Bird of Paradise

  Bird of Paradise

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Seven

  Bird of Paradise

  A Novella

  Katie MacAlister

  Praise for Katie MacAlister!

  “Katie MacAlister has an easy voice that brims with wit and fun.”

  —Mrs. Giggles from Everything Romantic

  MacAlister has a “captivating voice and charming storytelling skills [and] impeccable style.”

  —Inscriptions Magazine

  “This story is a true romp. There is much to laugh at when reading this book and much to miss when it is over. A true ‘keeper.’”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Sexy, feisty and clever.”

  —Reader to Reader

  Originally published 2003 in the Heat Wave anthology by Dorchester Publishing

  Copyright © Katie MacAlister, 2003, 2012

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Bird of Paradise

  A Novella

  Katie MacAlister

  Praise for Katie MacAlister!

  “Katie MacAlister has an easy voice that brims with wit and fun.”

  —Mrs. Giggles from Everything Romantic

  MacAlister has a “captivating voice and charming storytelling skills [and] impeccable style.”

  —Inscriptions Magazine

  “This story is a true romp. There is much to laugh at when reading this book and much to miss when it is over. A true ‘keeper.’”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Sexy, feisty and clever.”

  —Reader to Reader

  Originally published 2003 in the Heat Wave anthology by Dorchester Publishing

  Copyright © Katie MacAlister, 2003, 2012

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This novella was originally part of the Heat Wave anthology, published in 2003. All three novellas in the anthology—the other two were by Jennifer Archer and Sheridon Smythe—were written to take place at the same location, and using the same setting: a reality TV show.

  Completists might want to have the anthology so as to read all three stories together, although each novella is a tale unto itself. Regardless if you read my novella, Bird of Paradise, when it was originally published, or if you’ve been waiting for it to be made available again, I hope you enjoy the story of Hero, Adam, and Jesus the cat.

  Katie MacAlister

  Chapter One

  “I’m with you on the need for the air horn in case you are forced to slaughter innocent animals in the name of sport, and I completely agree with the earplugs for the roller disco night, but why in the name of John, Paul, and Ringo are you packing this monstrosity?” Gemma held up a voluminous purple-and-black beruffled, skirted, blousoned swimsuit.

  Hero made a moue at both her friend’s words and the object held before her. “You left out George,” she pointed out.

  Gemma waggled the swimsuit at her.

  Hero sighed and took the garment, folding it neatly and placing it back into the luggage. “You told me it was a crime against nature to go to the Caribbean without taking a swimsuit. That is a swimsuit.”

  “I said take your swimsuit, Hero, not your grandmother’s,” Gemma replied, much more acidly than Hero thought warranted, but then, who was she to say? She was only Gemma’s best friend. Clearly her opinion counted for little in the Gemma scale of life. “That thing probably covers you from knees to elbows. You’ll drown the first time it gets wet. It’ll suck you right down to the briny depths. I know you think you’re too Rubenesque for a bikini—”

  Hero snorted at the word Rubenesque. She knew her friend was trying not to hurt her feelings by using such phrases as prodigiously plump, but really! Rubenesque?

  “—but that’s no reason to hide yourself. You’re lovely. You should be proud of who you are, not hide yourself behind all those layers of clothing.”

  “I like my clothing,” Hero said with great dignity that was lost upon the other woman.

  “Well, no one else does! Hero, when are you going to realize that despite being a few stone heavier than you’d like to be, you’re still attractive? Very attractive?”

  “Gemma, give it up; we’ve been over it too many times before. I appreciate your vote of confidence, but I’m not at all comfortable wearing the type of clothes you do. I simply have to much flesh. An excess of flesh. Great, huge, vast stretches of it, in fact, which I prefer to keep covered decently so as not to frighten small children and the elderly. Now”—she held up two dresses—”which frock do you think for the fancy dinners—the navy or the ecru?”

  Gemma plumped down on the bed next to the suitcase and frowned. “Neither, they both look like something my aunt Fran would wear to a convent in a blizzard during Lent. Hero, I don’t like to duff you over this, but here you have the perfect opportunity to look over a large herd of eligible bachelors, and all you do is pack clothing guaranteed to keep you in purdah. You deserve better than that. You’re going to a tropical island! Sun! Men! Beautiful white beaches! Men in thongs! Fruity drinks and pampering and fun! Men walking around with nothing more on than a really nice tan and a wicked glint in their eyes! I want you to promise me that you’re seriously going to look at the men you’ll meet on Mystique Island.”

