I Think I Love You Page 3

  She swallowed two more mouthfuls of the cooling coffee before pouring the rest into the pot of an ill-looking African violet that she’d inherited with the office and had yet to produce the first bloom. Jill suggested that she ditch the plant and start over, but Regina stubbornly refused. As a late bloomer herself, she had faith—and patience. Old Mr. Calvin had once told her that coffee was good for plants, and she believed him, if simply because he’d been the only adult who had fostered her love for reading. She wondered if he knew that she now made her living surrounded by books, or if he remembered her, or if he was even still alive. She made a mental note to ask her mother the next time they spoke on the phone.

  After consulting her electronic address book, she punched in Mica’s number, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to talk to her sister; it was just that they had so little to say to each other. Mica had moved to LA the same time that Regina had graduated college and moved to Boston to work as a reader for a textbook publisher. Mica’s departure had caused so much strain in the family, Regina wasn’t surprised when she didn’t hear from her for over a year. Hurt, but not surprised.

  Over the last twelve years, she’d seen her baby sister in person only once. She’d flown to LA for a booksellers’ conference and practically shown up on Mica’s doorstep (after she’d tracked down the doorstep). That was before Mica’s lucrative contract with the world’s largest hair care line, and the visit had been a bona fide disaster. Mica was a wreck, strung out and living in a dump with her boyfriend, an exponentially bigger wreck. Regina had sprung for lunch at the safest-looking restaurant in the neighborhood. Mica had eaten like a man and spent the hour extolling the virtues of the city and a new talent agent she’d signed with. She’d seemed content enough, but with Mica, who knew? When Regina dropped her off, Mica had turned and leaned into the open window.

  “Have you heard from Justine?”

  “We talk on the phone occasionally.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fine. You should call her sometime.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “I suspect the words would come.”

  But to her knowledge, the call had never been made—she was sure Justine would have mentioned it. After all these years, Regina was still suspended between her sisters’ personalities, knowing that despite their history, they yearned for each other. She was simply a placeholder.

  After the sixth ring, Regina expected the machine to kick on. Instead, the receiver was lifted from its cradle, wallowed a good bit, then a deep-throated bleary, “Yeah?” came over the line.

  She closed her eyes. Dean Haviland. Only the last person on earth she wanted to talk to.

  “Who the hell’s calling?” he slurred.

  “Dean, it’s Regina. Metcalf. I was hoping to speak to Mica.”

  “Hm? Regina? Well, well, long time, no see.”

  She bit the tip of her tongue. “Is Mica available to come to the phone?”

  He grunted. “Can’t spare a word for your old friend Dean?”

  “The word that comes to mind isn’t fit for the airwaves.”

  His laughter rolled out, sultry and confident, even now. No—especially now. Now that Mica was a wealthy personality, one of those rare commercial actors who resonated with viewers to the point that they became more recognizable than the product they represented. Dean Haviland, high school dropout and loser extraordinaire, had hit the mother lode.

  “Regina, Regina, Regina. I always knew you were more of a fireball than your sisters if you’d only let your hair down.”

  She set her jaw, a movement that pulled at the smooth hairline created by her French twist. The man was revolting in his conceit. What her sisters ever saw in him—good God, what she ever saw in him—was a mystery even beyond the grasp of Nancy Drew.

  “Mica—is she there?”

  “She’s not in bed, but she could be passed out in the john.”

  Regina struggled to keep the alarm out of her voice. “Don’t you think you should check on her?”

  “Not especially.”

  Clenching the phone, she willed herself not to be sucked in by the man’s melodrama. “When you see her, would you please ask her to call me at my office?”

  “Sure thang, Blue Eyes.”

  She slammed down the phone, then picked it up and banged it down again. “Ooooooh!”

  A discreet knock sounded at her door.

  “Yes?” she called curtly.

  The door opened six inches, revealing Jill’s pensive face. “Everything okay?”

  Regina removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Would you please hold my calls? I’m going to try to get some reading done before the ten o’clock meeting.”

