A Cut Above
A Cut Above
Fiction by Ginny Aiken
The Shop-Til-U-Drop Collection
Priced to Move
A Steal of a Deal
A Cut Above
Silver Hills Trilogy
Light of My Heart
Song of My Soul
Spring of My Love
Deadly Décor Mysteries
Design on a Crime
Decorating Schemes
Interior Motives
A Cut Above
A Novel
Ginny Aiken
© 2008 by Ginny Aiken
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Aiken, Ginny.
A cut above ; a novel / Ginny Aiken.
p. cm. — (The shop-til-u-drop collection ; bk. 3)
ISBN 978-0-8007-3229-5 (pbk.)
1. Home shopping television programs—Fiction. 2. Television personalities— Fiction. 3. Gemologists—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.I339C88 2008
813'.54—dc22
2008029469
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Scripture is taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
“There is gold . . . but the lips of knowledge
are a precious jewel.”
Proverbs 20:15
Table of Contents
100
200
300
400
500
600
700
800
900
1000
1100
1200
1300
1400
1500
1600
1700
1800
Epilogue
100
Louisville, Kentucky
With both fists, I pummel my knight in gravel-encrusted summer-wear. The blows don’t even begin to faze him. “Put me down, you great big jerk.”
What does the great big jerk do? Put me down and help me inside? No. Not Max Matthews. He stuns the breath out of me. Again.
He laughs. And then he kisses me.
Long and hard.
On the lips.
Oh my . . .
Over the electric buzzing in my head, I hear the sweet, tender strains of “Stranger in Paradise.” Again. As I’ve heard them a time or two since Max barreled into my life about a year ago.
“Dum-de-dummm . . . dum-de-dum-de-dum-dum-de-dummm . . . ”
How can this be? These warm lips belong to Max Mat- thews, the California surfer-boy gem-dunce . . . and he’s kissing me! He showed up, ruined my TV shopping channel– hosting gig, and I couldn’t stand him . . . but then he did save my life . . .
He eases me to the ground again. But only my feet touch down.
Max . . . I learned to tolerate him . . . he saved my life one more time, and now this . . . a kiss . . . an incredible, dizzying, Hollywood musical–worthy kiss . . .
Cue in the violins.
Oh yeah! This does tilt my world, all right. Swirls of light and color dance across my eyelids, and my heart seems to grow to the bursting point. I float through reality, clinging only to the warmth of Max’s touch, the tenderness and sweet passion of his kiss. Max . . .
“. . . Take my hand, I’m a stranger in Paradise—”
“Hallelujah! They’re alive—”
“Hot diggity dog! Will ya look at that lip-lock?”
The two elderly female voices at my right ear pierce the Kismet-flavored illusion, and my eyes pop open wide. I find myself nose to nose with the best-looking male I’ve ever seen, our lips still grazing.
I jerk backward. A tiny squeak bursts from my mouth. My cheeks hit the scalding point.
“Um . . . ah . . . well . . .” I let my voice drift off. Nothing I can say will change what my Aunt Weeby and her best friend, Miss Mona Latimer—my boss, no less—have seen.
Or what just happened between Max and me.
As I stumble and bumble, trying to catch up with my elusive composure, I watch Max—the rat!—approach the Daunting Duo, a mile-wide smile on his gorgeous face.
I press my hands to my hot face. What can I say? What should I do?
Aaaack! How am I supposed to work with the man now? It was bad enough when he was just a new hire, ignorant of anything related to our work, and I couldn’t stand him. But he grew on me.
Sure, he did. Like fungus.
I sniff. Mushrooms are fungi, and you do love mushrooms, my too-honest and too-familiar-with-my-mental-convolutions conscience pipes in.
I’d done everything I could think of to avoid falling for Max, but now I suspect this is bigger than my will and my efforts. My stomach does a flip and a lurch. In the beginning, I’d thought Max a blight, but now . . . well, now he’s gained some gemology basics, and as far as the not-liking-him business . . . that’s changed, and has nothing to do with work. I sigh.
What is our work, you ask? We’re in big-time bling-bling. On TV. We’re the jewelry and gemstone cohosts on the Shop-Til-U-Drop Shopping Channel.
Oh. You want to know who I am? Well. I really should introduce myself, shouldn’t I? I do it every single day in front of millions at the start of my show. But I am understandably flustered right now. I’m Andrea Autumn Adams, Master Gemologist and the real host of the S.T.U.D.’s show. At least, I was before the appearance of the heart-stealing, knee-melting, too-gorgeous latecomer.
So who’s the latecomer on the other side of the killer kiss? This Max who turned my life upside down? He’s Max Matthews, a former Ohio State Buckeye football player. You know, the kind who majors in football and minors in whatever. This one, however, graduated summa cum laude, wouldn’t you know? In Max’s case, the whatever was meteorology, definitely not geology, or as he so . . . hmm . . . humorously put it once, rockology.
Okay, okay. I already told you he’s acquired a basic grasp of gemological knowledge. And he’s signed up, believe it or not, to work on his Gemological Institute of America Graduate Gemologist certificate. Who’d a thunk?
