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Stealing Adda

By Tamara Leigh

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I snatch a glimpse of Nick Farnsworth, the new president of Intrepid Books. He's still alone, head bent toward the newspaper open on the table before him. Is he waiting on someone? Yep - two menus. I just hope it's not the editor that my agent, Noelle, has been talking to.

Nor a wife or girlfriend....

I look to his hand on the newspaper and feel a thrill at the absence of a wedding band.

"So you won't leave the love scene until later," Noelle interrupts, "and you won't start over. What's left, Adda?"Left? Well..."

Therapy, perhaps?

"Maybe I'll just drag out the option book my first publisher rejected and rework it." Of course, I have no intention of doing so. What had my editor at Gentry Books written? As if I could forget!

You simply haven't grown sufficiently in your writing for us to offer a contract on this proposal. Of course, the acquisition of books is of a subjective nature and another editor may feel different. We wish you every success in placing it elsewhere.

Wished me success....not! But who's crying now that Adda Sinclaire is a New York Times Best Seller?

"You might have something there," Noelle cuts through my bitterness.

"Where?"

"Pulling out the option book."

I stare at her. "I was being facetious."

"Were you? Well, I'm not. If I remember right, Winds of Love--"

"Wings of Love."

"Whatever. The story was set in thirteenth-century France--"

"Twelfth, and it was England."

"Close enough."

Hardly, but before I can argue, she's barreling on. "The stories share the same premise - enemy forced to marry enemy. Just swap the stories out and you'll meet the deadline."

"Maybe the same premise," I say, "but that's all. Wings of Love in no way resembles the proposal for The Gifting that Kathryn approved."

Noelle scoffs. "Do you honestly think your editor will remember a proposal she read a year ago? And even if she did, everyone knows the finished product is often markedly different from the proposal."

What she says is true, but I simply can't imagine doing it. Wings of Love was a long time ago, and still bears the weight of painful memories. Dick and I argued often during its writing, setting the stage for his adultery a year later - which in no way absolves Stick Woman of her duplicity. Shameless hussy! But I won't think about her now. If I never again lay eyes on that woman, it will be too soon.

"What do you say?" Noelle prompts.

I snatch up my purse and stand. "Just get me my three month extension." I turn away.

And there's the woman I hoped to never again lay eyes upon - fellow romance writer, Birgitta Roth. And, lordy lordy, she's lowering to the chair Nick Farnsworth has pulled out for her. Might Intrepid Books be thinking of signing her? A huge step up from Heart Core Publishers with whom she's been since her first book.

Fortunately, I become aware of my gaping and snap my teeth closed.

Is there anyway I can slink out without her noticing? Without her revealing to Nick Farnsworth the identity of the loud-mouthed, haughty romance author who shot a mouthful across the table?

There's only one thing I can think of. I pull my dark sunglasses from my purse and slam them onto my face. Shoulders back, head up, veering slightly right though the exit is left, I hold my breath as I draw even with their table.

"Adda Sinclaire? Is that you?"

Are you really there, God?

"Well, of course it is!"

I halt. Though I feared she might point me out, never would I have expected public acknowledgment. After all, I am the competition, and somehow she's wrangled a lunch date with the president of a prestigious publishing house. So it's one of two things. Either she wants to rub it in my face, or she sees gain in aligning herself with a bestselling author. Of course, she can't possibly know of the low to which I sank previous to her arrival. Poor thing....

I turn.

Stick Woman advances on me and, to my horror, embraces me with those bony arms of hers. It's a first. And a last, I vow as her perfume assails me. She must buy it in bulk.

"How are you?" she asks, drawing back to survey me.

Past her shoulder, Nick Farnsworth is watching . "Birgitta Roth," I say, looking up at her where she tops my five-foot-seven by several inches. "What a lovely surprise."

"Isn't it?" Though she's smiling and anyone watching would think we're old friends, the daggers in her eyes tell different - something to which I refer each time I write a villainous woman into one of my books. Believe me, my heroines have battled and beaten quite a few Birgitta Roths.

"You look..." She slides her gaze down me and up again. "...good. How long did it take to lose all those extra pounds?"

