British Bad Boys

Chapter One

Meg Stanton loved the smell of an English pub. That mixture of old blackened wooden beams and the centuries of beer spilled, drunk, and giggled over. If there was a moment that shouted, Yes, you’re in England, it wasn’t the glimpses of the Thames and London Bridge as she’d flown into Heathrow, it wasn’t Big Ben, the Parliament Buildings, or the London Eye, or even the views of the countryside she’d caught through the window of the train. No. It was walking into this quintessential scene of English life: the pub, with its quintessentially English name, The Royal Oak.

The bar itself was a long stretch of ancient, scarred oak that looked far from royal. Tables were scattered on the dark wooden floor as though tossed there. A handful of older men played darts in a corner and an Inglenook fireplace gaped from one end of the big room, a cozy size for roasting an ox in.

A lone bartender was speaking to somebody through a doorway that led, she assumed, to a kitchen, his broad back turned her way. She was no expert on the complexity of the English accent, but he sounded like he was from up north somewhere.

He turned and she caught sight of his face. And felt a rush of recognition flood her. Oh, my God, she thought. I’ve found him.

Uncompromising. That was the first word that sprang to mind when she saw him full on. His jaw was strong, the nose pugnacious, his brow smooth as though he didn’t spend a lot of time with it wrinkled in indecision. His eyes were straight on and clear. For a woman constantly racked with indecision, Meg was immediately drawn to his strength. His eyes were pale, but in this light and from this distance it was impossible to tell the color. Blue maybe, or gray. He looked rough and capable. A working man who could build things with his hands, or use them to defend his village from attack.

“With you in a mo’,” he said, and she nodded.

She stepped closer. While she waited, she continued to gaze about herself. There weren’t many patrons at three o’clock on a Thursday. Apart from the darts players, she noted a couple in the corner lingering over the remains of lunch. An older man in a cap read a newspaper and nursed a beer, and a lone younger man worked on a printed document of some kind.

Stenciled quotations adorned the plaster walls. She couldn’t pass words without reading them.

Work is the curse of the drinking class, Oscar Wilde.

Appropriately, that was stenciled above the dartboard. On the wall over the fireplace was: I drink no more than a sponge, Rabelais.

She spotted another, but it was hard to read because the lighting in that corner was dim. She squinted. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

A padded bench was attached to the wall and rectangular tables, perfect for one or two patrons, lined up in front of it. The vision came to her suddenly. A man’s death, there in the corner. She could see it as clearly as though she were witnessing the murder. She stood, entranced, and stared into that corner of dark deeds…

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die…

“Are you all right?” A deep voice pulled her back to the present. Meg realized that the gorgeous bartender was speaking to her, and the way he spoke made her realize he’d addressed her several times before wresting her attention.

“Sorry,” she said, the vision still so strong her fingers itched for a keyboard. “It was the blood.”

His slightly irritated expression vanished. He blinked. Looked past her to where she’d been staring, then back again. “Blood?”

“That table there in the corner. A patron sitting, dead, but no one notices in the din of a Friday night at the pub, not until blood drips.” She nodded. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Not a bullet wound, of course, too noisy. A knife. It must have been a knife.” She raised her hand, mimicking the motion of the murderer’s fisted hand wrapped around the knife hilt, up and under the ribs and then a sudden twist to make sure death was quick and silent enough that no one would notice in a busy pub. The flash of red on her own fingers distracted her for a second until she remembered she’d treated herself to a mani and pedi before setting out on her adventure.

Every writer had her superstitions, her tricks for kick-starting a recalcitrant muse. One of Meg’s-and she’d tried them all recently-was a manicure. There was something about perfectly manicured fingernails dancing across a keyboard that appealed to her. She loved doing a job properly, believed in keeping her tools in good working order. Her brain she fed with good food, books, and poetry. Her writing computer was not hooked up to the Internet, keeping it virus free and unpolluted by promises of a larger penis or a lottery win in Nigeria.

And her hands she pampered because they did the yeoman’s work of writing. She had a special set of exercises to keep them supple and ward off the dreaded carpal tunnel syndrome, she bought wonderful almond-scented hand lotion to keep the skin soft, and she kept her nails polished and buffed, the way a race car driver might polish his car. Her brain was the engine, but it was her hands doing the work.

