She pulled over one of the straight-backed wooden chairs that Rebecca kept for the benefit of customers—a surface to sit on, but not comfortable enough to read a whole book—and began stacking the misfiled books on it. Inconsiderate New Age hippies, she thought. Swirling through here in their scarves and India cottons, talking about freeing their inner woman and doing nothing but making extra work for other people.
Rebecca stocked only literature, wholesome contemporary fiction, and lots of nonfiction, as well as the used books that the coffee club loved. She put her foot down at romances, murder mysteries or books about worldly religions. The Shepherds might raise an eyebrow over a woman in such a public career, but Rebecca had been the instrument of salvation to so many people that the Shepherd had to admit that perhaps God used the bookstore as part of His mysterious plan. Her benevolent influence was probably the only reason Julia had been allowed to work here instead of at something more womanly, such as Linda Bell’s day care.
Julia sometimes wondered if God would ever get around to using her. Here she was, sister to the Elder’s wife, daughter of an Elder and practically engaged to the next Deacon, and no matter how hard she tried to keep her example shining, no one had ever come to God through her. What kind of a Deacon’s wife would she make?
Without actually taking the plunge and marrying Derrick, she had no way to know. Books, products of the world though they might be, were easier to deal with all the way around, she thought ruefully, and that in itself smacked of sin. She had reached the lower shelves containing the classics and was down on her knees when she became aware she was no longer alone. A customer stood in the doorway. Gathering the books that lay on the floor, she looked up with a “can I help you?” smile.
The biker smiled back.
Julia’s heart gave a panicked kick and she froze, clutching the paperbacks to her chest as though they would protect her. She had a sudden vision of herself and Rebecca being attacked by this Hell’s Angel. Things like that happened in the world all the time.
The blood drained out of Julia’s face and she scrambled to her feet. The spines of someone’s unwanted books dug into her back.
He wore a black leather jacket with the finish rubbed off one shoulder, as if it had scraped over the road. Faded jeans hugged long legs, and the toes of his boots were coated in dust. His hair was mussed and tamped down from the black helmet he held under his arm. A reddish brown lock fell over his right eyebrow. Pale gray eyes regarded her steadily—a killer’s eyes, ruthless and devoid of emotion.
His lips parted, and Julia tensed, her eyes going wide with fear.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the biker said in a soft bass voice that penetrated the roaring in her ears. “The owner said you’d be able to help me.”
“The owner?” Julia whispered. The one who could be lying unconscious in the other room at this very moment?
“I told him you’d know where it was, Julia,” Rebecca called from the front. “It’s that young man you saw a moment ago.”
Rebecca wasn’t unconscious. She was alive and well, and so, for the moment, was Julia. “Where what was?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.
“Are you all right?” the biker queried, looking at her strangely. “You look a little green.”
She took a deep breath. He wanted a book. That was all.
“I’m fine,” she said. Her arms relaxed around the stack of books and began to tremble. Gently, she placed the pile on the chair and gripped her hands to hide their shaking. “Sorry. What is it you’re looking for?” She tried to arrange her face in a polite, businesslike expression.
“Do you have anything by Donne?”
“Dunne. As in Dominick? I’m afraid we—”
“No. Donne. As in John.”
John Donne? This filthy biker had come in here looking for poetry? Julia wished she hadn’t put the books on the chair. She needed to sit down.
He was still standing there, waiting for an answer. “I th-think we have a used copy of the complete works,” she stammered finally. “If it’s still here, it would be under Poetry and Essays.”
She got her feet moving and brushed past him. He was taller than either Owen or Derrick, although the boots were probably good for an inch of it. He was also big. Julia was used to standing next to people like Madeleine and her best friend, Claire, and feeling like a haystack. Now she felt small and feminine and vulnerable. It must be the jacket. It added to his bulk and made him threatening.
Poetry and Essays comprised half a shelf. “He’s not very fashionable these days,” Julia offered hesitantly, pulling Donne out of his place next to Boswell and a beat-up college edition of The Norton Anthology. “Here.”
He leafed through the compact volume, holding it reverently. His hands were clean, she noted. Nicely shaped. Long, supple fingers turned the pages. The cuffs of his jacket pulled back briefly, revealing a dusting of dark hair on the backs of his wrists. “Maybe not. But he lost his wife, too,” he said softly, almost absently.
Julia smiled weakly in the direction of his collar in lieu of a reply, and withdrew to the other side of the room. He stood quietly, stopping to read a page here and there, as she collected the abandoned books and began to shelve them.
“So where did you see me?” he asked, disturbing the silence. Her hands were still shaking, and she fumbled. A paperback fell to the floor with a slap.
“You—you just drove past, didn’t you?”
“I did. Anywhere else?”
“At the hospital,” she said reluctantly. She must be crazy, making small talk with a biker. Drat Rebecca anyway, for giving him the opportunity.
“Oh yeah? Were you visiting a friend?”
How nosy and callous could he get? But he was still a customer. Ingrained politeness and years of strictures against causing offense overcame her distaste. “My nephew.” Maybe if she kept it brief he’d drop it. Ryan’s life was far too important for small talk.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that was both soft and compelling. His boots made hollow thuds on the oak planks of the floor.
She concentrated fiercely on fitting the books precisely in their places, her back to him. When he spoke again, his voice came from directly above her. Instinctively, she tensed.
“I hope he’ll be all right.”
She didn’t want to accept anything from him, polite hopes included. Now he was so close she could smell dust and sun-baked cotton. She stood up and moved away, putting the chair between them. “Are you looking for anything else this afternoon?” she asked in her most impersonal sales voice.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half grin. A dimple dented his left cheek. How about you? She heard the unspoken words as clearly as if he’d said them.
Her skin prickled with discomfort, and the walls of the back room suddenly seemed too close together, squeezing the air out. Women of the Elect did not strike up casual conversations with worldly men, and certainly not men like this. By seventh grade she’d learned that talking to worldly boys at school only brought shame and ridicule. Being the sister of Madeleine McNeill Blanchard had made her shy and diffident anyway, uncertain of what others expected of her in comparison with her dazzling sibling. Julia had become used to losing even a godly man’s attention the minute Madeleine walked into the room.
But Madeleine was at the hospital, hovering over her son, and this man’s attention was total. His eyes held hers with a magnetic intensity that narrowed her consciousness to an intimate circle that contained only him.
The street door bumped closed and, startled, she broke eye contact. “Miss Quinn can ring you up out front,” she said breathlessly, and bolted into the sun-bright, welcoming safety of the front of