  “Absolutely.” Jill hesitated a split second, then closed the door.

  Regina sighed and jammed her dark frames back onto her face. She was a respected senior editor known for her level head, yet smarmy Dean Haviland could set her off with a few casual words from three thousand miles away. How many times had she wished he’d never entered their lives? If she’d known the havoc the dark-eyed teenager would unleash on her family when he walked into M&G Antiquities twenty years ago and asked for a job, she’d have found some way to convince her parents to send him on his loose-hipped way.

  But she couldn’t turn back time, no matter how many circumstances she longed to change.

  In an effort to shake her black mood, she slipped off her gray suit jacket and draped it across the back of her chair, then faced her bookcase and the massive slush pile. Removing three manuscripts from this heap would be like removing a bucket of water from the river that ran past her building, but today could be the day she struck gold. She slowly scanned the bundles of paper, many with protruding pages or curled edges, and randomly selected three manuscripts of varying bulk.

  After settling into her chair, she removed the clips and rubber bands, then skimmed the first cover letter. A local taxi driver had written a collection of short stories about his experiences and customers’ conversations. Actually, the writing wasn’t half-bad, but she had to pull the “sorry, we don’t publish fiction” form letter from a file and fasten it on top. She did take a few seconds, however, to scrawl “Try Anne Frankel at Thornton House” on the bottom of the otherwise-impersonal letter.

  Next, a Vietnam veteran from Ohio had turned his war experience and his passion for outdoor sports into a survival guide. The man’s credits were impressive (if frightening), and the manuscript was meaty, though poorly organized. Still, with the popularity of reality television shows, they might be able to parlay the material into a series of guides for outdoorsmen. She turned to her computer and typed a quick memo of her ideas to the editor on their staff who specialized in sports-related books, then dropped the entire kit-and-kaboodle into an intercompany mailer.

  The last manuscript looked less promising—the cover letter was printed on bright pink paper, and when she removed the clasp a handful of star and heart cutout confetti showered her desk. She swore under her breath and spent the next few minutes tossing the colorful bits into the trash, and very nearly chucked the manuscript, too. But she prided herself on reading at least a few pages of every submission, so she sighed and scanned the pink cover letter:

  My name is Libby Janes. I live just north of Atlanta, Georgia, and I carpool every day to my downtown technical writing job with three other women—Belinda, Carole, and Rosemary. Two of us are single, and between the four of us we’ve been married nine times (yes, nine times). As you can imagine, our carpooling conversation usually turns to men—why we thought we were in love, what we’ve learned, the advice we want to pass on to our daughters. Out of boredom, I began to write down bits of our group advice on falling in and out of love, and I believe other women would like to hear what we have to say. I’m enclosing the finished product for your publishing consideration.

  Regina pursed her mouth and turned to the cover sheet.

&n
bsp; I THINK I LOVE YOU

  (Relationship DOs and DON’Ts for Grown Women)

  Crossing her legs, Regina dangled a leather pump from her toe and turned the page.

  Chapter 2

  DO assess the risk level of a relationship before you proceed.

  Justine Metcalf found it hard to concentrate on the words she was imparting to her staff of twelve women with the feel of Randall Crane’s hands still on her breasts.

  “As most of you know, I directed the addition of noncosmetic items to the Cocoon product line last year that moved us from number six in the cosmetic industry to number four.” She coughed to mask her growling stomach. If she kept meeting him so often for lunch rendezvous, she was going to have to start brown-bagging an afternoon snack.

  “By adding silk scarves and evening bags to the fall lineup, we can expect to see a sales increase of three to three and a half million dollars for the first two quarters of next year.” When she stood to pass out folders imprinted with the company’s signature caterpillar, the rush of cool air past her thighs reminded her that Randall had kept her panties, the naughty boy.

  Justine reclaimed her seat and crossed her legs to stem the draft, wincing inwardly at the twinge of her thigh muscles. Randall’s lovemaking had been particularly intense today. Bruising… almost like Dean’s.

