Hot Spot
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Hot Spot
By
Susan Johnson
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Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
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High Praise
for Hot Legs
"Versatile author Ms. Johnson adds a new element to her terrific writing as Hot Legs shows. Her mix of pop and sizzle blends expertly with a zany plot and charismatic characters. I enjoyed every minute." —Rendezvous
"A perfect ten as a story not to be missed this year. Susan Johnson's writing is exceptional, and I plan not to miss any more of her releases." —Romance Reviews Today
"Funny, romantic, steamy, sexy! A great read!" —The Best Reviews
Hot Pink
"The sassy, bold heroine of this fast-moving book… will appeal to fans who like their tales geared more toward women of the twenty-first century who go after what they want and aren't afraid to get it. I loved it from beginning to end." —Rendezvous
"This erotic contemporary romance shows Susan Johnson at her hottest, which means that the lead couple generates enough thermos heat to keep the Northeast warm in winter."—Midwest Book Review
"This one lives up to its title." —People
Praise for the Novels of
Susan Johnson
"Smart… sexy… sensuous… Susan Johnson's books are legendary!" —Robin Scheme
"Johnson delivers another fast, titillating read that overflows with sex scenes and rapid-fire dialogue." —Publishers Weekly
continued . .
"A spellbinding read and a lot of fun… Johnson takes sensuality to the edge, writing smoldering stories with characters the reader won't want to leave." —The Oakland Press
"Sensually charged writing… Johnson knows exactly what her devoted readers desire, and she delivers it with her usual flair." —Booklist
"Susan Johnson writes an extremely gripping story… With her knowledge of the period and her exquisite sensual scenes, she is an exceptional writer." —Affaire de Coeur
"An enjoyable literary experience… [A] well-developed and at times quite suspenseful plot… I simply couldn't put it down… The next time you're in the mood to read a piece of erotic literature, I recommend picking up a copy of Tempting. The plot and suspense angles of the novel are Susan Johnson at her finest and the romance is both solid and endearing." —The Romance Reader
"Fans of contemporary erotic romances will enjoy Susan Johnson's latest tryst as the blondes heat up the sheets of her latest novel." —BookBrowser
"No one… can write such rousing love stories while bringing in so much accurate historical detail. Of course, no one can write such rousing love stories, period." —Rendezvous
"Susan Johnson's descriptive talents are legendary." —Heartland Critiques
"Fascinating… The author's style is a pleasure to read." —Los Angeles Herald Examiner
* * *
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
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Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Susan Johnson.
Cover design by George Long.
Text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY SENSATION is an imprint of The Berkley Publishing Group. BERKLEY SENSATION and the "B" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First edition: June 2005
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson, Susan, 1939-
Hot spot / Susan Johnson.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-425-20257-7
1. Comic books, strips, etc.—Collectors and collecting—Fiction. 2. Women booksellers—Fiction. 3. Comic book fans—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.O386458H69 2005
8I3'.54—dc22
2005041139
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ONE
THE DATE WAS CIRCLED IN RED ON THE CONAN calendar behind the cash register. Lumberjack Days.
Only a week away.
Stella groaned.
She must have been crazy to say she'd hand out campaign literature with Megan. Since when was she the type to walk along with the Lumberjack Days parade and hand out leaflets to parade watchers who didn't want them?
Since never. That's when.
Even if she and Megan were good friends, there were limits to friendship. She was capable of manning phone banks, addressing campaign literature, even designing campaign signs… signs that had turned out to be hotter than hot if she did say so herself. Megan had inadvertently become "The Green Lady" in her state senate campaign, the designation compliments of the various green hues on her campaign signs. The media had picked up on the phrase and had made Megan a real contender against an incumbent from an old Minnesota political dynasty.
So really—whether one more person handed out leaflets during the parade was incidental. Right?
Aaargh.
As if Megan was going to let her off the hook that easily.
Damn. Why couldn't she think of a way out—you know… something really plausible and polite—maybe even an excuse that would elicit sympathy.
A funeral wouldn't work. She was more or less a relative—less except for her grandma wh
o was either at the casino playing the nickel slots or running a marathon and was healthier than God, and her parents who were pretty young and lived in town besides, which made a fictitious funeral tougher to carry off. And outside of them—there had been only Aunt Martha who had died and left her this great house and the wherewithal to start her own comic book. But a second funeral for Aunt Martha was probably not going to fly because Megan had attended the real one.
