Surprise Package Read online

  “Surprise Package”

  By

  Shirl Henke

  Previously published by Leisure Books

  Copyright 2000 by Shirl Henke

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Acknowledgement

  The events and characters herein are fictional except for Kathryn Falk, and Carol Stacy from ROMANTIC TIMES. When I asked them if I could insert them in my story as characters playing themselves, they laughed and said, "Go for it!" My sincerest thanks to two of the best sports and smartest gals I've even met.

  Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:

  * * * *

  A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  * * * *

  “Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

  * * * *

  BROKEN VOWS

  * * * *

  McCRORY'S LADY

  * * * *

  The Blackthorne Trilogy:

  LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

  WICKED ANGEL

  WANTON ANGEL

  * * * *

  House of Torres Books:

  PARADISE & MORE

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  * * * *

  The Cheyenne Books:

  SUNDANCER

  THE ENDLESS SKY

  CAPTURE THE SUN

  * * * *

  The Texas Trilogy:

  CACTUS FLOWER

  MOON FLOWER

  NIGHT FLOWER

  Chapter One

  “Someday my prince will come,” Gilly Newsom muttered fiercely. “If nothing else, he can rescue me from the five-twenty rat race.”

  Her companion, also elbowing her way through the rush-hour crowds thronging the subway platform, grinned good-naturedly. “Romance is still alive in your cynic's heart, then?” Charis Lawrence asked.

  “Not really. Look around you, girlfriend. Most people are toting bags of holiday goodies, while I'm lugging twenty pounds of manuscript—three of the mere two dozen I'm currently assigned.”

  “Stop whining. Look at it this way—no need to go to the gym,” Charis said, patting her briefcase full of marketing reports. “Besides, it's called paying our dues in New York publishing.”

  “Easy for you to say when you're going home to Bill, not a cold, empty flat in Yonkers. I don't even have a dog, for Pete's sake. You have William Channing Lawrence, Esquire.”

  A dreamy look came over Charis' pert, pretty face. “True, Bill is very special, but someday there'll be a guy just as great waiting for you. Well, maybe not quite as great—nobody could be.”

  “You wouldn't be just the least bit prejudiced in the matter, would you?” Gilly teased. Charis had always been able to lighten her mood, ever since they met back at Oberlin College nearly nine years earlier. They'd quickly become best friends as well as roommates in spite of the fact that they came from such diverse backgrounds. Charis' family was upstate New York old money, while Gilly's folks were rust-belt Ohio blue collar.

  The subway car—already packed, as usual—pulled into the station, and both women shoved inside with the negligent ease of seasoned New Yorkers. “At least it's semi-warm in here, with all the bodies doing the ‘subway sandwich.’ The temp may be twenty-two degrees, but the wind chill makes it every bit as cold as northeast Ohio,” Gilly groused. “I could use this time to edit.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know you're just dying to get back to Gwendolyn Gleeson's Spanish-American War opus,” Charis said, rolling her eyes as she held fast to a subway strap when the car started up with a lurch.

  “God save me from first-book authors like her. That manuscript is filled with almost as many historical errors as it is with purple—no, fuchsia—prose,” Gilly replied, shuddering.

  “Just because she had the hero going to Washington to consult with the Defense Department and the Pentagon in 1898? Picky, picky.”

  “That one was easy. I just substituted War Department and let it go. But when I came to her description of the heroine's breasts as ‘a milky sea of white velvet topped with wild rosebuds,’ I wanted to write in the margin, ‘It sounds as if you're confusing a window display at Bloomingdale's with an ad for the Dairy Council.’ ”

  Charis whooped with laughter. “Almost had you ripping your bodice with frustration, huh?”

  Now, it was Gilly's turn to roll her eyes. “I suggested that the phrase was a mixed metaphor, that she'd be better off with something a bit less flowery, like ‘ivory with pale pink nipples.’ ”

  “You're following sound editorial dictum—leave as much rewrite as possible to the author's discretion.”

  “Frustrated writers make lousy editors; that's for sure,” Gilly agreed. “If only I could enjoy my job as much as you do yours.”

  “You're the one who wanted to be an English major,” Charis reminded her.

  “I still love to read, and I'm a darn good editor—”

  “Just underemployed.” Charis had heard this lament before. While she loved her job as assistant director of marketing at a small paperback genre fiction publisher, Gilly was frustrated with hers as an assistant editor. She ached to be in the big leagues, to work for a prestige hardcover house editing literary fiction. “I know it's hard for a Phi Beta Kappa who graduated summa cum laude from Oberlin to edit historical romances, but this is just a stepping-stone for you.”

  “More like I'm the stone. Honestly, Charis, I've had nearly five years of hearts and flowers. I want a real job.”

  “What you want is a real hero. A man to bring some romance into your life, so you can believe in it again.”

  “If I ever did.” Gilly had seen enough of men like her father, Whalen Newsom, even before her one time love Frank Blane delivered the final blow to her girlish dreams.

  “Next month is Christmas, and you're thinking of Frank again, aren't you?”

  “Frank was a loser. I'm much better off without him.” Gilly repeated the mantra.