The pedicure she’d had simply for indulgence. Meg believed in small indulgences. She worked hard, and in the last few years she’d been able to enjoy quite a few of the fruits of her labors, so she could afford a little pampering.

Maybe a lot of pampering.

The dark-haired man behind the bar had given the table she motioned to a quick glance and then transferred his gaze back to her face. He didn’t look at her as though she were a lunatic. He seemed more…intrigued. Up close she noticed the shadow of beard stubble and a single chicken pox scar at the corner of his right eye. Black eyelashes a woman would kill for, eyes that were keen, intelligent.

“What does he look like, the man?”

Meg glanced at the gorgeous bartender-no, she thought they called them publicans here-with approval. Excellent question. She closed her eyes for a moment and then saw him. The victim. “Salt and pepper hair, close cropped. A tiny moustache, kept well-trimmed, discreet. He’s vain, but tidy with it. His clothing is somber but expensive. Yes, expensive.”

“You’ve got the sight then, have you?”

No, she realized now, his accent wasn’t from the north of England but from Ireland. Softened to a slight lilt, she guessed, by years in this country. And that’s where he’d come by the extraordinary combination of that black hair with the blue eyes, for she was close enough now to see that they were a wonderful cross between bright blue and slate gray.

“I have a kind of sight,” she admitted.

“I’m sure there’s many a ghost around here. The pub’s been here half a millennium.”

He could have said five hundred years. But half a millennium sounded so poetic. Especially the way he rolled the words with that soft, deep voice. He was so perfect she wanted to kiss him. She dug into her bag for the paper and pen she carried everywhere. Her hands were tingling with the need to get this down while it was fresh.

“Do you mind if I sit down and take a few notes?”

“Not at all.”

She walked to the table where the murder had happened, sat across from where the victim had enjoyed his last pint. Yes, she thought, a pint of Guinness. No, he was too fussy for that. She suspected he watched his weight.

“What do you call the half-pints of Guinness?” she asked the barman.

“A glass? Do you fancy one?”

“Hmmm?” She glanced at him vaguely, his question intruding on the words she needed to set down. “Oh, no, thank you.” But she couldn’t sit here and have nothing. “But I’d like a pot of tea, please.”

Then she began to write.

And write. When she had the scene down and the heat of inspiration had cooled, she found she’d filled half a dozen pages of her notebook and her hand was pleasantly tired. She flexed her fingers.

She glanced around, realizing that time had passed. The lunch couple were gone, and a few more patrons had arrived. She was aware of a couple of curious glances, but whether they were due to the fact that she was a stranger or because she’d been scribbling madly, she had no idea.

The bartender caught her gaze and walked over.

“You’ve not touched your tea. I’ll fetch you a fresh pot.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, lifting her head and smiling at him. She hadn’t even noticed the tea. She’d been in her own world, or at least that of the story. She felt dizzy with delight. Six handwritten pages wasn’t much, but it was the first six decent pages she’d managed in months. She wasn’t one to tempt fate, but she began to feel hopeful that her unexpected drought was over.

She was reading over what she’d written, scratching out a line here, adding a sharper adjective there, when he returned with a fresh pot of tea.

“Thanks,” she said, adding milk and sugar and then pouring.

“When do you think he lived, the poor murdered man?” he asked her, nodding his head toward the chair where Manfred Waxman had breathed his last.

“Oh, he’s contemporary,” she said.

The dark brows rose. “How contemporary?”

She laughed suddenly. “I am so sorry. You must think I’m nuts. I’m not psychic.” She paused. “At least, not very. I’m a writer. Fiction. I made him up. I saw him sitting there, and the blood, and I knew I had the victim for my next novel.”

“Ah,” he said, seeming a little disappointed. “I was hoping for a ghost.”

“You like ghosts?”

“Well, it would make the quiet times more interesting.”