Hag.

"Not long," I say, grateful for my dark glasses. "And you look great, yourself. Finally grew out your hair, hmm?"

Her lids narrow.

"It's lovely," I continue, "though I think I prefer it short."

As in torn from your head!

Her mouth twitches, but she holds onto the smile and leans near. "You know Richard. So passionate about long hair."

Then she and my ex are still together. Good. They deserve each other.

"Richard?" I put confusion into my own smile. "Oh! You mean Dick."

I declare, the woman has a tic! I stare at her right eye, the corner of which jerks spasmodically.

Strike!

Though it's true I could have come up with a more creative nickname for my ex - say, "Two Timer" - not only is Stick Woman's dislike of the shortened form of "Richard" nearly as great as his, but it's perfectly acceptable to speak aloud. Kind of like the use of a silencer whereby only the victim feels the shot, allowing the shooter to slip away unnoticed.

Nice.

With a forced laugh, Stick Woman turns me toward her table. "Have you met Nick Farnsworth, the new president of Intrepid Books?"

Only over my tongue. Why, oh why, did I have to stick it out at him?

"No?" she gloats, and pulls me forward.

Straining backward, I glance over my shoulder, but Noelle isn't about to rescue me. She lifts her blasted six-dollar-a-bottle water and shrugs.

"I..." I gasp. "I'm in a hurry, Birgitta."

She looks around. "Come now, Adda, it will only take a minute."

"No, really--"

The Amazon is strong-arming me! And Nick Farnsworth is rising. A moment later, I'm standing before him, Birgitta's arm looped chummily through mine.

That goo feeling is back as I stare at him through my dark lenses. I was right about him topping six feet - by at least two inches. And yes, he does appear to be in his early forties, though he's a darned good looking middle-ager. Definitely not the pretty boy Jake is. Nick Farnsworth has too many flaws for that, and I have the sudden urge to explore each one, from the tiny lines at the outside corners of his dark eyes, to the deeper grooves in his forehead, to that left cleft dimple that appears as I stand mutely before him.

"...Adda Sinclaire," Birgitta's voice squeezes into my consciousness, and I realize she's finished introductions.

"Bestselling romance author," Nick Farnsworth reminds me of my earlier outburst, which causes Birgitta to startle.

Blushing hotly, I look to the large, long-fingered hand he extends. Nice nails - clean...clipped... trimmed cuticles...

"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sinclaire."

If it's possible for a voice to have muscles, his does. I slide my hand into his and feel the goo invade my knees as he presses my palm. I'm holding my breath, I realize, and wonder if any man has ever made me do that.

"A p-pleasure, Mr. Farnsworth," I stammer.

For certain, no man has ever reduced me to a speech impediment.

He gives my hand a parting squeeze before releasing it.

Disappointment curdling my insides, I tell myself to get a grip.

Stick Woman, still clutching my arm, pats my hand. "Adda and I go back a looong way, Nick."

Nick. That familiar, hmm? Telling myself I'm not jealous - how could I be? - I wonder what Dick would think of Birgitta's lunch date.

Nick Farnsworth shrugs up his jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets. "A long way. Is that right?"

Stick Woman laughs huskily. "Our first books were released within months of one other." As if suddenly remembering something, she gasps. "Oh! Remember the awards ceremony the following year, Adda?"

It's coming, and just like vomit, there's no holding it back.

"We were both nominated for Best First Historical, Nick. Imagine that!" She giggles, and I can't help but be embarrassed for her. She has just hit the big four-O.

Nick Farnsworth is smiling, but he's looking at me - studying me, making me feel like a specimen under glass. And despite my impenetrable lenses, it feels as if he's looking right through them.

Stick Woman sighs. "It was a close one, and to this day I still can't believe I took home the award."

Neither can I. Though I've walked away with more prestigious awards since, that one still smarts.

Nick Farnsworth steps aside. I realize you were on your way out, Ms. Sinclaire, but perhaps you can spare a few minutes to join us for a drink?"

