One Ring to Rule Read online

  “Thank you so much for this,” she told the man still standing on the other side of the table. “Gosh, you know, I think I’ll save this for later. I just had something to eat.”

  “I hope you like it. I heard you liked them.”

  “I do. Who told you that?”

  “Oh, it’s all over the convention.”

  Lindsey smiled and nodded. Super. If it was all over the convention, it was all over the Internet too. She was going to be getting cinnamon rolls by mail for years. “Well, thank you. It was very kind of you.”

  “Sure. Do you want me to bring you another one tomorrow?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Lindsey bit the inside of her lip. The way things were going, she would have four or five waiting for her when the doors opened in the morning. She hoped no one knew where her room was, or someone would be knocking on her door bright and early. “Thank you very much.”

  He nodded, still smiling, and walked away.

  The cinnamon roll mystery was at least distracting. She moved the plate to a pile of boxes behind her, then turned back to the artist standing in front of her. He looked put out.

  “I didn’t bring you anything,” he announced.

  “You brought your portfolio,” Lindsey pointed out.

  “He brought you sweets.”

  “It wasn’t a bribe. I don’t give out better reviews to people who bring me food.”

  The boy glared after the other man before opening his portfolio. Lindsey doubted he believed her. Fortunately, he was almost pro quality so she sent him on his way with a few little tips and her card.

  She glanced at her watch. The Con ended for the day in twenty minutes. Time for one more review. Then she would have until eight to eat some kind of dinner that didn’t involve cinnamon or sugar before the costume contest started. That wouldn’t be over for hours, and she would have to stay for the entire thing. She did need to eat some kind of food. All the sugar in her system was making her hands shake. She finished off the review and stood up. No one else was waiting, so she nodded to Amy and climbed out of the booth. Several people stopped to talk on the way across the skywalk. It took a half-hour to get to the hotel, and then she had to get upstairs.

  Once in her room with the door shut behind her, the grief hit again. She made it as far as the bed before collapsing. She grabbed fistfuls of the stiff hotel coverlet and pulled it around herself. Kent seemed to think it would be so easy. He could just waltz back into her life after four years, full of promises and apologies, and she would just open her arms to welcome him home?

  She sucked in a deep breath to forestall a sob. If she started crying now, she would never get any dinner. Sugar and one lousy salad wasn’t enough to carry her through. She wished she had time for a shower before the costume contest. Last night she’d come back from the pool with only enough sense to sluice off the chlorine. When she’d woken up this morning, after falling asleep in tears again, she’d found her hair still braided. All day long, her normally tame hair kept leaping into her face.

  Much like Kent had done yesterday.

  And not at all today.

  She should have been grateful for his lack of presence today, but it almost felt worse than having him appear at random intervals.

  She sat up, pooling the blanket around her waist. A fetal position wasn’t helpful in pulling one’s self together. She needed to focus. A little discipline would get her through the rest of this weekend. First, she needed to braid her hair. Next, she needed to go downstairs and find some food. Then she needed to get to the costume contest. She should also call Amy and find out if she’d reminded the other four judges to be on time.

  As she reached for the phone, a knock at the door interrupted her. Probably Amy making sure she would be on time. Lindsey stood, letting the blanket fall on the floor, and smoothed her hair off her face. She decided she should change clothes when she caught sight of herself in the closet mirror. Her clothes were wrinkled and her hair was a mess. She opened the door, still staring at her reflection.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there on time.”

  “That’s a relief,” Kent said. He stood outside the door with a hotel tray bearing two plates and a glass of milk. “I figured you wouldn’t have time between the end of the show and your contest tonight to get a decent dinner, so I took the liberty. You’d be amazed at how difficult it was to talk the hotel chef into making two plates of Pasta Puttanesca. I thought I was going to have to strap on an apron myself. Are you going to let me in, or would you rather eat in the doorway?”

  Lindsey stumbled back.

