But Nina picked up the novel and began to read over Julia's protests: "Philippe's arms, still sore from the long journey, hung loosely by his side while the wind blew through his dark brown hair. His gray eyes squinted against the rising sun. His chin ..."
"So, there are some similarities," Julia jumped in, stopping Nina.
"Similarities?" Nina turned to Lance, thrusting the book into his hands. "The hero looks like you. Exactly like you. Twelve years ago, Julia wrote a romance novel about a man who looks like you," Nina finished. Then, keeping the same tone she'd had before, she said, "I'm hungry," and she and her GIVE LANCE A CHANCE T-shirt disappeared down the stairs.
Lance looked at the book again. "How many of these did you write?" he asked.
Julia answered, "Eight."
He studied her, then asked, "Did they sell well?" She had to laugh a little. "Yeah," she said. "They did really well."
"There's nothing wrong with what you wrote," he said. "There's nothing wrong with who you are." "I'm not her," Julia stated.
"Yes, you are. Isn't that what this crisis is about? And what I m telling you is that there's no shame in that."
She struggled to believe Lance, but she knew too well that he world wasn't that idyllic. Veronica White died the day Candon Jeffries took Julia to lunch at the Ritz. A card turned over. Everything changed. She had traded one life for another, and to be the person she was now, no one could ever know who she'd been then. "No one can know about these books," she said simply and solidly, steadying herself for the arguments that would come next. But she felt Lance's hand on her arm and knew the topic was closed.
"Something's happening," Caroline spoke from the telescope. A moment passed while Lance and Julia crowded around. "Yep. There he goes."
Together, they watched Myrtle's front door open and Richard step onto the front porch. He shook the woman's hand and turned to leave, walking with a slight bounce in his step through the underdeveloped area between the unfinished houses across the street.
Lance eased away from the window. "Crazy Myrtle doesn't know what she's got yet. Or, if she does, she's smart enough not to share it with Stone, and hold out for someone bigger. And be certainly doesn't know what she's got."
"How do you know that?" Julia asked.
"Because he wasn't carrying anything. If that manuscript I what you say it is, no way in hell does Richard Stone walk on without it."
"We could steal it," Nina said from the doorway. She was eating a cherry Popsicle, and the juice ran, like blood, down her hands. It made for an ominous scene.
In unison, they all yelled "No!"
Chapter Nineteen
WAY #92: Lose yourself in a good book.
Life's best adventures are often as close as your nearest bookshelf. Tour Europe with the Count of Monte Cristo. Dance at a ball with Mr. Darcy. Hunt down the bad guys with Stephanie Plum. Amazing things can happen when you read.
—from 707 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire
The fire crackled, and her house felt warm. Julia stretched her legs across the couch, trying to focus on a back issue of Publishers Weekly, but she kept looking down at Lance, who lay on the floor beneath her with his feet near the fireplace, reading Veronica White's first book. Either he was a very slow reader or he was very thorough. Slow. Definitely slow. Nothing there to savor, she said to herself, the way a highway patrolman says "Nothing to see here, folks." Yet that didn't change the fact that a man was lying on the floor, reading her deepest secret, literally. To make matters worse, every few pages he'd moan.
He turned slightly, rested his elbow on the floor and hit head in the palm of his upturned hand, and read aloud: "Isabella's hands, small and narrow but fiercely strong, gripped the horse's reins as if she were holding on to life itself. Her] blood ran hot beneath her cool, pale skin, and the pounding of ; her heart matched the pounding of the horse's hooves. ..."
He climbed onto his knees and inched closer, putting his elbows on the couch beside her, crowding into Julia's space. He read on: "Isabella's mind outran the Thoroughbred as she leapt in space and time between her desperate flight on the runaway stallion and the strange figure she had seen the night before, the silhouette that seemed to call to her, a ghost from another lifetime."
"You're an excellent reader," Julia said dryly as she tried to snatch the book away, but he was too quick and too strong. In a flash, he was on the edge of the couch, with Julia pinned to the cushions behind him. One large hand was pressing against her collarbone while the other held the book far away from her flailing arms. Heat burned from his fingers through her T-shirt, and he continued to read, despite her constant jabs and lunges. He read louder, drowning out the sound of Julia's cries.
"The mud-soaked road didn't slow the stallion's hooves."
"Lance, give me the ..."
"Her thin nightgown flew violently in the night wind, her unruly auburn hair as wild as the horse's mane."
"I want that..."
Lance brought the book to her lips, silencing her. "Just how thin was that nightgown?" he whispered.
She stammered. Lance laughed out loud. She gasped and struggled harder, but Lance lifted the book and continued to read.