  Hero silently shoved several pairs of lacy underwear into the corners of the bag. “I shan’t be able to avoid looking at them, they are an integral part of my article.”

  “Hero,” her friend said in a growl. “You know what I meant!”

  Hero rummaged around in the bottom of her wardrobe looking for a pair of sandals. “I do, but as I’m participating in this ridiculous dating show solely to do a story, Gem, I don’t feel your su
ggestion that I chat up the men in an attempt to find a potential husband deserves any comment. You know how important this article is to me. Besides, those men are Americans. We both know what that means—oversexed, egotistical, can’t-keep-their-willies-in-their-trousers types. Not the sort of bloke I’m looking to tie myself to forever.”

  “You’re half American,” Gemma pointed out, removing the underwear and folding them tidily before replacing them.

  “My point exactly. Mum got tangled up with a smooth-talking Yank engineer twenty-six years ago, and what was the outcome of that?” Hero tucked a pair of beige huaraches into the side of her bag and disappeared into the dingy bathroom to collect various sundries.

  “You,” Gemma called after her.

  “Correct.”

  “Your parents were married.”

  “But Dad was never home! He wasn’t happy at home; he wanted to wander the world. And now where is he? In Arizona with his new bit of crumpet, leaving Mum heartbroken.”

  “So heartbroken that when he left she said, and I quote, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’?”

  Hero emerged from the bathroom to wave that comment away. “That’s merely a protective device so she doesn’t have to admit how hurt she is by Dad’s betrayal. Do you think I look to pale? Should I use tanning lotion?”

  “Hero, your parents were married for almost twenty-five years. I think now is the time for you to get over their divorce and admit your problem isn’t American men.”

  “No, my problem is to finish packing so I can make my flight to Mystique, thus ensuring that I’ll have a story on how desperate Americans will do anything to find someone to date, which will, in turn, keep Stephen from giving me the sack and me from going on the dole because no one wants to hire a blackballed tabloid writer. That is my problem.” She held up a bronze bottle with a large yellow sun on it. “Yea or nay on the tanning lotion?”

  “Yea, you look whiter than a fish’s underbelly. And as for the other, you haven’t been blackballed, goose. You can’t really blame Stephen for putting you on probation after that last story, what you did was very much over the line.”

  “Perhaps,” Hero mumbled as she flattened a roll of toilet tissue and added it to her suitcase. One never knew what one was going to find in the less civilized areas of the world. It was far better to be prepared than be obliged to use the local flora to tend to one’s personal needs.

  “Perhaps? Perhaps your story claiming that one of the royal family had an alien love child was not so outrageous the outcry could be heard from here to John O’Groats? Perhaps you didn’t almost lose your job, only hanging on because you begged the publisher to give you another chance. Perhaps, Hero? Perhaps?”

  Friends. There were times when she really had to wonder why she was cursed with them. She zipped up the sides of the suitcase and turned to face her oldest and dearest friend. “What do you want me to say, Gemma? That I was wrong to try to increase circulation and save Stephen from losing his livelihood? That I was wrong to make up a story so patently false that only an idiot would believe it was true? That I was wrong to call those very same people mindless boobs on the telly? Well, all right, I admit the last was not in the best interests of either my career or the Revue, but the first two—no. Stephen knows full well it was my story that saved his paper, which makes it all that much more unreasonable that he should put me in the untenable position of having to turn in a fascinating story that will save my position without once using the words alien or love child. I ask you—can it be done? I have my doubts!”

  Gemma laughed and held up a lacy bra. “I don’t have any. You forgot this. Really, Hero, such scandalous smalls! For someone who looks so conservative on the outside, you wear the naughtiest knickers and bras!”

  Hero snatched the item and unzipped the luggage just enough to stuff it inside. “If you’re quite finished ridiculing my choice of undergarments, perhaps you’ll assist me in applying the faux suntan. I can’t imagine it will fool anyone, but I’d much prefer to not have the streaks and blotches that I’m sure will happen if I try to do the backside of me by myself.”

  “No one will know your luscious golden tan came from a bottle,” Gemma vowed as she followed Hero into the bathroom. “You’ll dazzle every man there; just you wait and see. They’ll all be eating out of your hand by the time the first few weeks are up.”

