freckles. Unlike me, Jillian’s freckles were a bare sprinkling of cocoa, and her hair was a silky copper waterfall.
She was also tall, gorgeous without makeup, fashionably dressed even on weekends, and married, although she had jilted four men at the altar first. In fact, jilting fiancés had been something of a hobby of hers until she met the bank account of her dreams, Claymore Osborne, son of one of the wealthiest families in New Chapel.
Coincidentally, I’d been engaged to Claymore’s older brother, Pryce, while I was in law school. Both school and my fiancé had been unmitigated disasters and both had given me the boot. At that thought, I shifted my twenty-pound mummified foot beneath the table. Apparently, the boot was a recurrent theme in my life.
“Hello, hello!” Jillian called to people she knew, as she dragged Claymore toward us. Seeing me, she cried, “Oh, Abs!” and sank onto the small space at the end of our bench so she could wrap her long arms around me and give me a hug. “I heard about your accident, poor baby, and had to come right over to see how my wittle cousin was doing.”
I hated when she talked baby talk. “My accident happened two days ago, Jillian. What’s your rush?”
She pulled back to look at me, her lips in a pretty pout as she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You’re going to have to stick with flats from now on, Abs. Clumsy people shouldn’t wear high heels. It’s one of the first rules of fashion sense.”
I leaned close to her ear and said in a low voice, “Clumsy people shouldn’t let others sit beside them on a bench either, because sometimes they accidentally push people off!”
Jillian rose from the bench like a graceful swan and swept back her long hair, which couldn’t have looked like hay even if she’d stuck her head in a thrasher. As she tightened the belt of her Burberry trench coat, she suddenly noticed Sara, and her eyes lit up.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jillian Knight-Osborne, owner of Chez Jillian , a personal shopping service that I’m sure you’ve heard about. This is my husband, Claymore, a prominent CPA. And you are?”
Reilly stepped in. “This is Sara Jorgensen.”
Sara smiled and extended her hand toward my cousin. “Nice to meet you.”
As Jillian took her hand, she gave Reilly a perplexed look. “What happened to your other girlfr—” She gasped as I kicked her shin with my boot. When it came to tact, Jillian made me look good.
“Very nice to meet you, Sara,” Claymore said. He pulled a slender purple camera from his coat pocket and handed it to Jillian. “Here, darling. Take your photos and let’s leave these people to their dinners.”
“Photos of what?” I asked.
“The vampire,” Clayton said quietly, casting a discreet glance over his shoulder.
“He’s not a vampire,” Marco said firmly.
“That’s not what I heard,” Jillian said.
“You heard the rumors and didn’t tell me?” I asked.
“I was going to stop by, but then I heard about”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“your accident.”
“I didn’t sprain my ears, Jillian. Why are you whispering?”
She turned to aim the camera at Vlad, but couldn’t get a clear shot. “I wish he’d stop moving! Would someone go up there and ask him to pose for me?”
She pushed the button and the flash went off. “Never mind. I got him that time. Oh, wait. That’s odd. Look at this, Claymore. Everyone but Vlad came out. Let me try it again.”
“Jillian,” I said in a whisper, “that’s enough. People are looking at us.”
She took two more pictures and put the camera away. “I’ll check them when I get home. Nice to meet you, Sara.” She pointed her finger at me. “Remember what I said about high heels.” And then she sailed through the crowd with Claymore trotting behind her.
“Sorry,” I said to Sara. “Jillian is family. I have to tolerate her.”
Reilly’s cell phone chimed. He flipped it open and read the