  She registered the sharp pain of a bad memory, then mentally shook herself. “Now then—”

  “May I say something?”

  She looked down the table, fighting a frown of disapproval for the intrusion, especially when her gaze landed on Barbie Donetti, a perky little regional director who, Justine had heard through the grapevine, had her sights set on Justine’s executive VP position. Fat chance, Barbie Doll.

  “Yes, you may,” Justine said, but checked her watch to indicate the girl had better hurry the hell up.

  Barbie assumed a smug smile and leaned her elbows on the table. “Well, it seems to me that we’re drifting too far away from our core product line.” She spoke with the nasal thickness of the locals here in the headquarters’ town of Shively, Pennsylvania. A homegrown girl whose mother worked on the Cocoon assembly line, Little Barbie seemed to have gotten above her raising. “Instead of putting the Cocoon name on all this stuff, why don’t we expand our skin care line?”

  All eyes cut to Justine, and she saw agreement in their stupid expressions. Clenching her fist in her lap, she bestowed a tolerant smile in Barbie’s direction. “I’ll take your comment under advisement.” She put pen to paper. “Let’s see, the fancy marketing term you used was stuff, wasn’t it, Barbie?”

  The offender turned scarlet and sat back in her chair like a good girl. “My name is Bobbie, Ms. Metcalf. Bobbie Donetti.”

  “Oh, my mistake. One of the few mistakes I’ve made in my career, I might add.”

  A repentant silence fell, but Justine wasn’t satisfied. She pursed her mouth and crossed her arms over her runway-quality laser-red suit—whoever said that redheads shouldn’t wear red had never gotten a gander at her. “Before we move on, I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone seated here that Cocoon is a classy firm—if you intend to stay here, you might want to reevaluate your business wardrobes.” She glanced around the table, lingering on Barbie-Bobbie, daring anyone to make eye contact. No one did.

  “Now then, are there any other questions about the new product line?”

  There weren’t.

  She opened the folder in front of her. “Good. As I was about to say before I was interrupted, the new sales quotas and bonus structures are in your folders—”

  The door to her office burst open, and Justine jumped to her feet, her patience spent. “Dammit, what now?” She didn’t recognize the slight woman who stood in the doorway, her graying hair disheveled, her eyes glassy.

  The woman wet her lips. “Are you Justine Metcalf?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Lisa Crane.”

  “I don’t—” Justine stopped as realization hit her. Randall’s wife. She swallowed and forced a note of calm into her voice. “Do you need to speak with me in private, Mrs. Crane?”

  “No,” the woman said, closing the door behind her and turning the lock on the handle. “I want plenty of witnesses.”

  Her heart thudded. “Mrs. Crane—”

  The woman raised a revolver. “Shut up, slut.”

  Cold terror gripped Justine, and shrieks rang out.

  “Don’t anyone move,” Mrs. Crane said, sweeping the weapon over their heads, and the group obliged. She smiled at Justine. “I understand you’re screwing my husband.”

  Justine was paralyzed in her crocodile pumps, “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The woman reached into her purse and tossed a wad of something on the table that slid down the glossy length and stopped in front of Justine’s notebook.

  Her panties. A pair of tiny sheer silk undies with a yellow butterfly design. One of the noncosmetic items she’d added to last year’s product lineup.

  Justine’s mouth went dry. “Those… aren’t… mine.”

  The woman cocked the hammer. “Prove it—lift your skirt.”

  Panic rolled over her in waves. She leaned against the table, the edge cutting into the fronts of her thighs. “I—”

  The woman raised the gun and fired. Everyone screamed except Justine, who simply waited for blood to begin spreading over some portion of her upmarket suit jacket. When it didn’t, she realized that the woman had shot high and into the wall behind her. As her knees weakened, her mind raced—at least security would be alerted, although the Keystone Cops milling around Cocoon’s lobby had never dealt with anything worse than a malfunctioning fire alarm.