  Hero rolled her eyes. “For the last time, I’m not doing this to find a man! I’m simply trying to save my job.”

  “So you say.”

  “That’s all. It’s just an article. Nothing more.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Romance is definitely out of the question.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I certainly would not find myself attracted to an American.”

  Gemma started whistling as she applied the cream to Hero’s now bare back. Hero tried to focus on how bronze and un-fish’s-underbelly her skin would look, but other, less happy images invaded her thoughts. “And even if I were to find a man I fancied, I’m sure he’d be panting after one of those trim, tiny women who will no doubt be parading around with their fake breasts and toned thighs and pert bums with thongs stuck in between their cheeks and such.”

  “Hero?”

  “What?” Hero’s thoughts were dark with images of liposuctioned buttocks.

  “Do you know what I think? You are setting yourself up for major trouble.”

  “Trouble? By not wishing to become involved with an American? How is that trouble?”

  “Your prejudice against Americans has nothing to do with the matter—I’m speaking of women who deny themselves love, women who repress their honest, loving, and demonstrative natures, women who decry relationships on pretenses of standards. Such women inevitably end up falling for a man, and hard.”

  Hero rolled her eyes “I’m nothing like that.”

  “They snap, that’s what they do. They meet a man, they fall instantly and deeply in love, and voila! Instant snappage.”

  “You’re quite, quite mad, aren’t you?”

  “They call it the Fatal Attraction syndrome, you know. One moment you’re a professional, intelligent woman in control of your life, the next you’re completely obsessed with the man. It’s quite tragic, really, and since I don’t want to see you boiling up some poor innocent man’s rabbit, I am warning you now.”

  “Obsessed,” Hero scoffed. “I’ve never been obsessed with a man in my life. I’m hardly likely to start now.”

  “It’s not as if you’ve had a great deal of experience, love.”

  “Just because you can count my relationships on one hand”—Gemma held up two fingers—”very well, just because I’ve only had two relationships of any duration—”

  “A fortnight each, weren’t they?”

  “—doesn’t mean I am naive and inexperienced. I can assure you that if and when I meet a man I’m interested in, I will not snap, not that I’m likely to meet him where I’m going.”

  “Take heed, Hero! If you continue to deny yourself the natural expression of your affections, one day you’re going to find yourself suddenly unable to think of anything but a man you’ve just met. You’ll stalk him through crowds, you’ll feel insane jealousy when you see him with other women, you’ll concoct feeble excuses to seek him out because you must be near him; then, ultimately, you’ll end up—”

  “Stabbed to death in a bathtub?” Hero asked.

  “Possibly. I prefer to think that it’ll all end up happily, after your chosen man realizes that you’re not truly insane.”

  “Thank you,” Hero replied, mollified.

  “I’m sure it won’t take him any time to realize what the true problem is.”

  Hero cocked an eyebrow in question.

  Gemma smiled. “You just need a right good shagging.”

  Adam Fuller was beginning to fee martyred. Saint Adam: it had a nice ring to it.

  “Don’t forget to take pictures of any man who looks like he’s hitting on Sally. And names, I
want names. Names are important. You got that?”

  “Names. Pictures. I have it.” He switched the black plastic cat carrier to his other hand and reached in his jacket pocket for the airplane ticket.

  “I want to know what she does every minute of the day, and who she does it with. If she looks like she’s having fun. I want to know that too. And don’t forget the pictures of the men she’s with. And their names.

  Adam sighed.

  “Who she had dinner with, who she dances with, who she does the stupid dating events with, who she smiles at—I particularly want to know that—who she talks to, who she—”

  “I get the idea, Gar; you don’t have to beat it into me. You want me to watch her. I understand the job; you’ll just have to trust me to do it.”

  Edgar Holliday, famed throughout the NFL for his thirty-yard passes rather than his intellectual capabilities, glowered at the tall man walking next to him. “This is important, Adam. Sally isn’t just any woman; she’s the woman. I’m going to marry her one day. She’s going to be the mother of my little quarterbacks. I love her! That’s why it’s important you keep your eye on her while she’s going through this difficult time.”

  “Difficult time? Gar, she kicked you out and told you she never wanted to see you again.”

  “She was mad at me because of that little thing with the cheerleader. It’s nothing. Women like Sally get emotional that way. Probably was her time of the month.”

  “She got a restraining order against you. That doesn’t sound like PMS to me.”