Janice Owens, romance novels editor for Pink Beach Publications, pulled her little blue Toyota Corolla to a stop half a block away from the house of a man she had never met, a man she knew only by his words. She told herself she only needed a glimpse of him. She was no stalker. One glimpse, and then she would go back home. She would leave this fancy Coral Gables neighborhood and retreat two hours north to her little apartment in Boca Raton, and that would be that.
She leaned back in the driver's seat, preparing to wait all day and all night if necessary. Yesterday this man's latest manuscript had kept her up late into the night, immersing her in a dazzling world of pirates and passions, dastardly evildoers and heaving bosoms, where the good guys won, the bad guys died, and the powerful heroine got her hero. She had reached the end of the novel with her pulse still racing. There was no doubt that Steve Granger, aka Steve Valentine, had written another best-seller. She had thought of calling him then, using the excuse of congratulating him on his ninth novel as a chance to hear his voice, but she had talked herself out of it even as her hand hovered near the phone. After all, it was Friday night. Someone who loved life as much as Steve Valentine probably wasn't even at home, and if he were, he wouldn't be alone.
She knew Steve was single because she had helped him with his income tax. So what would his companion look like? Certainly not like the woman staring back at her from the car mirror. A woman whose too-large sunglasses concealed bloodshot eyes in puffy cheeks, whose limp brown hair refused the authority of any brush, whose best friends Jolly and Molly purred her to sleep every night and stepped on her face every morning. She sighed and pinched her belly. Hours at the gym barely kept her waistline in check, and did nothing at all to reduce it.
She waited in silence in the shade of a sprawling palm tree, too nervous even to turn on the radio. Her Diet Pepsi sat untouched and lukewarm at her side. There was light traffic on this residential street but no cars stopped at the address of Pink Beach Publishing's most famous author, an address Janice knew well since she was the one who mailed his checks. It was a nice house, ranch-style with yellow exterior, curved coral tiling on the roof and a two-car garage with the door pulled down. It was impossible to know if anyone was even home.
A small red car appeared in her rearview mirror, creeping down the street as if the driver were unsure of his destination. No, make that her destination. The driver was a woman, with blonde hair and a beautiful oval face with high cheekbones. She held a piece of paper in her slender fingers and glanced back and forth from it to the mailboxes on the side of the street. She was looking for an address.
The car passed her. Brake lights flared as she approached Steve's house. She pulled into the rust-red brick driveway and got out.
Janice turned her key in the ignition and moved in for a closer look. "Who are you?" she wondered aloud. She kept her voice down, as she had all her life. Her fingers clenched on the steering wheel. There's no need for jealousy, she told herself. You don't even know the guy. You've only ever exchanged emails with him. He probably thinks you're some bookish nerd, and he's not that far off.
The woman wore dangling turquoise earrings and bracelets to match. Her batik sun dress exposed flawless shoulders and firm cleavage, with upward-pointing, perky breasts that strained to be let free. The hemline stopped just above a pair of shapely knees and tanned legs with tight calf muscles. She was in her early twenties, probably a few years younger than Janice. She glanced at the house with what could only be a smile of happy anticipation. There was no ring on her finger.
Her heart sinking, Janice put her foot down on the gas pedal and raced off, abandoning all thoughts of seeing the great Steve Valentine in person. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she told herself. Staking out this man's house was a dumb idea. Just one more dumb idea in a lifetime filled with dumb ideas.
***
A few days later, Janice got another email from Steve. In his usual formal business prose, he explained that the enclosure was his submission to Pink Beach Publishing's annual Outer Space Erotica anthology. In the story, an alien spy comes to Earth in the shape of a man, scouting the planet for a planned invasion. He meets an Earth girl and falls in love, causing him to betray his own species. Passages that once made Janice's heart flutter now made her eyes sting:
Her face, a delicate oval adorned with silky blonde hair, flushed with excitement as her blouse fell away under my hands. Two soft temptations revealed themselves to me, tipped with rose that pointed at the sky in eagerness and anticipation. Her areole were larger than I had expected, delicate dark pink that flowered out from the center, unfurling lightening pigmentation that came to an abrupt end in a perfect circle. I put my mouth to an erect nipple, caressing its stiffness with my tongue, exploring every bump and smoothness of its marvelous pink halo with my eager lips. I slid one hand down her firm stomach, caressing fine golden hairs that lengthened as my fingers descended....
There could be no doubt whom Steve was describing. The author had found a new muse, a new inspiration in a batik sun dress and a little red car. He had gotten to know her very well and very fast, and had no trouble finding words for all the intimate details of her body.
As Janice spooned canned cat food into Jolly's and Molly's dishes that night, she tried to shake all thoughts of Steve Valentine from her head. But his books stared back at her from her bookshelf and his stories lived on in her mind. She told herself it was stupid to be jealous; she didn't even know what the guy looked like. He could be an ugly old man or a sloppy fat pig for all she knew.
There was only one way to rid him from her thoughts. She would go back to Coral Gables and complete her original mission. She would get a look at this famous author, and if he were unattractive, that would be the end of it. And if he were gorgeous, that would also be the end of it, because then she would know for sure that he was out of her reach.