She looked at him and found him even more attractive than the last time she’d seen his face. The angles were so strong. His skin was swarthy; she bet it would be tough and leathery to the touch. He wasn’t even handsome in the acknowledged movie star way. What he had was magnetism. Amazing animal magnetism, the kind that would lead a woman to do very foolish things.

“You write murder mysteries, then?”

“Yes.” She sighed with pure bliss and sipped her tea, strong and hot as only the English could make it. “I can’t tell you what a relief it was to find my victim.”

“Is that the hardest part? The victim?”

“No. The hardest part is the villain.” This probably wasn’t the moment to tell him that she thought she’d found her villain in this out-of-the-way country pub, too.

“Really?”

He appeared more than politely interested and the pub was nearly empty, so she told him. “A villain is the crux of a murder mystery. Especially one like mine. A maniacal, cruel, serial killer. He or she has to be attractive, subtle, devious, and deadly. You want the readers to identify with him enough that they become truly gripped.”

“The reader identifies with the people trying to catch the killer, surely?”

“Who’s the most interesting character in The Silence of the Lambs? For me it’s Hannibal.” She shrugged. “When I’m writing, the villain is the key.” And as she stared into that deeply magnetic face with those stunning eyes, she began to be very glad she’d come into the pub. There was something tough, uncompromising, and somehow dangerous about this man. She had not only discovered her victim, but she had a strong sense that her villain was gazing at her now. A tiny shiver of excitement, apprehension-hell, maybe it was glee-traveled across her skin. “When I figure out who he is, I’ll be able to really get going.”

“Are you staying in the neighborhood?”

“Yes.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I’m staying at Stag Cottage. I came in here to pick up the keys.”

“And found a bloody corpse.”

She started to laugh. “I’m so glad I came here.”

“So’m I.” And he sent her a glittering half smile that made her thankful she was sitting down so he wouldn’t notice that he’d made her knees tremble. Dark, brooding, intense. There was something about him that made her vision of murder fade and something equally visual take its place. She envisioned hot, sweaty, high-octane sex, arms and legs tangled. His skin tawny, his hair so black against her own pale skin and light brown hair.

His eyes were staring into hers and she felt that he shared the intense awareness. She forced herself to break eye contact and take refuge in her tea.

“You must be Ms. Stanton?”

“Meg Stanton, that’s right.”

“Arthur Denby. Welcome to Ponsford.” He held out his hand and she shook it. Arthur, she thought. Noble, resourceful, a warrior king. It fit him, though she wasn’t sure the sexually predatory Lancelot wouldn’t have suited the man better.

He strode back behind the bar and returned with a set of keys on a disappointingly modern-looking key ring. “Come on, then. If you’re ready, I’ll take you over.”

“Oh. I’m sure I can manage.” She didn’t want him in her living space until that insistent picture of them together could be excised from her mind. For all she knew, the guy had a wife and six kids living upstairs, the kids washing glasses and the missus ironing his shirts while he lorded it over his domain down here.

“There are a few things I need to show you.”

“Okay.” She glanced around. He was the only bartender. “Do you want me to wait until it’s more convenient?”

“Now’s fine.” He turned to the young guy with the printout. “Joe, I’m going to show this lady to Stag Cottage. Can you watch things for half an hour?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Cheers.”

They walked out together and Arthur said, “Have you got a car?”

“No. I thought about renting one, but I’m here to work, not sightsee.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“At the train station. I walked over.”

“Right. Come on then, Stag Cottage is across the way.”

The sun was sudden and warm after the dim light in the pub. The stone walls glowed golden and the great estate on which her cottage was located was as elegant as a dream. Hart House, seen in context, looked even better than the pictures she’d viewed on the Internet.

There was no traffic on the narrow road, so they crossed it together. She liked the way Arthur walked, his long limbs swinging with confidence. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that advertised no band, no cause, no brand-name clothes maker. She got the feeling that this man was nobody’s billboard.

She tucked that notion away as an excellent detail to give her villain.

“How long are you staying?” he asked as they reached the road’s dusty shoulder.

“Three months.”

“To write your book?”

“Yes. I really hope to have a first draft written by then.” A complete first draft. Not bits and pieces of chapters that went nowhere.

