Date:         Wed, 17 Nov 1993 22:38:21 EST
 
 
 
A Novel Idea
by Susan M. Garrett
 
 
 
      Nick paused just inside the door to the Raven.  His eyes automatically
and instantly adjusted to the change, but he needed the seconds to compose
himself, to get his temper under control.   Janette had instigated more than
a few spectacular intrigues in her time, but he wasn't certain that he'd be
able to forgive her for this one.   Maybe it would be better for him to walk
it off, calm down, before facing her.
 
      Then again, if he didn't face her now, he never would.
 
      She was sitting at the bar, sipping at a glass that could have been
wine.  She alternated her sips with drags from a cigarette in an ornate
holder, her eyes covered by very expensive and very dark sunglasses.  To any
but the practiced eye, Janette looked the picture of distinction, a
self-assured, alluring businesswoman, keeping an eye on the club and the
clientele.  But Nick knew many of her dirty little secrets.  And now he was
about to confront her with one so disturbing, the implications horrified even
him.
 
      Her eyes met his across the smoke and distance of the dance floor.  He
strode toward her like a man possessed, pushing aside the dancers that dared
to stray into his path.  Few were brave enough to protest and even fewer
protested again after their outrage was met with a sudden, brutal snarl.
 
      She turned the stool toward the bar as he approached.  When he tossed
the paperback onto the bar, sliding it within her reach, she barely glanced
at it.  "Nicola," she said smoothly, "you appear to be in an unpleasant
mood."
 
      "I found that on Natalie's desk, at work."
 
      Her eyelids barely flickered.  Between drags from the cigarette,
Janette glanced down at the book.  "One wouldn't have expected such a taste
in literature from your Doctor Lambert."
 
      "It's <us>."  Nick tapped the cover of the book with his finger.   "You
and me."
 
      The comment earned the book a second look.  A smile snaked across her
lips, but she still wouldn't look at him.  "I appreciate the compliment, but
I have never been <that> well endowed."  She tilted her sunglasses down from
her eyes, glazing coyly at him over the top of the frames.  "And you were
never <that> blond."
 
      He dismissed the relative physical charms of the woman on the book
cover with a wave of his hand.  "Not <that>.  The <story>.  The story is
about <us>.  That summer.  In Martinique?"
 
      Her smile twisted slightly, indicating that she <did> remember that
summer and remembered it well  With a well-manicured red fingernail, she
traced the outline of the male lead on the paperback cover.   "Is it?  Have
you read it, then?"
 
      "Bits of it."  The admission earned him another glance over the top of
the sunglasses.  Fuming, Nick leaned his back against the bar and crossed his
arms.  "Enough to  know for sure."
 
      "Ah, but there were many there with us in Martinique.  It was a <hot>
summer for all."
 
      "But  they weren't <there>.  With . . . you and me."
 
      "LaCroix was there."
 
      Her voice was quiet, but it still sent a chill through him.  Nick
licked his lips.  "Yes.  But not then."
 
      He glanced over at her.  She shrugged, ever-so-slightly, then returned
to sipping her drink.  Unless he pressed  it, that was the only answer he was
going to get.
 
      Leaning closer to her, Nick picked up the book, standing it on edge on
the top of the bar.  "You and me, Janette.  <I> didn't write this."
 
      "I should hope not.  The author is--"  she lifted the sunglasses and
pretended to peer at  the large, ornate type, "someone named 'Esmeralda
Hope.'"
 
      "And that someone is <you>."
 
      Once again, she evaded the accusation, sipping from her glass, her
shoulders twitching slightly in a shrug.
 
      "You're not going to deny it?" he asked, surprised.
 
      "It's tripe, but it sells."  Janette took off the sunglasses and tossed
them onto the bar.  "And as you often remind me, Nicola, I do have a lot of
mouths to feed."
 
      She slipped off the barstool and started across the floor, abandoning
her cigarette.  Grabbing the book, Nick followed, dazzled by her sheer
inability to comprehend the severity of the situation.  "Then, you're
responsible for <this>?"
 
