A Season of Miracles by Heather Graham

horrified, was afraid that the cries would echo above the sound of the band.
    â€œMadame Zena, stop it!” she protested.
    â€œWitch!”
    â€œIt’s a costume, just a costume,” Jillian said.
    â€œCome on, enough is enough,” Joe told her. He drew back the chair, gripped her elbow and pulled her to her feet.
    â€œToo much,” Tip agreed.
    â€œWe need some air,” Connie said.
    â€œI’m all right,” Jillian said, but they were already headed for the door.
    As they neared it, it opened and a man entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a long leather coat against the autumn chill. Jillian barely noted him at first, except as someone who was blocking the door.
    Then the light touched him.
    He had dark hair, almost pitch in color, cropped at the collar, swept back in the front. His face was strongly chiseled, with clean features and a square, well-defined jaw, a generous mouth, large, dark eyes—maybe dark blue, she thought, rather than brown. He was good-looking and moved with confidence.
    â€œBuilt like a brick shit-house,” Connie whispered in her ear.
    Still, Jillian would have walked right by him. The city was home to lots of good-looking people, models, actors, even businessmen.
    Then this man looked at them. And when she looked back, she realized that she knew him.
    â€œMy God,” Connie breathed. “I didn’t recognize him at first.”
    Of course, she knew him. Or almost knew him.
    She’d just never seen him so close.
    Nor seen him… look at her.
    She felt his eyes on her. Then, suddenly, pain seared her. Rocked her. Hit her in the chest as if she had been struck by lightning. Pain so vibrant that fire seemed to flash before her eyes.
    She staggered, doubling over in sudden agony.
    â€œJillian?”
    She heard Connie’s concerned whisper.
    Then the pain radiated through her. Fire! It was as if she were on fire.
    And then she blacked out.

CH A PTER 3
    H e was bending over her, his head slightly turned as he calmly ordered everyone to move back, give her some room.
    Then his eyes fell on her again.
    They were blue. Navy. The closest thing to black she’d ever seen that still carried the touch of a hue. And she wasn’t in pain anymore. Not in physical pain.
    But she was in mental agony. Total humiliation.
    What in God’s name had seized her?
    She had been kept from falling by someone and transported to the Victorian sofa that sat just inside the main entry to the pub. Connie was on one side of her, Joe on the other. Her new friend Tip, the cop, was hovering somewhere nearby; she could hear him talking. But it was Robert Marston who was right in front of her, barking out orders, touching her forehead and her throat—checking for a pulse, she assumed.
    She wished she could crawl under the couch.
    She sat up, an act easier planned than managed. Marston was so close that she crashed right into him, forehead to forehead. He smiled as their heads cracked, while she paled all over again.
    â€œI knew I wasn’t exactly welcomed by everyone in the company, but I never thought I could cause fainting spells,” he joked.
    She shook her head quickly. “You had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know who you were. I—”
    â€œAre you all right?” he enquired more seriously.
    â€œI—I—of course,” she stammered.
    Then she was aware of Connie’s gaze. “Jillian, are you sure? My God, you were white as a ghost. We were so worried.”
    â€œI’m…I’m fine,” she protested. “Thanks, really. I’m just embarrassed and—”
    â€œMaybe we should get you to the hospital, get you checked out,” Marston suggested, interrupting her with a note of authority.
    She stared at him, wishing she could crawl away.
    What in the world had caused this?
    She hadn’t felt threatened by his hiring, had she? Wary, but not