“This is the short way, across the fields. If you’d a car we’d have gone around by the road.” As he spoke he gestured to a stile. An honest-to-goodness stile. She felt like a heroine out of Jane Austen as she stepped up and over and into the public footpath on the other side. Late-summer sunshine spread like butter across the fields.

And the tiny stone house sat there like a perfect retreat from the world.

“And there’s Stag Cottage.”

Her heart flipped over. She actually felt it somersault in her chest. The cottage was so perfect-exactly what a cottage should be, built of warm stone, with a thatched roof. She wanted to hug the place. Her senses were stirring and the mild panic that had traveled across the ocean with her relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, her crazy idea was going to work.

Chapter Two

Arthur Denby opened the door for her with the key, and she stepped inside. And she knew. If she hadn’t already had a pretty big hint in the pub, she knew that she’d find her story here.

“This is so perfect,” she breathed.

“Ever set a book in England before?”

She turned to stare at him. “No,” she said slowly. “This is the first time.” How stupid-it wasn’t until he’d asked the question that she’d realized her book was going to be set in England.

She wanted to walk right up to Arthur and kiss him. Not because he was gorgeous and sexy and about to be written into her book as an irresistible villain, but because he’d saved her wasting any more time in the wrong setting. She’d come to England thinking her book would take place in the Puget Sound.

Nope. Britain all the way. She must have known. Somewhere inside her she must have known the solution, so she was receptive that day she was idling on the Internet looking for inspiration, and she’d come across the Web site that featured Hart House and its visitors’ accommodation in Stag Cottage.

She put down her bag, containing her laptop, passport, and wallet. The essentials. Everything else, including her toothbrush, was at the train station, but she already felt at home. In fact, she couldn’t wait to get started.

“I’ll show you how to use the cooker,” he said, pointing to the oven in the small galley kitchen. She tried to follow what he was saying, but instead she found herself watching his hands when he lit the pilot light. Such capable hands. Such sensual hands. Oh, he’d know his way around a woman’s body, this one. He exuded sexual power.

They could kill, too, those hands. Somehow she knew that. He wouldn’t waste time on moral dithering. If someone he loved was threatened, if he felt he had no choice, he’d kill.

He’d have even less compunction making his interest in a woman clear. She doubted he’d often been told no.

“I’ll take you upstairs now,” he said, and she thought he’d listened in on her thoughts. She almost said “It’s a little soon” before she realized he was still playing tour guide.

“Sure, okay.”

Up they went. She followed him and felt the quiver of awareness. Oh, he filled out a pair of jeans nicely. She told herself to stop ogling the guy’s butt, but where else was she supposed to look? Besides, she was a woman who believed in life’s little luxuries, and this was surely one of them.

Just because she looked didn’t mean she had to touch. And until this book was written, she reminded herself, looking was all she’d be doing.

The staircase was narrow, the walls rough plaster, wonderfully old and atmospheric.

There were two bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom. The largest bedroom contained a big, comfy bed with a chintz-covered duvet in lavenders and greens. The walls were palest yellow, the ceiling sloped, and a dormer window overlooked the fields and the immense grandeur of Hart House.

When Arthur stood in her bedroom and explained about the heat register, she could barely concentrate. He was looking at her, talking about the electric heat, but there was an entirely different heat stirring the air. She felt it coming off his body, from the eyes that looked at her so keenly.

She felt such an intense physical reaction to this man who was a complete stranger that she took refuge in looking out of the window. There was a river on the other side of the big house and she could imagine herself tramping all over the area on the many footpaths as she wrestled with her story. In the distance she could see sheep moving slowly, like scattered clouds.

“It’s a lovely part of the country,” he said from behind her.

“Yes, yes it is. But I’m here to work,” she reminded both of them.

They clomped back down the stairs and he handed her the keys. “The number of the pub is by the phone. My home number is there as well, if you need anything.”

Was it her imagination or had he put the slightest emphasis on the last bit?

He was the most appealing man she’d met in a long time, but she didn’t have the time, not while her deadline was breathing down her neck. So she sent him her blandest smile.

