button for the elevator.
They waited.
“So. The Beaujold women have a gift for cooking,” she said, pressing the button again. Where was the elevator? The inn only had five floors. How long did it take an elevator to get from top to bottom?
Beatrice stared at her with beady eyes. “Wickham women. And the gift is for bewitchin’ men,” she said with an absurd swing of her hips. “Seducing ’em. They cannot resist. The recipes,” she finished, “are simply how we do it.”
“Lots of people seem to think the recipes work magic,” Josie said, thinking of Buffy and others she’d met who swore by the book. She’d never given the idea much credit, but she was surprised at the number of stories she had heard of men making proposals—proper and otherwise—over chilis and hot cakes from the book.
“You got a husband?” Beatrice asked unexpectedly.
“Not at the moment, no.” She saw a change in Beatrice’s expression and added quickly, before she could be accused of being a half-dressed lesbian, “Someday, maybe, but right now I’d rather not get tied down.”
“Smart girl.” Beatrice thumped a meaty finger against her temple. “That’s where I made my mistake. Shoulda just played the field.” She cocked her head toward her granddaughter. “Tried to tell Cher that, but she got it all confused and had a baby.” She shook her head. “Girl’s got nothin’ upstairs. Nothin’.”
Cher gave her aunt a look of sheer hatred.
“Remember to get them cheesecakes out of the car when you’ve unloaded your stuff, girl,” Beatrice barked, then said to Josie, “They asked me to bring them cheesecakes of mine, even though they’re gonna bring nothin’ but trouble. Haven’t met a man yet who didn’t turn into a horn dog on eatin’ them. ’Course, it’s like that with most of my recipes, but the creamy ones in particular. Chocolate pudding, cheesecake. Guess people like to spread it on their body parts or something, I don’t know.”
“Excuse me,” said a small voice from behind Josie.
Josie turned to see Lily Rose from the front desk. “The elevator is out of order.”
“Out of order?” Josie repeated. “When will it be fixed?”
“Oh, we’ve called the handyman already,” she said, as if that would mean something to Josie. “But since it’s after hours now, he was already in bed. He’s on the way, though.” She looked at Beatrice. “In the meantime, Ms. Beaujold, can I show you to your room?”
“Well, somebody better,” Beatrice said, with a look that implied Josie had better fix the elevator herself if the handyman didn’t come through.
Beatrice stopped and turned back. “You the one with my check?” she asked Josie.
“I’m sorry?” Josie asked, although she knew full well what Beatrice was getting at.
“The check. My appearance fee for comin’ here. They said you’d have it ready for me.” She held a meaty hand out. “Let’s have it.”
It took Josie a moment to formulate the words. “I…I don’t have it on me. It’s in my briefcase.” That much was true. “I’ll get it to you later.”
Beatrice frowned. “I don’t work until I have it in my hand. Make no mistake.”
It was an interesting choice of words, considering Josie had already made about fifty. “Don’t worry about a thing,” Josie said, as brightly as she could. “You just go on up and get some rest.”
Beatrice wasn’t so easily distracted. “You’ll have the check for me then?”
“Absolutely.” Somehow. Even if she had to write it herself. It probably wouldn’t bounce until after Beatrice got home.
Apparently satisfied, Beatrice gave a nod and dragged Cher and Britney off behind Lily, just as Dan Duvall approached.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she rubbed her hands across them. “Did you find my briefcase?”
“Not yet. But—”
He was interrupted by a small pack of women flouncing by. An impossibly buxom platinum blonde tossed a seductive look over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Dan. Long time. What’s the matter, don’t you like me anymore?”
“Now, what do you think, Kathy?” He gave a smile that had probably gotten Kathy to agree to any number of unholy things.
“I think it’s been too long,” she cooed. She didn’t even glance at Josie. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
“Always nice to be appreciated,” Dan drawled. He would have tipped his cap if he’d been wearing one.
Josie watched with disgust as the girl blew him a kiss and walked away, swinging her hips enough to shake a martini if she’d had a hip flask.
“You were saying, Chief?” Josie asked impatiently. Then she noticed he was holding a manilla envelope. “Hey, is that mine?”
He handed it to her. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”
She took it with eager hands and turned it over. There, in her handwriting, was the name Beatrice Beaujold. “Yes,” she said, hurriedly opening it to see if her papers were inside. Please, she prayed silently, please let them be there. Maybe—just maybe—this weekend would turn out okay, after all.
Maybe no one would find out what Beatrice was really like.
Maybe Beatrice wouldn’t find out her editor had told Josie what she was really like.
Maybe Josie would still have a job when she got back to New York.
Except that the envelope felt awfully thin. She loosened the brad and looked inside. Her neatly filed papers were gone. There were just a few dirty scraps inside. “What’s this?” she asked, suddenly feeling like crying. No letter from Beatrice’s editor and no check. She was still in huge trouble.
“I was hoping you’d know. The envelope was empty when we found it. There were just a few papers scattered around it. If there were more, they must have blown away.”
“Was there no sign of my briefcase? The rest of my things?”
“Only this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smashed piece of a shiny brass lock. “Look familiar?”
She took it. It was from her case. “Yes.”
“That’s what I thought.” He reached for the envelope. “I’m particularly concerned about this.” He took out several of the pieces of paper and started piecing them together.
“What the…” It was Beatrice’s publicity photos, torn into long, even strips. Josie took them, then took a step backward and sat down on the end of a brocade-covered chaise longue. It squeaked under her weight, emphasizing the silence between herself and Dan. “It looks like there’s some sort of writing on it,” she said, assembling the pieces on her lap.
It wasn’t writing, at least not all of it. Most of it was drawing, in thick black marker. Someone had adorned Beatrice’s face with horns and a black beard, then put a big X over the whole thing. Across the top, the word whore was scrawled.
Now, truthfully, bitch Josie might have understood, but whore?
“Do you have any idea why someone might have done this?” Dan asked, looking at her with sharp eyes.
“None.”
“No enemies?” He raised an eyebrow. “No one who might have something against her?”
Josie had only known Beatrice for a couple of hours, but it was easy to imagine why any number of people might draw horns on her picture. She thought again of the missing letter from Susan Pringle and wondered wildly what it might have said that was “confidential.” What had, just a few hours ago, seemed a cursory caution now took on sinister overtones. Had Beatrice been arrested at some point? Did she have a secret life that no one could know about? Did that have something to do with what was happening now?
“I don’t know of anyone in particular,” Josie said slowly.
He cocked his head slightly and looked at her, his blue eyes as coercing as an interrogation lamp. It was a far cry from the languid indifference he’d shown earlier. “You sure?”

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