Blogger Bundle IX: Dear Author Community Picks by Alison Kent & Cheryl Reavis & Nancy Warren & Fiona Brand

Author:Alison Kent & Cheryl Reavis & Nancy Warren & Fiona Brand
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2010-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

“AND NOW, my assistant, Guinevere Get-Out-of-Here.” With a flourish, Annie ushered the shrinking Guinevere into the family room. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Mark Saunders lean forward and surreptitiously grab a wastepaper basket from the corner. He, too, must have heard the throwing-up story.

Guinevere waddled into the room and was greeted by an explosion of mirth. Under the cover of all that noise Annie whispered, “You see, you are Guinevere.”

Emily was one of the quietest assistants she’d ever had, but she didn’t throw up, so Annie figured this was probably good for her. She let her off the hook, and everybody clapped loudly as she took her seat on the floor with the others.

“Okay, girls, you’ve been a great audience. Happy birthday, Emily.” Annie went into her standard exit routine where she pretended to trip so she could fall on the floor and somersault out the door.

She took a huge, theatrical step forward, brought her left foot to tangle with her right, launched herself into the air.

But she didn’t hit the floor.

In a blur of motion and thudding impact, she found herself in the arms of Mark Saunders. Those solid arms she remembered so well were rescuing her again. “It’s part of the act, you idiot,” she whispered. “Now we’ll both have to pretend to trip and somersault.”

“But…” Inches from her face, his eyes looked perplexed.

“Now!” she ordered. She pushed out of his arms and tried to roll, but he got knocked off balance and fell half on top of her.

The pair of them rolled and struggled helplessly on the floor, a flailing mass of polka dots, jeans, purple hair and plaid shirt. The girls thought it was a great exit and laughed harder than ever.

“Welcome to show business,” Annie panted, blinking her huge spiky eyelashes into the face inches above her own. He was so embarrassed his craggy face looked like somebody had carved a modern Rushmore out of red clay.

“I don’t know how to do a somersault.”

“Figures,” she gasped. “If you could move off me I might one day be able to breathe again.”

He scrambled to his feet and helped Annie rise. “Oh, well,” she said brightly—he was a paying customer after all, “no harm done. Do you want to pay me now?”

He shot a quick glance toward the bedlam in the family room, and Annie almost laughed. He looked like a hunted animal with nowhere to hide. “Do you have to leave right away?” he asked.

“Well, the show is an hour—I’m already over my time.”

“Please, I’ll double your fee, triple it, if you’ll stay and help me with the rest of the party.”

She did feel a little sorry for him. Experience told her the hilarity was approaching the peeing-the-pants stage. As though he sensed her weakening, he added, “My housekeeper was supposed to help, but she had to go home sick yesterday.”

Somehow, he was so serious and so desperate standing there, all muscles and he-man tough, totally outclassed by a few eight-year-olds, that she felt kind of sorry for him.

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