I shoot a glance at my erstwhile nemesis and spot Chief Clark heading toward me. Oh, joy. The man and I have a checkered past. And why not? He once tried to pin a murder on me—of course, I had nothing to do with the poor ruby vendor’s demise, but the good chief took some persuading.
“Well, Miss Andie,” he says as he approaches, “looks like you’ll have to come on in to my office for a spell. I’ll be having some questions for you, and I’ll be needing a statement too.”
I sigh—again. There’s no getting around it. Doesn’t matter whether I’m up to it or not. As if, after getting nearly run off the road, being threatened at gunpoint, and wrestling with a maniacal gem thief, I’m in any condition to try to string two coherent thoughts together. You know? If Chief Clark keeps Max in the room . . . well, then, I’m done for.
At least this time there�
��s no possible question about my guilt or lack thereof. Chief Clark’s buddies in blue have the culprit in shiny steel bracelets—not the kind I’m likely to feature on one of my shows anytime soon.
I square my shoulders. “Lead on, Macduff.”
The chief arches a graying eyebrow. “I do believe, Miss Andie, that the Bard did write it as ‘Lay on, Macduff.’ ”
Not looking good. Aw . . . come on. How many police chiefs do you know who know Shakespeare so well they can correct you when you misquote?
Yep. That’s what I mean.
Sometime around midnight, our highly literate chief lets me head home—well, to Miss Mona’s house. The gem thief the cops just arrested recently torched the Adams home, where I’ve been living with Aunt Weeby. After the fire, we moved in with Miss Mona, and that’s where I head after the inquisition . . . er . . . interview.
I collapse onto the backseat of Miss Mona’s new powder blue Jaguar, while Aunt Weeby slides into the front passenger seat. Miss Mona’s behind the wheel—yikes! The woman’s known for her lead foot.
“Never would’ve thought she had it in her,” Miss Mona says, her voice full of regret. “If I hadn’t hired her . . . the girl did seem so sweet.” She shakes her silver-haired head. “Mm-mm-mm . . .”
My aunt murmurs a sympathetic sound. “Guess that there old cliché about the book and its cover works backwards and forwards.”
I think about the beautiful camerawoman, who Miss Mona had hired about a year ago and who now finds herself behind bars, and her un-beautiful deeds. You never can tell about a person. And here I’ve been all bent out of shape with jealousy—yes, Andie. Face it. It was jealousy, and all because she’d spent most of our recent trip to Kashmir sucking up to Max.
Then it hits me. Did I miss a clue in her actions because
I spent the trip with my nose out of joint from the jealousy? Could I have brought her to justice sooner if I’d not been so caught up in Max’s spell?
I drop my head against the supple leather seat back and close my eyes. The man’s trouble—T.R.O.U.B.L.E.—for my poor, overworked head. And my heart.
Just like that, the sensation of falling through space, of warmth and passion and comfort and . . . and— Max.
How can just the thought of him make me feel like I did when he kissed me? And what does it mean? How am I going to face him . . . or the piercing, revealing spotlight of the camera with him at my side?
I groan.
“You all right back there, sugarplum?” Aunt Weeby asks. “Mona, dear. Do you have any of that wonderful cod-liver oil Great-Grandma Willetta used to give us all at your place?”
I fight the urge to groan again. Anything but the infamous internal lubricant! “I’m fine, Aunt Weeby. Really. Just thinking it’s too bad we didn’t figure out what Miss Mona’s newest hire was up to before she burned the house.”
“Sure, sure, sure. But none of us have any of that there silly ESP stuff. We can’t go reading nobody’s mind.” My aunt tsk-tsks, and does it better than anyone else I know, mind you. “You sure it’s not that corroded gut a’ yours kicking up a fuss again?”
I’ve known forever that I have to be über-careful around Aunt Weeby. Anything I say can and will be used against me. “Aunt Weeby, you’ve got to let go of that image. Good grief! I only said it once. I was overworked and overtired at the time, but you’ve latched on to it as if it had been your last slice of bread in a worldwide famine.”
Silence.
Then, “Well! My goodness. That was some speech there, Andrea Autumn Adams.” Miss Mona’s voice doesn’t hide the surprise or the hint of humor behind her words. “Something’s sure worked itself—or maybe I should say someone’s worked himself—under your skin. Looks like our boy’s done a number on your wherewithal, and I say, good for him!”
Aunt Weeby titters.
Miss Mona laughs.
I groan—again.
We drive on. By the glow of a streetlight, I notice our driver’s Cheshire cat grin. I love Miss Mona almost as much as I love Aunt Weeby, but the two of them and their antics can give anyone heartburn. And I’m a veteran of the ulcer wars; I need no help upsetting my internal equanimity.
“Oh dear,” my aunt then says, her words devoid of any further humor. “You don’t think this means they’re gonna go all lovey-dovey on-screen, now, do you, Mona?”
The car bucks to an abrupt stop. Miss Mona’s sleek, bob-haired head swivels. The darkness hides her eyes—for which I’m eternally thankful, since I’m sure she’s glaring at me. “You wouldn’t dare!”