“There are a few staples in the cupboards, but if you plan to cook tonight, you’ll need to get to the shops. The ones in town close at five. There’s a Sainsbury’s-that’s an American-style supermarket. It’s open until seven, but it’s a drive.”

“Any chance of home delivery or takeout meals?”

“Not in the village. There’s the King George Café-does a nice breakfast, lunch and cream tea, but it’s not open for dinner-or there’s the pub.”

“Right. I guess I’ll see you for dinner, then.”

“You’ll see me before that.”

Her brows rose.

“I’ll fetch your bags from the station.”

“Oh, there’s no need, I can-”

“It’s all part of the service.”

She took the keys he held out. “Thanks.”

She allowed herself the luxury of watching him walk back across the fields, watching the long gait, the easy stride of a man at home in the country. She told herself it wasn’t lust gluing her gaze to his retreating back, but research. When he got to the stile, he turned and lifted a hand. As though he’d known she’d be watching him. Which she had, damn it, she thought, waving back.

Okay, lady, she said to herself, time to write. The tingling in her fingertips that had never quite gone away since she’d had her vision in the pub now warred with a slight queasiness in her stomach that she knew was nerves.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out her laptop, placing it on the sturdy oak kitchen table. The kitchen chairs were also oak, though they appeared to be a later vintage than the table. They were also hard.

At home she had an ergonomic desk and a chair with about seventeen levers and knobs to adjust height, angle, and amount of lumbar support. She shook her head at herself as she found a cushion on the sofa in the lounge area, as Arthur had called it, and placed the flattish square cushion covered in green brocade on the kitchen chair. She faced the window and the view of the fields with the big house in the background.

A bit of crawling around on her hands and knees and a minor amount of swearing later, and she had her adapter plugged into the English socket. The computer seemed perfectly happy with the new system, powering up with a reassuring whir.

She sat down. Opened a new file, flexed her fingers as though she were a pianist about to perform at Carnegie Hall. Typed Chapter One.

Then she sat against the hard wooden back of the kitchen chair and pondered the murder in the pub.

She pulled out the six pages and typed in what she’d written, adding details as she went.

The pub was busy. It was a Friday night. She imagined a lot of laughing, the thunk of darts hitting the dartboard, the end-of-the-workweek letting loose as the place filled up and the pints went down. The restaurant would be kept busy. Patrons as thick around the long bar as seagulls around a fishing boat. And, in the dim corner, the man in the expensive dark suit drinking his beer slowly. Was he waiting for someone? Or was it a surprise when the tall figure sank down beside him on the long upholstered bench?

A surprise, she decided. Her victim did not know his killer. She described the knife briefly. It wasn’t elegant or showy. It was an unadorned stiletto: a tool of death. Nothing more. It was the hand holding the knife that fascinated her. The long, sensual fingers curled round the hilt. It was a man’s hand. He wore no ring, but the fingernail of the thumb was ridged as though it had been smashed and had regrown in a strange manner.

Meg felt the moment that the knife moved. It wasn’t a simple matter to stab a man to death in a public place. He needed strength, her villain, as well as guile and an amazing self-confidence. She saw all three come together in the way he watched for his moment, then took it, muscles bunching in his arm, the suppressed grunt of effort, the gasp of shock from the victim, and the quiet sigh as his last breath was expelled.

By the time Manfred Waxman slumped to the table, stabbed through the heart, the villain had pocketed his knife and was making his way to the door before the first drop of blood hit the floor.

She heard the pub door open, and shut. Then the villain sauntered down the village high street as though he were a man on his way home after a couple of pints. She felt the knife in his pocket, as though her own fingers touched the blade, still wet with a dead man’s blood.

When a hand touched her shoulder she jumped a mile. She’d have screamed if her heart hadn’t jammed in her throat, preventing her from making a sound. She swung around to find Arthur looking down at her in some amusement.

“I’ve never seen anyone go into a trance the way you do. I knocked on the door, and then I called. I could see you in here through the window so finally I let myself in. Sorry I startled you.”

She put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound. She needed a minute before she could speak.

“I really frightened you,” he said in a concerned tone. “You’re trembling.”

He touched her hand and she jerked back instinctively. His thumbnail was ridged. “What happened to your thumb?”

