Silent Confessions. Julie Kenner

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      “What?” Jack snapped.

      “I was right, man. She is a babe. I can see it in your eyes.”

      Jack scowled but didn’t answer. Hell, what could he say? Because the truth was, Veronica Archer was a babe. And Jack was counting the hours until his private lesson commenced.

      * * *

      Marina gently lifted the book, tracing her finger over the green-and-white wrapper protected by clear Mylar. After a moment, she sighed. “I wish I could afford it,” she said. “But I don’t think my bank account could stand the extra strain.”

      Ronnie sighed, too. At more than five thousand dollars, the first edition of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer was one of the few books in stock that garnered a price significant enough to make a dent in her monthly bottom line, and yet not so expensive that it would only sell at auction.

      Considering the sorry state of the store’s balance sheet at the moment, she’d really hoped the woman would splurge.

      Carefully, she replaced the book in the glass case, then twisted the key in the lock. “We also have one copy of the first U.S. edition. It’s in excellent condition and it’s several thousand less. Would you like to take a look?”

      Marina licked her lips, and Ronnie knew she had a sale. The woman was itching to buy something, but had to find that happy medium between a fun splurge and a foolish purchase.

      “Well, maybe I could just take a peek,” she said, “if it isn’t too much trouble.” She turned to look behind her, to where the small group of people were milling about near the faux fireplace. “It’s tonight’s discussion topic, right?”

      “That’s right,” Ronnie said. For about a year now, she’d been conducting minilectures after hours at the store about some of the more accessible famous works of erotica. “But you hardly need a collectible edition to participate. I’ve got ten paperback copies to share.”

      “Oh, no,” the woman said. “I just meant that you’re sure to pique my interest. Last time when you talked about The Boudoir and The Pearl I went straight to my computer and bought copies of the reissued collections.”

      This was the third lecture that Ronnie could remember Marina attending, but this was the first time she’d spoken with her. Not unusual. Considering the nature of the talks, Ronnie kept the lectures extremely informal. Folks introduced themselves using only a first name. They could participate or they could hover in the back, listen, then slink out as soon as the lecture was over. Most mingled, but she had a few hoverers, too.

      The woman’s cheeks tinged slightly with pink. “The thing is, I already have this in paperback. And, well, I’ve read it a lot. And I’m thinking I’d like something more collectible. Does that make sense?”

      “Of course,” Ronnie said. “Wait right here and I’ll get it for you. It’s on the second floor.”

      “I don’t want to be any trouble,” the woman said. “I mean, if the lecture’s about to start.”

      Ronnie just shook her head. “We’ve got a few minutes.” She headed into the break room toward the stairs. Her heels clicked on the flooring, and the electrician, Ethan, looked up from the breaker box beside the refrigerator. “Almost done?” she asked.

      “With the alarm, yeah. But...” He trailed off into a shrug, then ran his hands down his legs, as if wiping sweat from his palms.

      She frowned. His “but” sounded expensive. “What?”

      “You got a short, all right, and I can fix that. But you’ve got all sorts of problems. Like I told you before, the wiring in this old building is terrible.”

      Ronnie sighed. As far as she knew, the place had never been rewired. “And that’s why the alarm didn’t work?”

      “I’m surprised anything works.” He flashed her a nice smile. “As my grandpa used to say, you’re held together with spit and a prayer.”

      She laughed. “Story of my life. Okay. I guess I need to just suck it up. Can you fix the short and then give me an estimate on coming in and taking care of everything? No offense, but this piecemeal stuff is really adding up.” Over the last year, Ethan had done quite a bit of work throughout the building, but just Band-Aid repairs. She needed to spend the money to do it right once and for all.

      She’d already committed to fixing the air conditioner in her apartment. Ethan had taken a look at it that afternoon and deemed it in dire need of parts. She’d authorized the order, of course, but that meant more days of living in a sauna—and then one more large check for the work.

      A complete overhaul of the electrical system would be even more expensive, and she certainly didn’t need to add to her debt. But she also didn’t need the alarm not to trip or a short to spark a fire. Heaven forbid.

      After Ethan agreed to get an estimate to her in the next couple of days, she headed to the second floor and pulled the copy of Tropic of Cancer from the climate-controlled area. She’d asked Joan to put out all the collectible editions in case anyone who attended the talk wanted to make a purchase, but apparently her assistant hadn’t gotten around to it.

      With the book in her hand, she headed back to the main room, stepping behind the counter just in time to hear the door jingle. Detective Parker sauntered in, his suit jacket flung carelessly over his shoulder, his tie slightly askew, and his shirt looking remarkably fresh despite the heat. For that matter, the detective looked cool and refreshing, and Ronnie bit the inside of her cheek against the sudden overwhelming urge to take a little dip in that pond.

      In truth, exploring some of the more enticing parts of the Miller work had been fodder for a secret fantasy that had run through her head all afternoon. She’d selected three passages to discuss in particular, each exploring hidden desires and latent passions. She’d let her imagination run wild, allowing herself the luxury of pretending that Detective Parker figured out she’d selected the text with him in mind...and then insisted on doing a little firsthand investigation of the passages.

      Now, though, she realized just how foolish she’d been to start thinking such decadent thoughts. He was yummy, no denying that, but now was not a good time to lose her cool. She was about to stand up in front of a group of eight people and host an informal lecture on Henry Miller. Henry Miller. Known for his intimate and explicit descriptions of all things sexual.

      What was she thinking inviting this man to watch her lecture? Detective Parker alone was enough to turn her knees to jelly. Combine him with Miller’s prose, and she was going to simply melt into the floor and beg him to take her. Not exactly the way to appear scholarly and academic to the small group gathered in her store.

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