Could she fake a sprained ankle?
A sudden attack of the flu?
PMS that affected her ability to walk?
Chewing on her drawing pencil, Stella glanced down at the page one sketch she was roughing in. How would her heroine, Marky B, handle such an ethical/potentially wimping-out situation? She'd kick butt of course, face the challenge, and come out on top. Which was the beauty of creating comic books. It had nothing to do with real life.
"Are you open?"
Stella looked up from behind the counter, and suppressing a small "Wow" she would have put in caps in a balloon for Marky B, her gaze lighted on the man entering her bookstore. "Ah—sort of—I guess," she said, like some dolt instead of uttering some clever, witty, perhaps sophisticated comment that would show him instantly she was worldly and accomplished despite her teddy bear pajamas and uncombed hair.
"Your hours are on the door… I'm early, but"—he shrugged faintly—"I saw you inside."
For a man who looked like he did—lean, toned, darkly handsome in a Tolkien hero sort of way—she was tempted to say, "Your time is my time." But then an otherworldly-movie-star-type guy probably heard that a lot. "I live upstairs, so my hours are flexible," she said, trying to sound cool. Trying not to notice the really long lashes and dark bedroom eyes that Tolkien had never had the good sense to describe.
"Nice place."
Ohmygod… a sexy smile, too. But she managed to say, "Thanks. It's my little piece of paradise," in a near normal tone. And a guy who looked like that was used to fawning women, she reminded herself. That was neither her style, nor her personal ambition. "You're looking for Marvel, right? I usually can tell," she said, relegating his charismatic face and bod to the fantasy dustbin.
"I hope your psychic powers are confined to comics," he said with a grin.
"Are you hittin' on me?"
"Wouldn't think of it."
"Good. It's way too early." Or just inopportune. She looked like a bag lady.
"I could come back later."
Was that a wink? Yes? No? She should tell him right now that she never dated customers. "Why don't we deal with the comics," she said, giving herself a little more time to drool before having to make one of those principled decisions. "Am I right or not about Marvels?"
"Definitely psychic."
"In this business, it's sometimes psycho, too."
"What the hell." He grinned. "Anyone can be normal."
"That's my mantra." The comic book world was sometimes more appropriately written in caps, and the people who lived and breathed comics tended to be a little more out there than the average bear. "I see all kinds in here, present company excepted. You look pretty sane."
"I have my moments. Speaking of fringe though, Buddy Morton told me about your place."
"I suppose anyone who's into Japanese underground stuff like Buddy is has a quirk or two." She preferred that her action heroes concentrate on saving the world, rather than chopping up people with their samurai swords and having kinky sex, but Buddy was a real good customer. "The Marvels are in the back," she added, pretty sure she didn't want the conversation to veer in the direction of Buddy Morton's interest in underground comics and kinky sex. At least not until she changed her rule about dating customers.
Sexy Guy moved away from the door and walked toward her—all lithe grace and animal magnetism—and she found herself sketching him in her mind. This guy would make one bomb-ass super hero.
"Buddy tells me you're doing cutting-edge stuff with your Marky B comic."
"I'm just starting out. It's fun if nothing else." She slid out from behind the counter and started toward the back room, thinking fun with him would entail a large bed or, what the hell, twenty minutes anywhere.
"Give me a heads up on your favorite Marky B's, and I'll buy some."
"You don't have to do that." She gave him a glance over her shoulder. Jeez, he was right behind her—all that hard muscled male swagger up close and personal.
"But I want to."
Startled at his deep, husky rasp, she stopped, turned around, and met his gaze with what she hoped was an I'm-in-charge-here look. "Just for the record, we're talking about comics."
"Sorry." He pointed at his throat. "Something caught in there."
If he hadn't been smiling, she might have bought it. "It's too early to deal with wiseasses. I have something you want, not the other way around, so watch yourself."
"Gotcha. Comics." That tousled, just-out-of-bed look was hotter than any Victoria's Secret ad, but he got the message.
She gave him a look. "Just so we're on the same page."
"Gotcha. Comics, pages, stop, do not pass Go. You're the boss."
"Very funny." She tried to glower, but her mouth twitched.
"If you smile your face might break."
"What are you, five years old?"
