Dreaming in Technicolor: The Sequel to Dreaming in Black & White [BARGAIN PRICE] (Paperback)

Everyone's favorite film geek Phoebe Grant heads off to Merrie Old England-and changes her cinematic dreams from black and white to living color.

Phoebe's family has money troubles. Her spiritual life is dragging. She misses her long-distance best friend, Lindsey, terribly. But all that's bearable because of Alex, the gorgeous man who shares her love of movies and actually likes women with a little meat on their bones. At last-someone to kiss on New Year's Eve!

But by New Year's Eve, Alex is in London, called home by a family emergency. Newly engaged Lindsey has turned into a long-distance Bridezilla, and the snooze button still sabotages Phoebe's morning quiet times. She needs a break, which is why she jumps at the cheap off-season fare to England.

She's not chasing Alex. Really. She just wants to broaden her horizons. But what awaits Phoebe in the land of Mrs. Miniver and Notting Hill is nothing short of disaster . . . and nothing less than a miracle.

Chapter One
One Kiss Is Worth a Thousand Words

The time had come, and we both knew it. We were ready. I looked into his Clark Gable eyes as he drew me close and saw the tender love in them, the deep fire of restrained passion.

I watched his lips--those beautiful, expressive lips--as they slowly drew near.

I closed my eyes, felt his warm breath, knew the soft touch of his lips on mine.

Time melted away in the eternity of that kiss. Our first kiss, long awaited. I could almost hear music soar.

It was Bogie and Bacall, Scarlett and Rhett, Rick and Ilsa, Wesley and Buttercup, Belle and her Beast. Of all the wonderful kisses since the beginning of time, it was one of the best. It was not to be forgotten.

It was . . . it was definitely not happening.

I pulled back from my reverie and gazed across the table at my date. And sighed.

Those lips. Those eyes. That mouth. Those gorgeous Gregory Peck Roman Holiday lips--now closing in on an industrial-sized cinnamon roll.

I sighed again. I know that old song says a kiss is still a kiss. But when you're not being kissed at all, who cares what Sam the piano player says?

". . . thought we could hit Macy's first." Alex Spencer put down his roll and blew on his cappuccino with those wonderful, full lips before taking a sip and giving me a questioning look across the cafe table.

"Sounds good." I gulped my mocha, noticing as I did a trace of foam on his adorable mouth. Is this man ever going to kiss me?

Alex and I had been dating for three weeks now. Twenty-two days, actually, but who's counting? And things were going well. Quite well, in fact, considering our love-hate, mistaken-motives history. And the fact Alex was my new boss. And the whole kissing issue, of course--not that I'm obsessing about it or anything.

But they were going so well that in just a few minutes we were going to cross an important dating threshold: Alex was taking me shopping. In San Francisco. And since we'd never shopped together, I was a trifle nervous.

What if Alex turned out to be like most men, who loathe women's favorite sport?

That's why I'd already had a long talk with my shopping self and stressed that she behave with decorum and restraint. And she'd agreed to be on her best behavior. Unless we went into a shoe store. Then all bets were off.

Something you should probably know about me. I've had a love affair with shoes ever since I bought my first pair of Candies in high school. And although I'd had a spiritual epiphany of sorts a couple of months ago about scaling back and keeping things simple, that epiphany hadn't reached all the way down to my feet yet.

Or to my mouth. Or to my kiss-obsessed brain.

I was trying, though. I knew that the minute my lips locked with Alex's, there would be no scaling back. Also that my drooling might stain his leather bomber jacket, which, I might add, fit him extremely well and gave him a rakish, Brandoesque charm. So in an attempt to keep my smitten self in check, I resumed our favorite sport.

"Okay, Filmguy, what's the first Technicolor movie to win an Oscar?"

He shot me a smug grin as he set down his gooey cinnamon roll. "Gone With the Wind, in 1939. The same year of The Wizard of Oz, where they also made use of that innovative color change. But Gone with the Wind swept the Oscars, and the Wizard only won a couple."

"Brat." I stuck out my tongue at him. "Your turn."

"Right, then," he said with that competitive gleam in his eye that I knew and loved.

Whoops. Did I just say the L-word? No, no. I meant to say like. It's not the L-word yet. How could it be? We've only been dating a few weeks. Every single woman worth her romantic salt knows you can't say the L-word until he does.

Note to self: Do not even think the L-word. Otherwise, might blurt out unexpectedly at inopportune time.

Alex continued with our movie-addict game, seemingly unaware of my romantic inner turmoil. "Okay, Miss Movie Lover, which actress holds the record for the most Academy Award nominations?"