      "Nicola, you've always said that I should assume some responsibility
for my actions."  Janette tossed the comment to him over  her shoulder and
continued to a booth at the far end of the club.  She paused once, beside a
very young and very nubile young vampiress, who was falling out of her
too-tight tank top.  Without asking, she pulled the top higher, whispering,
"Flaunt it, but don't give it away.  You're not that cheap.  Make them pay."
 
      Nick gave the startled vampiress a helpless smile as he followed in
Janette's wake.   Unlike his passage through the club, hers was unimpeded.
The dancers scrambled to get out of her way.  He finally caught up with her
as she slipped into a booth, the glass of blood mixed with wine held before
her, like a scrying glass.
 
      "Don't you realize how dangerous this is?"
 
      Janette took the book from his hands and tossed it onto the table.
"Dangerous?   Why?  Nothing's ever mentioned about <us>."  The emphasis was
qualified by waving at their surroundings, to include the world of vampires
which they inhabited.  "Give me credit for some common sense.  I wouldn't
want  <them> after me."
 
      Nick seated himself in the booth beside her.  "Not <us>.  But . . .
us."
 
      For the first time, Janette's eyes met his evenly and her smile was
warm, almost tender.  Her hand reached out to touch his lips.  "It's not
<us>, Nicola.  Just certain circumstances.  It's artistic license.  Certain
parts are exaggerated.  Enhanced."  Still smiling, her hand fell to her glass
and she centered her attention on it, toying with the stem.  "Don't pout,
Nicola.  It doesn't become you."
 
      "I want it withdrawn."
 
      Janette turned very wide eyes toward him.  "Why?  You come off very
well."  She picked up the book and began to flip through it.  "Read chapter
twenty-five--"
 
      Nick pushed away the book.  "It was written without my consent."
 
      "Would you have given it?"
 
      "No."
 
      Janette dropped the book to the table top.  "You see!"  Relenting, she
picked up the book again and ran her fingernails lightly across the cover,
pouting.  "Besides, they're not <all> about you."
 
      That one word was like a bucket of freezing water.  "<All>?  There're
more?"
 
      The strangled gasp he emitted seemed to amuse her.  "Of course."
Flipping open the book, she showed him the inside flyleaf.
 
      "Londerry Lust?" he read, turning horrified eyes to her after each
title.  "Singapore Seduction?  Embrace In Istanbul?  Moscow Moonlight--wait a
minute . . . we were never in Istanbul."
 
      Janette cleared her throat loudly, then looked away.  "I told you,
they're not <all> about you."  He thought he heard her mention something
about the vanity of men beneath her breath, then she took the book from his
grasp.  "There was even one about LaCroix.  A very dark book."  She shook her
head, then brightened.  "And my best seller to date.  They couldn't keep them
in the stores.  No accounting for mortal taste.  As for this--ah, it's a
reprint.  Which means I should be receiving a nice residual check very soon."
 
      "A . . . reprint?" asked Nick, fighting to keep the note of horror from
his voice.
 
      "Of course.  Each time they publish a new book, they usually reprint my
best sellers--"
 
      This time he didn't bother to mask the outright fear.  "A <new> one?"
 
      "Yes."  Janette turned innocent eyes toward him--well, at least it was
an <attempt> at innocence.   "They reprint the old books when the new book
comes out.  And when the Americans film the last one--"
 
      "<Film>?"
 
      The word was strangled beyond all sound, but she knew what he was
trying to say. "Television, actually."  Janette frowned in distaste, then
sipped at her wine.  "I think they call it a 'miniseries.'  Jaclyn
something-or-other is starring in it.  As if they could ever capture <me> on
film . . . ."
 
      Thankfully, her wounded pose lasted only a few seconds, before she
placed her  hand on his cheek.  "Nicola, don't look so frightened!  It was
only a joke."  As he sagged in relief, she added, "I haven't decided whether
to accept their offer, yet.  My agent says we should hold out for more
money."
 
      His heart sank at the news.  "I hope you have a good agent."
 
