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The Big Question being: Would he be interested in appearing as the grand marshal of the Parallax Parade, replacing the until-now irreplaceable Rufus Laidlaw, Hollywood wannabe?
The Big Question was, to Kirby’s way of thinking, a Very Bad Idea, something that would force her to be in contact with him a lot more than she really wanted to be. Part of her position on the committee was seeing to out-of-town visitors, making them feel welcome, being sure they had everything they needed, presenting them with the absolute best view of Endicott that the small town had to offer.
PR—that was Kirby’s main objective. But where James Nash was concerned, somehow the P in PR came to stand much more for personal relations than it did public.
She slowed her step as she drew nearer, wishing she could do something to stifle the shudder of electric heat that tried to overtake her every time she came within ten feet of him. But that little incident they’d shared in the library stacks a short time ago was still far too fresh in her memory for her to be able to banish any kind of trepidation she felt around him. On the contrary, seeing him again so soon after such an encounter only made her feel more wary, more cautious, more scared.
And alas, more turned on.
She told herself that she was merely the victim of her own libido. Any man who had said to her the things James had said, who had touched her the way he had, would make her overreact, simply because she’d never had a man speak to or touch her that way before. It wasn’t James Nash specifically who caused her to feel so...so...so wanton, she decided. So needy. Goodness, so hot. It was the man’s behavior, nothing more. Once the novelty of being treated like a sex kitten wore off, surely she’d see past his handsome, sexy, erotic, hot, uh...handsome exterior, to the promiscuous playboy Peeping Tom beneath.
As if he knew how she’d just labeled him, he lifted his head slowly from his reading material, then met her gaze with laughing eyes. She forced herself to look away and found herself staring at the copy of Tattle Tales unfolded in his lap.
When she stopped a few feet shy of him, he rose from his chair and carefully closed the magazine. “It’s true,” he said in a library-appropriate whisper. “You really can’t believe everything you read. I had no idea there were so many errors in this article.”
Kirby arched her eyebrows in surprise. “You mean you hadn’t read it yet?”
James shook his head. “Nah. Why would I want to read about myself? I already know everything. It would be boring. I really don’t care for nonfiction, anyway.” He glared down at the magazine again. “Then again, seeing as how this article is almost complete friction, you’d think I would have enjoyed it a bit more than I did.”
She feigned shock. “What? You mean the press has succumbed to sensationalism? I had no idea. How very appalling.”
“Sensationalism?” he echoed, her sarcasm evidently lost on him. so sharp was his anger. “Are you kidding? This is filled with flat-out lies.”
Kirby, not sure whether to believe him or not, only adopted what she hoped was a bland expression and replied, “Really.”
He nodded fiercely. “I mean, I can’t believe Sissy Devane said what she did about me. She and I only dated for a week, and we never slept together.”
“Oh, no?” Kirby asked dubiously.
James shook his head. “No way. She was never sober enough. And Ashley Evanston? Please. She’s just a kid. I met her once in Telluride for all of thirty minutes. If she’s posing as my former lover, and actually convincing a so-called journalist that we had a love relationship, then she should win an Academy Award this year.”
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