"Most people who own stores smile at their customers, that's all," he said, looking innocent as hell. "Customer service 101."
She'd like to do a whole lot more than smile at him, but the modicum of reason she possessed—not always to be relied on but apparently on the job this morning—cautioned her against throwing herself at a relative stranger no matter how much he looked like a Tolkien hero. "I'll smile, okay?"
"Hey, that's nice."
"Thank you, and now what Marvels do you need?" It probably wasn't wise to stand too close for too long to this sexy man who was definitely hitting on her.
He almost said, "Great tits," 'cuz that was what he was thinking. But he backed up his brain, replayed her question, and said, "X-Men" instead.
"Which X-Men?"
"The Uncanny X-Men, issue ninety-four," he said, trying to keep his eyes off those teddy bears dancing across her boobs.
"You and everyone else. That one's pricey."
"I figured."
He didn't bat an eyelash. Did that mean his gray T-shirt, worn jeans, and shredded sneakers were urban chic instead of poverty? Or had he robbed his piggy bank? It happened in her business— the fanatic collectors, young kids especially, would spend their last penny for a special edition. "I have two copies." She pointed. "One is mint, the other is poor but readable." She turned to take them off the shelf.
He gave Stella the once-over—from her bare feet past her great ass to her blonde curls. Definitely nice. Buddy had said Stella Scott was worth making the trip to Stillwater, and he hadn't been wrong. She could be a stand-in for a comic book heroine—slender, shapely, tawny blonde hair with a wide-eyed look that gave out innocent and sexy vibes at the same time.
According to Buddy, she was unattached. And according to his radar, she was interested.
He'd seen that look—the once-over, the approval. He was guessing if he asked, she'd say yes.
But with a store like this, one he was sure to patronize from the looks of her large inventory stored on floor-to-ceiling shelves, asking her might make more problems than it was worth. Casual dating was his strong suit; hooking up with her once or twice might mess up what could turn out to be a perfectly fine business relationship.
"Here's the mint one." She held out a comic in a clear plastic dust cover. "It's the best X-Men 94 in the country." The pride in her voice was obvious, her real passion for comics momentarily overriding even bodacious hunks at close range.
Taking it from her, Danny whistled softly. "What a beauty. How much?"
"Five and a quarter. The other copy is eighty bucks. Even without a decent cover, the inside is good reading."
"I'll take the prime one."
No hesitation. Not e
ven a scintilla. He was either rich or into collecting before eating. "It's a good price," she said.
He smiled. "I know. Show me your other X-Men."
In the next ten minutes, he bought enough comics to make a real dent in her total weekly sales. She was hoping like hell he didn't want to pay with a check, because she couldn't take a chance on a personal check that large. But he paid with a credit card—thank you God—filling all the gaps in his X-Men collection to the max.
As she was putting the comics into bags, one of the neighborhood kids walked in, his skateboard under his arm, gave Stella the high sign, plopped down in a chair near the door, and shut his eyes. She ran baby-sitting central in the summer time—wall-to-wall kids from sunup to sundown.
When the door opened, Danny had turned, exposing in all their flagrant grossness the words on the back of his T-shirt: FREE
MUSTACHE RIDES.
She should have known.
He had way the hell too much going for him to be humble.
Screw him and all the men like him who think every woman is waiting to get laid. "There you go," she said, plunking his bags down on the counter. "Have yourself a good day."
He swung back, his brows drawn together. That wasn't "Have a good day." That was one pissed woman. "Something wrong?"
"Uh-uh." She gave him a tight smile. "Enjoy your comics."
"Thanks, I will." Grabbing the bags from the counter, he walked away. But there was something about her beyond the obvious that hit some kind of quirky nerve center in his brain, and when he reached the door, he hesitated. What the hell. He turned back. "Would you like to go to dinner sometime?"
"No thanks. I don't date customers." She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug and took great satisfaction in saying ultra-sweetly, "It's just business."
"Too bad," he said, pulling open the door.
Did he mean too bad for her or him, she wondered as he walked out. And what was with that casual tone? Didn't he notice that she'd cut him off at the knees? Where was the satisfaction in blowing off a FREE MUSTACHE RIDES guy if he didn't even get it? Particularly when she found herself feeling as though she might have missed something when she shouldn't feel anything of the kind about a guy who wore that sexist, chauvinist-pig T-shirt.