  The Crane woman cocked the hammer again. “I missed on purpose. Lift your little skirt, or I’m going to start picking off your friends here.”

  Her “friends” were weeping, but Justine was dry-eyed with disbelief. This couldn’t be happening, not to her. Not when she finally had the world by the balls after years of clawing her way up from the degradation of in-home makeup parties. For instant cheekbones, apply blush on the apple of your cheek. Christ, didn’t she deserve to enjoy her success for a few lousy years?

  “I’m going to count to three,” Lisa Crane said, pointing the gun at wide-eyed Terri Birch, vice president of human resources. Terri had three kids and a vacation home in Aspen. “One…”

  And Justine had shagged Terri’s husband, Jim, in the catering pantry at the company Christmas party.

  “Two…”

  Terri began to sob.

  “Okay,” Justine said with a tiny chopping motion. “Okay.” She smoothed her hands down her thighs and began lifting the hem of her skirt one millimeter at a time. She’d stall the woman as long as possible, hoping that by some miracle, help would arrive before the bullets started flying again. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Crane. Randall and I are just friends.”

  “That’s not what he said.” The woman laughed. “Right before I shot him.”

  Her heart pummeled her breastbone. Randall was… dead? Good God, the woman was mad. “M-Mrs. Crane, why don’t you let these people go? They’re innocent in this matter.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere until you expose your ass to the world. Somehow I don’t think these folks will mind, because I’ll bet they’ve had to kiss it a few times.” She motioned with the gun for Justine to keep lifting, then pressed the barrel to Terri Birch’s head. Terri’s big hair nearly enveloped the gun.

  Justine swallowed and slowly inched her skirt upward. The air touched her skin above the black thigh-high stockings. The woman was riveted, and so were most of Justine’s staff. A couple of them had the good grace to look away, and Justine made mental notes for future pay raises. If she lived.

  Her hem snagged on a garter belt fastener, then bumped higher. When the bottom of the fabric brushed her pubic hair, Justine set her jaw—she’d lifted her skirt for less compelling reasons than to avoid death. Of course, the woman was
likely to shoot her anyway if the cavalry didn’t arrive soon. She’d balled enough cops in this town that they’d damn well better save the day before she got her ass shot off. Her only flash of vindication standing skirt-up in the path of the air-conditioning vent was that she had one fine-looking ass.

  “Guess those were your panties,” Mrs. Crane said dryly, but she seemed deflated in the face of truth.

  “You’ve proved your point, Mrs. Crane,” Justine said, dropping her skirt. “Now put down the gun. Randall isn’t worth all this.”

  The woman squinted. “No, you wouldn’t think so, would you? You didn’t work as a waitress to put him through law school. You didn’t give him two sons. You didn’t nurse his mother through Alzheimer’s. Randall means nothing to you, but he is everything to me!” The woman was crying now, and pressing poor Terri’s head to the side with the barrel of the gun.

  “Relax, Mrs. Crane,” Justine soothed.

  “A person can’t just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it!”

  The faces of the married men Justine had slept with over the years passed before her eyes. “Please put down the gun.”

  The woman suddenly laughed. “I don’t think so.” She moved the gun from Terri’s temple and aimed for Justine’s chest. Justine inhaled and closed her eyes.

  When the shot rang out and mayhem erupted, she fell to the ground and waited for the pain to overtake her. She hadn’t talked to Regina in weeks, to her parents in months, and to Mica in years. She curled into a ball and wondered if her back-stabbing baby sister would have the heart to show up for her funeral.

  Chapter 3

  DO wake up and smell the leftovers.

  Mica was trapped in a cabinet of some kind. She inhaled the pungent, mossy scent of walnut wood, and her eyes flew wide in the darkness. She was inside the wardrobe. The antique wardrobe that she, Regina, and Justine had repaired and re-finished for Justine and Dean’s future household. Beneath her fingers, the wood of the door was smooth and hot from all the sanding—so hot that she cried out in pain.