      "Oh, she's a real bloodsucker.  She's been in the business since it
started."  Taking another sip of her wine, she met his eyes again, then
laughed lightly.  "Let the mortals have their fun!  We've lived so long--what
could it hurt to share a little of our remembered passion if it will brighten
their dull, drab existences?"  Still holding the book, she eyed it
speculatively.  "And this belongs to your Natalie, eh?"
 
      He took the book from her fingers quickly and glared down at the cover.
 Perhaps she was right.  Perhaps it wouldn't really hurt to have some of
their adventures written for the ages--so long as the characters appeared to
be mortals.  Not very ordinary mortals, surely, but from what he knew of
those books, that wouldn't be a problem.
 
      "Will you forgive me?" asked Janette, in her favorite little girl
voice.
 
      Still staring down at the book cover, he fought the smile that came to
his lips and pretended to be stern.  "Maybe," he answered gruffly.
 
      Her fingers danced along the collar of his jacket, tracing the line of
his ear, ruffling his hair.  He could smell her perfume as she drew closer.
"Nicola, is there <anything> I can do to make it up to you?"
 
      "Yes," he whispered.  Then, as her lips drew near, he held up the book
between them.  The smack of her lips against the paperback cover was audible.
 Lowering the book, he smiled at her glare and wiped the lipstick from the
back cover with a napkin from the table.  "Why don't you autograph this for
Natalie?"
 
      If possible, her glare deepened.  Her eyes raked  over the back cover
and she sighed.  "I really should have them change the description of the
author.  It sounds like I'm a decrepit spinster living alone on some forsaken
seaside cliff.   Maybe I'll have them add something about some young male
servants.  I'd need a gardener, at least, and three footmen--"
 
      "People don't have footmen any longer," reminded Nick.  "Not common
people.  But--you're not common," he added quickly.  Catching her fingers, he
raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles, which won him
a satisfied smile.  Then he pushed the book into her hands.  "An autograph."
 
      "Very well."  Janette opened the book to the title page and looked
away.  "What should it be?  'To Natalie, who has yet to know what I have
known for so much longer?"
 
      "Janette," he warned.
 
      She frowned, as  if she didn't  hear him.  "No, that might be
misconstrued.  Nicola, what is appropriate in such matters?  Perhaps I should
send it to her?"
 
      He shivered, thinking of what inscription Janette might come up with on
her own.   "No, I'll take it with me.  I'll tell her I ran into Esmeralda in
a bookstore or something.  To Natalie, with regards from--etcetera," he
supplied,  following her as she rose from the booth.  "Where're you going?"
 
      "There's a pen in my office."
 
      "Um . . . do you have more of those?"
 
      "Pens?"
 
      "Books."
 
      Janette stopped and turned to face him.  "They send me a few copies out
of courtesy.  I suppose I have extras in my office."  A slow smile crept
across her face and she took a few steps toward him, backing him up against
the booth.  "Why, Nicola, are you interested in expanding your literary
horizons?  Or do you <not> remember Martinique as well as you claim?"  She
continued toward him, forcing him back against the wall, leaving less than an
inch between them.  "There are more interesting ways to remind you than
reading a dusty old book, hmn?"
 
      "Actually," Nick cleared his throat, feinted left, then moved right to
escape the trap, "it's a present for someone.  I thought I'd seen that book
before I saw it on Natalie's desk.  I've just remembered where."
 
      She paused for an instant, her head tilted to one side in query, like a
bird.  "Would you like it personalized?"
 
      "How about--'To my darling Don, thanks for the inspiration'?"
 
      Janette stared at him, then shuddered. "That's too horrifying to think
about."  But she smiled, adding, "And too cruel to let pass.  Ah, Nicola, you
are too good a friend to these mortals."
 
      Walking back to the booth, he wondered just what terms his friend and
partner might find to describe him when he presented Schanke with the signed
copy in the squad room, during the shift change.  He had a feeling that
'good' would not be one of the words his friend would chose.
 
****
 
The End
 
(And goes to show what  happens when amateur writers are denied access to
public transportation!)