Stick Woman tightens my arm against her side, squeezing it against her bony ribs - honestly, I can feel the ridges! Though tempted to tick her off by accepting the offer, and knowing how much Noelle would want me to, I say, "I'd love to" - Stick Woman's arm tightens further, cutting off the blood supply to my lower arm - "but I have another obligation."

"Oh." Stick Woman thrusts her bottom lip forward, eases up on my arm. "Pity. I was looking forward to doing some catch up."

The story of her life....

"Maybe another time," I say, and meet Nick Farnsworth's x-ray vision. "Thank you for the offer."

He inclines his head, and that left cleft deepens.

Steady, girl. Steady.

At last, Stick Woman releases my arm. "Lovely meeting up with you," she says.

And I am dismissed. As I turn away, I see her step toward Nick Farnsworth and lay a hand to his arm. Her claws - artificial nails that obscenely extend past the tips of her fingers a full inch - sink into his sleeve with a familiarity that suggests their meeting might be other than business.

And I see green.

I swing back around, startling Stick Woman into dropping her hand from Nick Farnsworth. "Forgive me, Birgitta," I say with an apologetic smile. "I forgot to ask after Dick. How is he doing?"

Her lashes flutter, and she appears to squirm inside her tacky pastel pink two-piece. "Oh. Didn't he tell you?"

Beneath the cover of my shades, I steal a look at Nick Farnsworth, and his mouth curves into a smile. He does have x-ray vision!

"He took a job in Houston," Stick Woman says, and consideringly taps a finger to her lips. "What? Six months past?"

I jerk my gaze back to her. Richard's gone? Six months gone? I talk to my mother at least once a month, and she never mentioned it. As she's best friends with my ex's mother, she must know. Or is Stick Woman lying?

"Sports anchor for a local television station," she says. "Just too good to pass up."

Then hooking up with Stick Woman and her broadcasting connections paid off? He finally attained that which so long eluded him?

If not that it was ill-gotten gain - paid for with our marriage - and that he'd been such a jerk, I'd be happy for him.

"I'm happy for him," I say. "Next time the two of you speak, give him my regards."

"I'll do that," Stick Woman says.

If she talks to him again. After all, it sounds as if he dumped her. In the middle of my smug revelry, I'm accosted by a memory of my beloved Shar-Pei's sad eyes. "I assume Dick took Beijing with him?"

Stick Woman lifts a hand to examine her claws. "Actually, no. The dog would have been too much of a hassle with the new job...the move..."

My heart leaps. "Then he left Beijing behind?"

"Yes," she purrs, "the little darling is staying with me." She lowers her hand. "But once Richard settles in, he plans on sending for him."

And when might that be? Already Beijing has endured six months of solitary confinement with this woman. Trampling my pride, I say, "Well, if it becomes too tiresome--"

"Oh, it won't. Beijing and I have become..." She heaves a sigh of contentment. "...inseparable."

Biting off a smile, I say, "I'm pleased to hear it." Resisting another glance at Nick Farnsworth, I incline my head. "Bye, then." I turn and am barely three steps removed when Stick Woman calls me back.

"Oh, Adda."

Feeling like a yo-yo on a dangerously frayed string, I look over my shoulder.

"You inadvertently posted me an e-mail intended for one of your fans."

Don't know how I could have forgotten that. With a supremely innocent smile, I ask, "Did I?"

"You did. I just wanted to thank you for recommending my books to the woman. I will, of course, reciprocate."

"You're quite welcome," I manage, though what I really want is to tear out another hunk of bottle-dyed blonde hair. But not in front of Nick Farnsworth. So I nod and, ignoring the stares pelting me, thread among the tables. At last, I step out into a muggy Manhattan day.

Certain there will be an urgent message from Noelle when I get home - doubtless, she watched the whole Stick Woman scene - I decide against hailing a taxi. A nice, long walk is what I need. Of course, a new shade of nail polish wouldn't hurt either....

Putting my chin up, staring straight ahead as I pass the window behind which Nick Farnsworth and that little tramp sit, I head for Saks Fifth Avenue.

Two hours later, an elegant shopping bag in the crook of one arm, I let myself into my townhouse. And halt as Nick Farnsworth's voice - rippling with muscles - calls to me from the kitchen.

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