He took his hand back and looked down at the misshapen nail. “I banged it with a hammer a couple of months back. Terrible looking thing, I know.”

“It’s weird because my murderer has a thumbnail exactly like that.” Of course, his misshapen thumbnail didn’t make Arthur a murderer. It meant she’d noticed his nail and it hadn’t registered consciously.

She shook her head. “Sorry. I scare myself when I’m writing. You crept up on me when the murderer was leaving the scene.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Writing your books frightens you?”

“Of course. If I didn’t scare myself I’d be worried. It would be like a comedy writer not getting her own jokes, or a cookbook writer not feeling hungry when she dreamed up recipes.”

He nodded, looking down at her with a thoughtful expression. “Better to end up laughing or eating a fine meal than trembling with fright, though.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes I get so scared when I’m writing that I can’t sleep.”

“What do you do then?”

“Keep writing. With every light burning and all the doors locked.”

“Well, I can assure you it’s safe round here, but if you’re ever bothered by anything, you can call me.” He gave her a rueful grin. “For a chat. I’m a light sleeper, myself. I live alone, so you’d not be disturbing anyone.”

“Thanks,” she said, hoping that she’d be strong enough to resist. Or at least strong enough not to phone him unless she was really, really scared. She wasn’t happy with herself for being so pleased that he’d casually let her know he slept alone.

“Shall I take your bags upstairs, then?”

“That would be great. I found some tea bags and everlasting milk. Do you want a cup?”

He hoisted her three bags with such ease she felt jealous, knowing her arms and shoulders would be sore tomorrow from hauling them on and off the train. “Better not. I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Okay.” She was relieved, of course, since she didn’t want to be interrupted now that the heat of the story was upon her, and she’d only asked out of politeness. But now that he’d turned her down, she wished he was staying, instead of abandoning her with no one but a murderer for company.

Hunger pangs, eye strain, and jet lag finally dragged her out of her story. A glance at the watch she’d already set to local time told her it was seven.

She prepared to head back to the scene of the murder.

Chapter Three

Arthur didn’t admit to himself he’d been watching for the new tenant of Stag Cottage until the door opened and in she walked, the eccentric author who seemed to spend a great deal of time in her own world, deaf and blind to real life being lived under her nose.

Her hair flowed over her shoulders, glorious, the color of wheat right before harvest. Rich with gold and biscuity browns. She’d changed into a dark green sleeveless jumper, a black skirt that showed off a very nice pair of legs, and leather sandals. She’d applied makeup, he noticed, since he last saw her. She glanced around as she walked in, not shy exactly, but unsure.

He waved to get her attention and she sent him a smile that might be all about relief at seeing a familiar face, but which nevertheless got his blood up. She was much too pretty for her own good. Or his.

“How’s the writing going?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the din.

“Fantastic. I have a very good feeling about writing here.” She’d done more than change her clothes, he noted. Her hair was shiny and slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes were hazel. Big and round and thoughtful. She had a glossy magazine smile, fine skin, and a few freckles.

“What can I get you?”

“Red wine, please.”

He poured it for her and set her glass in front of her. “Everybody comes up here eventually. I’ll introduce you round, if you like. Or are you here for absolute peace and quiet?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I was. I’d have stayed home with the cans of soup and crackers in the cupboard.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone in town will be a nuisance. We get plenty of toffs-George’s friends-coming through. And film and telly stars, of course, since the castle’s been used for everything from toothpaste commercials to costume dramas.”

“Well, that’s a big relief.” She held up her glass in a silent toast and sipped. He served a few more drinks, keeping half an eye on her. He could have sworn she was off in her own world again, but when he had time to mop up a spill, he found her chatting happily to Edgar Nolan, who ran the tobacconist’s shop across the way. Edgar was an old widower, harmless, but he could bore the eyebrows off a beetle given half the chance.

George and Maxine wandered up to the bar. “Bugger me, if you don’t get uglier every time I see you,” the lord of the manor said to him.

“You can sit yourself outside with the rest of the lager louts,” Arthur responded. Having proven their mutual respect and esteem, Arthur turned to Max. “Hallo, gorgeous. When are you going to give him the shove and run away with me?”