Now it was my turn for a smug smile. "For years, that honor was held by Miss Katharine Hepburn, with twelve nominations. Meryl Streep bypassed her a few years back. But the great Kate still holds the record for the most Best Actress Oscars--four."

"Didn't she win for Guess Who's Coming to Dinner with Spencer Tracy?"

I nodded but was thinking, Spencer . . . the perfect segue. Maybe now I could finally pin Alex down on his background.

Though not exactly the strong, silent type, my gorgeous date had proved remarkably reserved--evasive, even--in supplying personal information. And I had to admit I was curious.

I knew he was rich and successful--heir to the Spencer publishing dynasty, no less. He'd been a big corporate muckety-muck before deciding to downscale and become a small-town newspaperman--in my hometown of Barley, California, no less.

I also knew he'd been raised in England but wasn't really English. That bit of mystery had slipped out in conversation with my niece. But he'd never mentioned it again.

I absolutely knew he was a good Christian man--woohoo!--with an athletic build, beautiful dark eyes with killer lashes, and delicious, kissable lips. He was one of the few people I'd ever met who knew more about movies than me. Beyond that . . . well, I just needed to know. And what was the point of being a reporter if I couldn't ask questions?

"Speaking of Spencer," I began innocently, spreading low-fat cream cheese on my bagel. "I've been wondering . . . what's your favorite color? And, uh, when's your birthday?" Then, quickly--"Oh, and what was your childhood like?"

His dark eyebrows lifted beneath his curly Jude Law hair. "That's three questions--none of them relating to movies."

"True. But I figure it's high time I learned a little more about you, Mr. Close to the Vest." I licked cream cheese from my fingers. "It's really not fair. You already know all about me--born and raised in Barley, joined the air force, got my journalism degree, worked in Cleveland and now California. But what about you, O corporate man of the world?"

Alex started to respond, but I interrupted him with a teasing smile. "Wait. Let me guess; you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth to a family of old money in New York. Or Connecticut--which would account for your upper-crust diction. And your grandmother was English, which is why you spent time there growing up."

Or maybe it was your whole family, and they own half of the British--

Alex took another bite of cinnamon roll and wiped icing from his mouth.

Darn, I'd been hoping to take care of that for him. There can't be too many calories in one lick, right?

". . . was born in a blue-collar area of Pittsburgh, and the spoon was wooden, not silver. My mom cleaned houses, and my father was a steelworker--when he worked, that is."

I gaped at him. "But then how did you wind up rich and in England?" My inner Emily Post sighed. You can dress her up, but you can't take her out. "Sorry. I mean . . ."

He guffawed. "Don't apologize. That's one of the things I really like about you, Phoebe. You just say what you're thinking. I wish more people would."

Really like? I lingered over the first part of his sentence. With apologies to Sally Field, "really like" is just a step away from the Big L!

He went on, oblivious to my lovestruck trembling. "My father died when I was six. He was drunk and driving." A bitter note crept into his voice. "Of course he didn't have insurance, so that left Mom and me practically on the streets."

"I'm sorry, Alex." I reached over and touched his hand. "I had no idea."

No wonder we'd had an instant connection--beyond the whole movie thing, I mean. I'd lost my dad in high school.

Alex shrugged. "That was a lifetime ago--a lifetime I hardly remember. Mom became a live-in housekeeper to a wealthy English family, and when the son and heir came over for a visit, they fell in love." He smiled. "Quite the scandal, at first, but my stepfather is the kind of man who tends to get his way. Any rate, six months later they were married, and a year after that we moved to England. By that time, I was eleven and my parents had a baby." He slid me a sly grin. "I believe you know Cordelia."

My face flushed. "Don't remind me." When I first heard of Cordelia, I'd mistakenly assumed she was his girlfriend and had jumped to foolish conclusions.

But I was still confused. "If you had a different father, how come your last name's Spencer?"

"David Spencer was a far better father to me than my own dad had ever been." Alex's eyes darkened. "And a far better husband to my mother. He never once made me feel like an unwanted stepchild. So when he asked if I would like to become his son legally, there wasn't anything I wanted more. I've been a Spencer ever since."

Before I could go and get all mushy on him, he added with a grin, "And the Spencer publishing family has been swooping down and buying up struggling newspapers since I came into the fold. There's even talk they might start buying up entire towns now too."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not in this lifetime, George Bailey."

Shortly after Alex moved to our Central California valley town as the new owner and publisher--and therefore, my boss--of the Barley Bulletin, I'd jumped to yet another foolish conclusion. The town was trying to save my beloved Bijou movie house, so we'd been selling theater seats in a desperate fundraising attempt. But even if we'd sold every seat in the house, it still wouldn't have been enough to save the cherished building from the wrecking ball. Then someone anonymously rode to the rescue... --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.