I slink lower on my vertebrae. A quick glance out the window tells me we’re nowhere near Miss Mona’s house yet. At the rate I’m going, I’d better plan on calling my friendly neighborhood chiropractor in the morning.
Either that, or change the subject.
I inch up. “How soon did the contractor say his men could start on the house?” I ask my aunt.
Her hand flutters up in a dismissive wave. “Don’t even think about that, sugarplum. Mickey’s crews are on other jobs for about another two, maybe three weeks.”
Miss Mona starts the Jag on its way back to her Mac-Mansion—have I mentioned how rich the Shop-Til-U-Drop Shopping Channel has made the already well-to-do widow? “Now, don’t you go talking about moving out again, Livvy. You either, Andie, honey. We’re going to have us the best, longest-running pajama party ever.”
Me and the Daunting Duo. For weeks. What kind of nuttiness will they cook up during that time? How am I going to keep them from dragging me along in their wake? Am I in trouble or what? “Maybe—”
“Mona, dear,” my auntie says, ignoring my start. “I already told you we’re hunting for a sweet little cottage for Andie. It’s time she graduates from girl to woman, and nothing says grown-up more than your own home. A . . . what is it the kids say? Oh, yes! A pad, her own pad, is what she’s needing.”
And here I’d hoped she’d forgotten about that crazy idea.
“You do have a point,” Miss Mona says before I can conjure a diversion. “It’ll be so much fun to go house hunting for Andie. Do you have a Realtor yet?”
“Of course. I’m working with that darling Evie Carson. Can you believe that child’s gone and grown up like that? Why, I do remember when she was in my Sunday school class . . .”
The conversation continues without any input on my part, just as the hunt for a “pad” for me will also go, I’m sure. Not that I have any interest in moving out from the Adams home. I came back to Louisville to take care of Aunt Weeby. She’d had an encounter with a bovine that ended with her leg in a sling at the hospital after surgery to repair multiple compound fractures. And even though her leg’s now as fine as frog legs—her description, not mine—she has an astonishing talent for the unexpected. The woman needs a keeper. That’s where I come in.
And while I don’t want to have to drag her out of another of her escapades, I do like living with her. My parents are missionaries, and they’d decided years ago, during one of their assignments, I’d be better off with Aunt Weeby and her late husband. I spent much of my teenage years in the hundred-plus-year-old house, and to me it spells all that’s wonderful about family. I may be an independent adult with a great career, but I had all the aloneness I could’ve wanted while I lived in New York. Besides, there’s something very comforting in spending my evenings with my dearest relative and closest friend.
Don’t! Don’t even mention that kissing male to me right now, okay?
Sudden exhaustion drops over me. I don’t have the energy to argue with Aunt Weeby. The wrestling match with the newly arrested gemstone thief nearly did me in, and my sore body is letting me know exactly what parts were most grievously assaulted.
I close my eyes and pray. I pray for a confession from the thief—I have no interest in testifying in another trial. Remember the dead vendor? Yeah. Once in a lifetime was more than enough for me.
I pray for Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. They regularly court disaster, not to ment
ion injury, and the thought of any harm coming to either of the zany seniors is more than I can stand.
But mostly, I pray for wisdom and guidance. I have a lousy track record when it comes to men. Men? Hah! Think college classmate—one college classmate, at that—who found what my brain could do for his cumulative grade-point average far more appealing than my company itself. I’ve been a coward ever since, and my cowardice made me treat Max like dirt. I’m ashamed of my actions.
I’ve since apologized and asked his forgiveness, but I really never expected God to stun me with these intense feelings toward my cohost.
My thoughts meander back to the kiss. Max’s tenderness again moves me.
The Jaguar screeches to a stop. I bounce against my seat belt. My head snaps forward and back, and I blink at the sight of Miss Mona’s well-spotlighted house. I blink again, and a random thought hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks.
Could Max feel the same way I do?
“Rise and shine, sunshine!”
I open one reluctant eye. “Wha . . . ?”
“Good!” Aunt Weeby chirps. “You’re awake.”
It’ll never do me any good to tell her I’d still be asleep were it not for her. “What’s up? How come you’re impersonating an alarm clock so early?”
“Why, we have us an appointment with Evie Carson, sugarplum. She’s got a couple of cute little places she says are just right for you.” She marches over to the window on the east wall of the room Miss Mona has given me for the duration, and flings the two halves of the drapes wide open. Brilliant sunshine stings my bleary eyes.
“Hey!” I cover my face with my blanket, but Aunt Weeby drags it off me.
“Come on, Andie. Let’s get to getting. We have us a house to find you. That’s going to take some time, you know. Great houses don’t grow on trees. And I just can’t wait for the fun to start.”
Fun. Yeah, right.
It won’t do me any more good to object to the foray into the wilds of house hunting than it did to my rude awakening. And my lack of interest or desire for a new home has no bearing in this equation, you know. I drag myself upright, and mental images of last night’s frightening events flash through my thoughts. The shock I felt when I realized who’d tried to run my car off the road was only slightly less than the revulsion I still feel knowing she’s killed two men. And all for a pair of fabulous stones. A human life is so precious, so worth more than even the most valuable gem.