***
Late Saturday afternoon, Janice arrived on Steve's street and parked in her familiar place under the palm tree. This time instead of a Diet Pepsi at her side, she brought a pair of new binoculars. She used them to examine the blue four-door parked in the driveway. Steve had another visitor.
"It's only serious if she spends the night," Janice murmured to herself. She settled back and crossed her arms, hoping her wait would be brief.
Less than an hour later, Steve's front door opened. A tall, dark-haired woman stepped through without a backward glance. Janice was so busy fumbling for her binoculars that she never got a good look at the shadowy figure closing the door behind his guest. She zoomed in on the woman heading for the car and saw big green eyes and wide cheekbones to support them. She wore elegant silver jewelry and tight leather pants. Her hair was disheveled and the top button of her sleeveless cotton blouse was undone.
Her heart racing with jealousy and guilt, Janice ducked her head out of the glare of the other car's headlights. She waited for the blue sedan to make a left at the corner, then started her Toyota and did a frantic U-turn in the middle of the road. She made a left at the corner.
The blue car was just ahead, stopped at the streetlight, left turn signal flashing. Janice placed a finger on her own turn signal lever and stopped herself.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to her empty car. "What kind of a person am I?"
The kind of person who follows other people's girlfriends. Without signaling, she fell in behind the dark-haired beauty, following her onto US1, six lanes of Saturday night congestion, and then south to Coconut Grove. The green-eyed woman paid an attendant to park her car and went into a bar. The ear-thrashing sounds of live rock and roll poured out into the street. Janice followed her in, keeping her head low and staying a few steps back, sure that the woman would spot her any minute now and mortified at the thought of what she would say if caught.
Janice took a table in the corner shadows while the other woman headed straight for the bar and ordered a drink. A man in a conservative suit sat down next to her, then leaned in close enough for the two of them to touch heads. A minute later, the brunette nodded. The man paid the bill. They walked right past Janice and out the door.
Janice waved away a waitress and left the bar. Her knees trembled as she found her way back to her car. The great romantic novelist Steve Valentine used prostitutes for his inspiration. She drove back to Boca stunned and disappointed. This was one can of worms she should have left unopened.
***
A month of chocolate chip ice cream, messy feline hairballs, and a little crying into her pillow at night went by before another email from Steve -- Mr. Granger -- dinged its way into her mailbox. Janice's index finger paused over the mouse as if afraid of what she might see if it double-clicked.
She forced herself to open the email, and then the enclosure. She wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't review the best-selling author's manuscript. She sent the document to the high-speed printer.
In minutes, she lost herself in a story about a female secret agent from South America who has come to the US to steal military secrets with her beauty and guile. She falls in love with a handsome, gentle scientific genius and before long they are both running for their lives, chased by agents from both sides. They have nowhere to turn but to each other.
He caught her big green eyes with his own, and reached for the strap on her shoulder. She tilted her head, acquiescing, and he pulled down first one, then the other. Strands of her long auburn hair fell forward to grace her round breasts with their shiny softness. One strand stuck on a dark brown nipple that stood tense with anticipation and excitement. He brushed it away with one gentle touch.
Janice put the manuscript down on her desk, the spell broken. She knew whose green eyes she was reading about, and she knew whose erect nipples were all over the printed page in front of her too. Steve Granger was describing his one-night stand -- make that one-hour stand -- with the brown-haired prostitute.
The other cubicles were empty by now. Janice picked up the manuscript and headed for the exit, dodging the night janitorial staff with their brooms and trash cans. She finished the rest of the novel at home, in the early hours of the morning, secure in the company of her cats. She closed her eyes, still trapped in the drama of the story despite herself. I wonder what he would write about me, she thought.
Her eyes snapped back open. That was a very good question.
***
Janice pulled up in the rust-red brick driveway and, despite her suddenly weakened knees, managed to step out of her little Toyota Corolla without falling over. It was Thursday afternoon, and she had called in sick to work. Hopefully Steve did not have any other visits scheduled for today. Her stomach did nervous little flip-flops as she approached Steve's front door. She thought about turning back, but she was determined to go through with this.
She took a deep breath to calm herself and rang the bell. She was dressed in her stylish best, or at least the best she could afford on an editor's pitiful salary. Her make-up was on as sexy as she could get it, and her heels were about as high as she could stand. Her one-piece dress was yellow and cheerful, and thanks to the zipper in the back it would come off easy and fast. She didn't know what kind of underwear prostitutes favored, so she wasn't wearing any. She had loaded her purse with a fresh supply of condoms; she figured that was a standard tool of the trade.
Her stomach tensed at the metal-on-metal tumble of a deadbolt opening up. She took a step backward. It wasn't too late to change her mind. She could still run back to her car if she didn't like the guy.
The door swung open with a slow creaking sound, and Janice finally got her first look at her star writer.
He was the most ordinary-looking man she had ever seen. If she passed him in the street, she wouldn't look twice at this thirty-something guy with the hint of a paunch and the gray at his temples. His unremarkable black hair was cut short, above his ears, and his plain green eyes stared at her in obvious incomprehension.
"Yes? What can I do for you?" Even his voice was bland, lacking any agitation or excitement.
"I -- I'm from the Agency," was all she could think of to say.