  Kent walked into the room, stepping around the blanket, and set the tray on the coffee table.

  “Pasta Puttanesca?” Lindsey asked, still standing by the open door.

  “Yes, it used to be your favorite. Plus, after what you ate today, I figured you needed something heavy and nutritious.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know what I ate today?”

  Kent glanced up from his task of setting up the table. “I just guessed. I know how you eat when you’re upset.”

  Lindsey glared at him. He was fidgeting. A sure sign he was guilty of something. “You told Amy to get me the Coke and lemon. And you told the fans about my cinnamon rolls.”

  “I told one fan. I forgot what these conventions were like. Why don’t you come over here and eat before it gets cold.” He picked up his plate and sat down on the floor so he wouldn’t have to sit next to her at the tiny table. For some reason that bothered her. Did he think she didn’t want to sit next to him? Or did he not want to sit next to her?

  “Why?” she asked, ignoring her own questions.

  “Why eat it before it gets cold? You know what happens to cold anchovies.”

  “No, why the interest in my eating habits? Why are you here with my favorite meal after spending all day having my other favorite foods sent to me?” Lindsey kept the door propped open with her foot.

  “Because I thought you needed it after last night.”

  “But I—” Lindsey flushed, remembering what state she’d left him in when she ran out on him last night.

  “You stiffed me? Well, that was as much my fault as yours. I’m just so excited to be near you again that my body tends to overrule my brain. I just want a chance to talk to you.”

  “And you figured if you brought dinner to my room I wouldn’t be able to shut you out.”

  He slouched against the chair behind him. “I thought it might be my only chance.”

  Lindsey let the door close. She never could resist him, but at least now she had somewhere to be in just under an hour so things couldn’t get too carried away. She knelt at the near end of the coffee table. “Looks good.”

  “It’s made just the way you always did. I made sure the chef used the exact same ingredients.”

  “How did you know what the ingredients were?”

  “I watched you make it often enough, and I’ve had four years to remember.”

  Lindsey looked at her plate. She picked up her fork and twisted up some of the pasta. He remembered she liked milk with this meal, too. When they lived together, he would section the olives for her because she could never find any already sliced. He would cut them in even pieces while listening to her complain about her day. Pasta Puttanesca was called for on those days when everything that could go wrong had, so she always kept the ingredients on hand. She’d eaten so much in the first three months after he left, she hadn’t been able to look at it again. Until now. After so much time, it tasted very good.

  “I told you hearing about you was like Chinese water torture, but that was my fault, too. After I left, I would call up editors we knew pretending I needed work so I could hear about you. I ended up working a lot because I wanted to hear about you.”

  “I didn’t see your name,” Lindsey said. She’d scanned covers for the first eighteen months, waiting for his name to appear, searching for his style, imagining he was out of work.

  “I used a fa
ke name, and I changed the way I worked. I didn’t want to upset you any more than I had to, and I didn’t think you’d check with accounting. After I’d been doing that for six months, it occurred to me I could just try going back and beg you to forgive me. Everybody, including me, thought I had a snowball’s chance. Besides, that would defeat the purpose of leaving in the first place. If you did forgive me, we’d just go back to the dysfunctional relationship we were in.” He frowned at his plate. “I didn't want to do that to you again.”

  Lindsey opened her mouth and then shut it again. She wanted to deny some or all of what he said, but couldn’t.

  “So, I decided to become the guy you needed.”

  “What?” Lindsey blurted out.

  “I decided to become the guy you needed,” Kent repeated, as if that were a normal thing to say. “You know how much I always wanted to go back out to the sticks. You said you did, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I bought a farm where I board horses. Plus, I got better paying work. I can support both of us with room to spare. You can quit your job, move in with me, and write. I even know several editors, so I could introduce you. ”

  Lindsey jumped up. “Quit my job? Move in with you? Are you crazy?”

  “In a way.” Kent watched her. “I can offer you everything you need and everything you want. You were good then, you just didn't have the time or the connections. I can give them to you now.”

