“Helena?” The drawl of my name is deep and masculine, and I’ve described voices like it a hundred times, the rough kind that makes weak females swoon against fence posts. I will not be swooning. I will be kicking him off this porch, immediately, before Marka Vantly and her brigade pull in. I eye his vehicle, a white Ford truck that squats in the middle of my driveway.
“I have a sign.” I tap it. “No ringing the doorbell. No parking on the driveway. And no soliciting.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “And I thought those rules were put up just for me.”
I stare at him blankly, the response making no sense. Even worse, he is still here, his boots on my Go Away mat, precious minutes clicking by. I should be clearing my mind and composing myself. This distraction… I don’t have time for this. “You need to leave.”
“I’m a little early.” His smile is still in place, and it is an amused one, his personal joke too freaking fascinating to share. “Would you like me to wait in the truck ’til four?”
I am a little early. Would you like me to wait ’til four? The words slowly click into place, and I blink, processing the possibilities, my next question a desperate attempt to buy time. “The truck in my driveway?”
He chuckles, and I’m glad this is so much fun for him. “Yes.”
“Are you Ron Pilar?” He can’t be, not unless Ron Pilar negotiates book contracts on fence rails before wrangling cattle.
“That prick?” He coughs out a laugh. “No.” His mouth twitches as if he is holding something in.
So he knows Ron Pilar. Or he’s crazy and bent on driving me to a similar mental state. Either way, this guessing game has gotten old. “I don’t have time for this,” I say sharply, my social graces drained. “Tell me who you are, or get the hell off my porch.”
“I’m sorry,” the man says, and he doesn’t sound the slightest bit sincere. He extends a hand into my personal space, his stubble-framed smile splitting wide across that rough face. “I’m Mark Fortune. Better known as Marka Vantly.”
Marka Vantly.
I’m Mark Fortune. Better known as Marka Vantly.
In the air, there is the hint of dusk, a softening of heat, the faint scent of honeysuckle on the breeze. In his eyes, there is amusement, a knowing gleam that scrapes a sharp knife along my heart.
“You’re not Marka Vantly.” The words stab out confidently, and I ignore his hand, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to fortify my stance. He’s crazy. He’s hacked into Marka’s email, burst into this appointment early, and is trying to worm his way into my life. He’s picked a terrible story to tell, Marka’s image recognizable even to someone not in publishing, her perfect blonde specimen plastered on every square bit of ad copy that exists. This farmer… he couldn’t be less plausible.
Unless.
Unless…
Unless I am wrong. There is intelligent arrogance in his grin, and I recognize that—the knowledge that you hold a card secret to others. I feel it when I write scenes designed to deceive, when I stack character traits and hidden messages against readers, setting them up for failure. He’s amused by this. What does he know that I don’t? Probably everything.
I suddenly feel small. Stupid. Angry.
I take the only path available, stepping backward, his eyes following, bushy eyebrows raising—and shut the door.
It may have been more of a slam. The wood sometimes swells, requiring any action to be done in a rather forceful way, one that causes glass to tremble in panes and walls to shudder. It wasn’t because I am temperamental. It was simply to ensure a good quality seal, one that won’t allow for questions, or the stop of a hand, or whispered words through cracked openings. I shut the door, flip the deadbolt, and leave the delusional stranger outside. I’ll let Marka deal with him. If, and when—I glance at my watch—she shows up.
Heading to the kitchen, I attempt to compose myself, the silent house comforting. There’s a reason I hate the doorbell. After the funeral, it constantly rang, neighbors and do-gooders bringing over food and flowers, the house a repulsive scent of floral casserole, each ding-dong of the bell a fresh wave of intrusion. I ripped it off once, a pair of scissors seized, my frenzied hacking observed by a startled FedEx employee. Two days later, I had it fixed. I couldn’t sleep at night, knowing that the loose wires were hanging out, a piece of the house incomplete, a visible reminder that I don’t have a husband to fix it, or the self-control to listen to a tone of greeting. So instead, I left the repaired doorbell in place and posted the sign. It started out just one item, one rule.
DO NOT RING THE DOORBELL.
The one rule grew into two, then four, then eight. They serve as more than requests to preserve my sanity. They are also a measure of intelligence, testing both reading aptitude and the ability to follow simple and polite requests.
The idiot on the porch has already parked in the driveway. Strike one.
He rang the bell. Twice. Strike two.
Lying about identity has never been a rule, but it could easily earn a spot on the list.
I get as far as the fridge when he rings the bell. It’s not the polite tap of earlier. This time it is loud and insistent, one press after another, my psyche not able to handle the assault, my feet dashing, hand jerking open the door before my head comes completely off.
Before, the man was annoying. Now? I will kill him.
MARK
If fury is a person, it is Helena Ross. And if she owns a weapon, his next step is death. The woman violently swings open the door, her nostrils flaring, her eyes burning, one small fist reaching out and pounding on his wrist, stalling his next press of the doorbell. “Stop that. Stop, stop, stop, STOP.” The words are a chant, her breaths coming harder, a painfully thin chest heaving under the cotton long-sleeve tee she wears.
So much anger in such a tiny body. He’d expected an older woman, one his age, with gray hair and delicate glasses, her regal shoulders pinned back, her panties the stuffy sort never seen. But this anorexic-thin stick of elbows and ears… she couldn’t be much older than thirty. To think such a tiny thing has been the one who’s told him off for the better part of a decade… it makes him want to throw back his head and laugh.
Laughing, it seems, would be unwise. She doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, her eyes sharpening every time he so much as cracks a smile. “I am Marka Vantly,” he speaks quickly, before she shuts the door, his tone serious. “Call Ron Pilar and ask him.” He holds out the worn business card, the only proof he has readily available. Who knows if the number on it is accurate, the card one he’d been given eight years ago, back when Ron was a stranger and he was just another poor writer with a stack of declined manuscripts. There had been no auction on that novel, no Publishers Weekly write up and six-figure advance. There’d just been a desperate flail for attention from the industry’s top agent, the first contact a moment of celebration, the resulting business card a coveted item.
She straightens, one hand still protecting the bell, her gaze moving down to the card, which hangs in the space between them. Her large eyes dart back to his face, narrowing, squints of skin that breathe fire in the form of pupils. A perfect glare, one that belongs to the claws that pecked out all of those vicious emails filled with jealousy and spite.
Her hand snatches, and his bit of nostalgia is suddenly gone, a victim of her grasp, her gaze darting suspiciously between the card and his face. “Wait here.” She steps back and grabs the door jamb, pausing for a moment as she eyes him, then her doorbell, then him again.
He raises his hands in innocence and steps back, away from her and the tiny button that seems to annoy her so. God, to think of all of the emails he had mused over, carefully selecting the right words to drive her mad, and all it took was the ding-dong of this bell.
She snorts, and shuts the door, leaving him alone on the porch, for the second time in five minutes. What an interesting woman.
He turns, stepping away from the house and to the rail of the porch, his eyes moving over the perfect lines of the yard, a stark contrast from the wild acreage of his Memphis plantation. He tries to imagine the conversation occurring inside, Helena’s interrogation of Ron Pilar. Ron will behave, swallowing his snark under a blanket of kiss-ass. Helena… who knows how Helena would handle it. So far, his plan to play nice has gone slightly astray.