  “You've got that right. Imagine having both a wife over in Jersey and a kid with his girlfriend here in Midtown. You were lucky to find out when you did.”

  “Yeah. Almost as lucky as I was when Brian Schwin dumped me to marry that cheerleader our senior year at Oberlin. Let's face it, Charis; I'm just not cut out for happily ever after, which is probably why I dislike editing romance so much. Forget the heroes; I’ll settle for a brilliant career in publishing.”

  “Now all we have to do is figure a way to get Farrar, Straus & Giroux to hire you,” Charis replied, tapping one well-manicured nail against her cheek.

  “Wouldn't that be sweet?” Gilly said, swaying as the subway began to slow. A staticky voice announced, “Forty-Second Street,” and she gasped, “What was I thinking? This is my stop!”

  Charis gave a puzzled look. “You live all the way up in Yonkers.”

  Already working her way toward the opening doors, Gilly called over her shoulder, “The library won't have late hours again until next Monday, and I have to check that reference book on the Spanish-American War they're holding for me or it'll vanish into the abyss again! See ya tomorrow.”

  Desperation lent strength to her slender five-foot, three-inch frame when she caught the door just as it started to close on her. Escaping its jaws unscathed, she scooted quickly through the crowd, slinging her heavy tote bag over her shoulder. She began climbing the steep stairway to the cold, windy corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street, near where two giant stone lions guarded the entrance to the New York Public Library.

  Winter had come to the Big Apple early in November this year. The icy slush of midday had once again solidified into diamond-hard shards. Here and there the city snowplows had scraped paths as smooth as greased tinfoil; but lacking ic
e skates, Gilly opted to walk on the refrozen slush. Like most New Yorkers, she wore sensible shoes while commuting—in this case sturdy Eddie Bauer lace-up boots with rubber grip soles—and left her heels at the office, safely tucked in the bottom drawer of her desk.

  A sudden gust of wind almost knocked her off her feet as she neared the daunting series of steps up to the library. Clutching her tote like a talisman, Gilly put her head down and walked into the gale, feeling the crunch of ice beneath her boots. Lord, it was cold! Her breath came out in burning white puffs, her lungs seared from the frigid air being forced into them. She would go back to working out at the gym—she would...just as soon as the holiday crush was over and Gwendolyn Gleeson's interminable manuscript went to copyediting!

  Jeff Brandt did not see the small figure laboring up the steps directly in his path until it was too late. Like her, he'd had his head lowered against the wind, watching the treacherous steps beneath his feet. Then, a small booted foot somehow just appeared in the exact space where his big, sturdy Adidas was coming down. At the precise same instant that he was trying to rearrange his feet, a small woolen bundle smelling faintly of vanilla careened into his belly.

  “Oomph!” was all he could manage before they went down together. The fact that the unguided missile in his path was female and much smaller than his six-foot, two-inch frame must have registered. He turned them in midair so that she fell on top of him rather than the other way around, the only chivalrous thing to do.

  When they landed, he was no longer so certain chivalry had been the hot tip. She—or something attached to her person—landed on his gut like a Chuck Norris kick. Then, Jeff became a human bobsled, he and his “rider” rocketing down the steps, his head clunking on every stair.

  By the time they reached the sidewalk, he couldn't even manage a strangled “umph,” just a low, feeble groan as he stared dumbly at the canvas tote gouging his ribs. Its contents were partially spilled, pages of something or other fluttering against the rubber bands holding them together. Above him, he could hear her voice, soft and breathless, concerned. A nice voice, he decided. Slowly, his eyes focused on her face, pale in the artificial lighting from the street. Wind-kissed pink cheekbones set high over softly plump lips, a small button nose, and wide eyes of some light color he could not discern—blue or green. Slim, delicately shaped eyebrows arched with chagrin.

  “Oh, I'm so sorry! I ran right into you, practically knocked you down. This stuff is so heavy. I hope I didn't break your ribs or anything,” she babbled breathlessly as she crawled about, frantically scooping chunks of paper back into the tote.

  To Jeff, this looked about as easy as stuffing cooked spaghetti into a long-neck bottle; but somehow she accomplished it, all the while talking in fast little spurts. His skull pounding, he raised himself up on his elbows, observing her until he had recovered enough wind and presence of mind to say something himself. He considered asking, What the hell have you got in that bag, lady, an anvil? But he refrained. She was obviously flustered enough, and he had been raised to be a gentleman...sort of.

  Gilly tried to conceal her embarrassment. She could tell the tall stranger had deliberately twisted her around so that he took the full force of their fall—a fall she had caused by not watching where she was going. He was nice looking, too, drat the luck. Why did she always mess up at times like this? He had a square jaw and dark, serious eyes, magnified by wire-rimmed glasses, which were now perched catawampus on the end of his straight nose. His features were angular, striking in a scholarly way, offset by shoulder-length black hair that gave him a hippie sort of look. No, make that a university student sort of look. Double drat. He’s probably younger than me.

  “The collision was as much my fault as yours,” he replied. “In this wind, everyone is looking down, trying to breathe without frosting their lungs. Besides”—he grinned—“I'm a lot bigger. A little thing like you couldn't hurt me—although the stairs may have flattened the back of my skull.”