  Lindsey blinked, trying to clear her vision. Everything. He sat on the floor of her hotel room offering her everything she’d ever wanted after she spent four years creating her own, different everything. Why? So he could rip it out from under her again? Sitting back down, she focused on her dinner. There were too many things to get done for her to be fiddling around like this. She needed to finish dinner, change, braid her hair and get downstairs. There simply wasn’t time to make major life decisions.

  Of course, saying that implied there was a decision to make.

  “Lindsey?” Kent asked.

  “Can we talk about this later? I’m really busy right now.”

  “The convention is over tomorrow,” he pointed out.

  “I know. We’ll talk. Later. After the costume contest. Okay?” She shoveled the last forkful of pasta in her mouth and stood up. “I need to change.”

  Locked in the bathroom, Lindsey leaned against the door, wondering why there was a decision to make at all. She trusted him once, and he broke her heart, and now he wanted her to believe in him again? How could she? How much trust could she invest in Kent Farrington?

  How much did she have to lose if she didn’t trust him?

  Chapter 4

  Amy rushed toward them as soon as Lindsey and Kent walked in the door of the ballroom. It had been decorated like a particularly ugly wedding reception. Someone had strung black, purple and scarlet streamers from the crystal chandelier. Globs of balloons in the same hideous colors dotted the room.

  Lindsey wondered how the guy she’d seen dressed up as Superman felt entering this room decorated to celebrate her characters to the exclusion of all others. The man had been incredibly buff or had been wearing convincing pads. The poor guy almost tripped over his cape trying to get to Kent to shake his hand. Amazing how all that old fame still lingered. Maybe she should talk him into working on one of her books. Not just to get him a little work, but to give the fans a little thrill.

  “Oh good, you’re here.” Amy’s eyes darted from Lindsey to Kent and back again. “Did you get some dinner?”

  “Yes. Is everyone else here?”

  “Um, everybody but Frank.” Amy’s whole body stiffened. Lindsey recognized the stance. Her body was trying to step back, but her feet didn’t move. This was an improvement. She used to leap backward after delivering bad news. The first time a penciller missed a deadline she’d bounced clear out the office door.

  Lindsey cursed. Frank wrote the two main books of the line. All the press had gone to his head. On the phone with her he’d behaved himself, but here at the convention he’d turned into a prima donna who needed to be catered to.

  “He’s probably in the damn bar with Brad,” Lindsey snarled.

  “No, Brad’s here. I’ll send him to find Frank.”

  “No, if Brad’s here, keep his ass in the room. I’ll go.”

  “Why don’t I go?” Kent offered. “What’s his room number?”

  “He’s not going to be in his room,” Lindsey snapped. “He’s probably in the bar and he’ll be too potted to judge. We’re going to have to find another judge.”

  “What about this.” Kent put his hands on her shoulders and her traitorous body relaxed. “I’ll see if I can find Frank in the next fifteen minutes. If I can’t find him, or if he’s too far gone to judge, then I’ll take his place.”

  “You?” Lindsey’s voice didn’t carry the sharpness she’d intended, but it didn’t matter because Amy drowned her out.

  “Would you really? That would be fantastic. Somebody has even signed up as the Beast of Morimar. Frank’s in room 613.”

  Lindsey frowned. Who the heck was the Beast of Morimar, and why would it matter if Kent was judging?

  “Good. All set then.” Kent kissed Lindsey’s cheek and walked away.

  “Gosh, he’s awfully sweet, isn’t he?”

  Lindsey glanced at her assistant. She looked star struck, which made no sense. She worked with the stars of the industry almost daily. “Did you just say gosh?”

  Amy flushed and suddenly seemed to find something of vital interest written on her clipboard.

  “Don’t get hung up on him. Or Brad, either,” Lindsey warned. “Guys like them are just using you to advance their careers. Once he’s famous, he’ll dump you.”

  Amy snorted and tried to smother a laugh. “Who? Kent Farrington? What could you do for his career?”

  She sounded so incredulous Lindsey was offended before she remembered who she was talking to. “I do edit my own imprint,” she pointed out, still a little stung.

  “He does design work for movies.” Amy looked at Lindsey. “Did you think he was chasing you around because he wanted work from you?”

  Lindsey gazed out the ballroom door. Being pitied by her assistant was bad, but it could have been worse. In fact, being pitied by anyone else in the office would have been worse. He told her he didn’t need work when she offered, and not too long ago he’d been saying he could support them both. With room to spare, he’d said. She’d assumed he was lying. Or at the very least making promises he couldn’t keep. Like putting her up on a pedestal and loving her forever. Thinking back, he’d been reluctant to make the simple promise of I do.

  “He still might want something,” Lindsey said. “It’s just not work.”

  “He loves you, silly,” Amy said. “Can’t you see that?” She gestured toward the door with her clipboard as Kent walked through with Frank in tow. Frank looked rosy as they approached.

  “I found him. A couple of fans were buying him drinks hoping to find out what’s going to happen to Sylvia,” Kent told them.

  Lindsey stared at him, wondering who Sylvia was and how she figured into the picture, until she remembered Sylvia was a minor character in one of Frank’s books. She was the character they planned to kill off in four months. Now that Lindsey thought about it, a couple of fans had ventured questions about Sylvia while she was working the booth. This was important, and she should be thinking about the fans’ strong reactions to this character, but all she wanted to do was stare at Kent and think about her own strong reactions to him.

  “I dinn’t tell ‘em anything about the poor girl’s fate,” Frank slurred.

  “It’ll be all over the chat rooms by now,” Amy murmured, interpreting Frank’s wording the way the fans would have.

  Lindsey nodded. Kent was watching the old fart with a bemused expression. Frank had been writing comics since Superman wore diapers. This story had originally been about witchcraft-practicing beatniks. A quick replacement with anot
her black-wearing subculture and voilá, more success than Frank knew what to do with.

  “Is he sober enough to judge?” Lindsey asked.

  “Unlikely,” Amy snorted before Kent could speak. “I’ll find somebody to take him up to his room. Mr. Farrington, are you sure you want to judge this costume contest?”

  “Kent,” he corrected. “And I’ll only do it if I can sit next to Lindsey.”

  Amy giggled and walked away to find a minder for Frank.

  “You two are the cutest couple.” Frank beamed at them. “My Mary expected a wedding invitation from you, you know. Why dinn’t you invite us?”

  “We’re not married, Frank.” Kent bit his lip. His cheeks flushed.

  “You’re not?” Frank reeled back. Both Lindsey and Kent lunged to catch him before he landed on his rear end. “You should be. You can’t pass up this kind of opportunity. Lindsey, have I ever told you how gra’ful I am that you got my story published?”

  “It’s a good story, Frank,” Lindsey murmured. She felt Kent’s eyes on her.

  The fight she’d put up for Frank’s beatnik story flew in the face of her current reputation because she’d waged it on her heartstrings. She’d won because she cornered the vice president and reminded him of Frank’s years of solid work in the trenches and how, now at the end of his career, he deserved to have his brainchild in print. But Kent couldn’t know about that unless he was recalling how she’d gotten him plum assignments by plying other editors with homemade cookies.

  “It is a good sortie, sorry, stowee.” Frank frowned and smacked his lips. “I don’t think I can do this panel.”

  “Hi.” The convention volunteer who appeared before them looked old enough to be Frank’s grandson and slightly peeved. “I’m supposed to take Frank Kloss back to his hotel room. Aren’t you Kent Farrington?” His irritated expression evaporated.

  Kent’s charm flicked on as if operated by a switch. “Yes, I am. You know, I really appreciate you taking care of my good friend Frank. Listen, could you make sure he gets some dinner? Here, it’s my treat.” Kent pulled out his wallet.