  He admired the view for another instant, trying to decide if her body was as shapely as he hoped beneath all the layers of winter clothing, then sat up and reached for her hand, helping her to her feet.

  He was right about their size difference, Gilly saw. She wore flat-heeled boots, and he towered over her. She would definitely need “power” heels to measure up to this guy. Her bemused train of thought came to an end when she realized that she stood with her gloved hand still held firmly in his grasp, staring up into his face as he reached with his free hand to straighten his glasses.

  I must be gawking like a banked carp! She closed her mouth and broke contact, then stooped to pick up her tote—just as he scooped it up to hand it to her. Quickly catching herself, Gilly straightened up—just in time for her head to connect with his jaw. The heavy woolen cap she wore softened the blow, but she could hear his teeth click together. He touched his tongue experimentally against the bleeding edge of his lip.

  Great! Maybe I could render him unconscious and drag him back to my apartment to have my way with him! “I'm so sorry. Does it hurt? What am I saying—of course it hurts. You're bleeding! Here, let me...” She began to root frantically in her tote, searching for a handkerchief. All she managed to come up with were a couple of dog-eared grocery coupons and a lipstick-smeared tissue.

  Jeff dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket and daubed his lip, grinning once again at her flustered agitation. “You know, we might be able to form a really funny circus act, except no one would insure us.” Before she could begin apologizing again, he said, “I'm Jeff Brandt. We may have, er, gotten off on the wrong foot, but that's no reason we can't start over.”

  “I'm Gilly—Gillian Newsom. My friends call me Gilly.” Idiot. She was babbling again.

  “Then I hope I can call you Gilly. The least I can do is buy you something hot to warm you up after that toboggan ride down the steps. There's a little coffee shop down the next block. I'll even carry your tote. It looks pretty heavy.”

  “That's very sweet, but I have to do some library research for a book I'm editing.” The minute the words tumbled out, Gilly could've kicked herself. How often did she get an opportunity like this dropped into her lap—or, rather, her lap sort of dropped into it.

  “But I could—”

  “I could—”

  They both spoke at once. When she stopped, he started again. “What I meant was that I'd be happy to wait while you do your research. Actually, I was just taking a break. I have at least two more hours to put in myself, reading back issues of the Times for a sentencing class.”

  “You're a law student?” She did some quick math in her head. The most he could be was twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. By comparison, her twenty-eight seemed positively ancient.

  “Yes. I finally managed to finish a B.A. and get into the NYU law program after four years in the Navy. I'm afraid you're looking at one of those long-on-the-vine Gen-Xers who couldn't decide what he wanted to be when he grew up...until he was pushing thirty,” Jeff said ruefully. “On the plus side, though, if I graduate in the top ten percent of my class, Bradford, Trent and Lange have an opening in criminal law. Very, very snotty outfit, but it would be quite a coup if they made me an offer.” Not that I'd accept it, but damn, it would—will—be sweet.

  He wasn't too young for her! Gilly brightened. But his next question caught her off guard.

  “You said you were editing a book? Do you work in publishing, then?”

  “Yes.” She paused then. This was always the hard part for her, explaining that she edited historical romances. Most people took romance editors about as seriously as they did romance writers, which was to say, not at all. She had heard more than her share of condescending remarks. Just what kind of research are you doing? Wouldn't it be better to conduct it someplace a teensy bit less public than the library? Say, like your bedroom?

  “I have a cousin who works in marketing for Houghton Mifflin. Where do you work?” Jeff asked.

  “FS&G. Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, that is.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. To make matters worse, she found herself adding, “I edit history and literary fiction. Right now, I have to do some research on the Spanish-American War for a book I'm working on.” Well, that much was true.

  “History, huh? My undergrad work was in American Studies. I even did a senior thesis on Roosevelt's Rough Riders. We have something in common, Gilly.”

  “Uh, yes, I guess we do.”

  “Then we'd better get right to work,” he said with another heart-stopping Colgate smile, taking her tote and gently leading her up the icy steps to the library doors.

  Chapter Two

  When they entered the reference room, Abbie Kunsler, the librarian, greeted Jeff by name. Obviously, he had used the facilities often over the course of his academic career. Gilly felt reassured. After all, this was New York, and she was by nature cautious. They both went to work on their separate projects, he scrolling through reams of old newspapers while she took careful notes from the antiquarian, non-circulating tome she had found to be an excellent resource to draw upon when correcting Gwendolyn's historical vagaries.

  Within two hours she was finished. Jeff was still deeply engrossed at his computer terminal. Gilly walked over to Abbie's desk. The older woman smiled and adjusted her sharply delineated trifocals so she could make out Gilly's face. How to say this? Gilly cleared her throat nervously.

  “Uh, Abbie, I was wondering...”

  “About Jeffrey Brandt?” The reference librarian didn't exactly smirk, but there was a definite look of amused smugness on her angular, horsy face. “He's such a nice young man. Studious and polite. Been using our facilities ever since he was an undergraduate. I believe he lives somewhere down in the Village, not too far from NYU.” Abbie paused to see if Gilly needed more data.