“How’s Friday for you?” Max asked. But her hand never left George’s. If he’d ever seen two people crazier about each other, he couldn’t remember it.

He grinned at her. “What can I get you, luv?”

“Do you have those little bottles of champagne?”

“Of course,” he said, hauling one out. He didn’t bother asking George, just pulled him a pint. Probably because he’d been ribbed so mercilessly as a teenager, Lord Ponsford had learned early to prefer beer to anything posh. Knowing they’d soon find friends and disappear into the crowd, Arthur said, “Come and meet the new tenant of Stag Cottage. Another Yank.”

George cocked an eyebrow.

Maxine was predictably thrilled to find that their temporary tenant was American. George did his charming lord-of-the-manor routine, then sent Arthur a glance that conveyed definite approval. Yeah, keep away, dirty dog, was what he telegraphed back.

Already, Maxine was catching up on news from home. Politics and celebrity gossip seemed equally fascinating. While they were at it, he and George discussed how they were going to annihilate their opponents next Saturday on the football pitch, in their local over-thirty league.

“I’m starving,” Maxine said. “Meg, will you join us for dinner?”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, really, I insist. I want to know what the Supreme Court is up to. Not to mention the latest on Jennifer Aniston. Hello! is great if you need to know about Liz Hurley or the Beckhams, but I feel like I’m losing touch with home.”

“You were in Los Angeles two months ago,” George reminded her.

“You don’t understand, honey.”

Maxine turned to Arthur, as he’d half known she would. Maxine already knew him too well and took as keen an interest in his affairs as his sister did. “Come and take a dinner break,” she ordered him.

If he didn’t want to eat dinner with Meg as much as Maxine knew he did, he’d be annoyed. But Maxine was right-he did. So he shrugged and said, “I’ll see.” Which, of course, Max being Max, she took as a yes.

“Great.” She turned to Meg. “We order off the board here. I can recommend everything, but my favorites are the shepherd’s pie and the lasagna-meat or vegetarian.”

Meg, who he suspected was feeling the effects of international travel followed by a good few hours spent murdering people, looked a little dazed. “Vegetarian lasagna sounds good to me.”

When they’d ordered, George took them away to settle at a table. She fit right in with them, Arthur thought. Already Meg and Maxine were on the friendliest terms. A lot of people were intimidated by George’s title and all the pomp that surrounded him, at least until they got to know him. But he could tell Meg wasn’t like that. He suspected every man would have to prove himself in her eyes. Prince or pauper.

He waited until the food was up to take his break, reasoning that Meg hadn’t asked for his company and she’d made it fairly clear she wasn’t looking for any action. At least, not on her first day here. Give her a week or so to acclimatize and he might see if he could interest his temporary neighbor in a possible holiday fling.

The dinner rush was ending and Joe was on with a couple of waitresses, so Arthur picked up the tray of food and delivered it, serving himself today’s special: chicken Kiev.

“Oh, my God,” Maxine squealed as soon as he sat down. “I can’t believe you’re Meg Stanton.” She looked at Arthur and George in turn. “I love her books.” She shook a carrot stick at Meg. “You have kept me awake way too many nights.”

He could tell from the pleased and rather smug look on her face that Meg thought a sleepless reader was a high compliment.

“So you’re famous?” He’d accepted that she was a writer without ever thinking she might be well known. Well, he’d never heard of her, but that didn’t mean much.

“No-”

“Yes,” Max interrupted. “She’s totally famous in the States. Maybe not so much here. But I’m sure that will change. I thought your last book was your best yet.”

“Is it a chick read?” George wanted to know.

Maxine rolled her eyes. “Lots of men read her novels. My dad is a huge fan.”

Arthur had wondered the same thing, whether the lady was writing for her own kind, but he wasn’t going to have his nose snapped off. “I’ll have to track down one of your books.”

“I can lend you one. I think I’ve got them all,” Maxine said with pride. “In fact, while you’re here, maybe you could sign them for me?”

“I’d be delighted,” Meg replied.

“I can’t believe this. I know, I’m gushing. But I am such a fan. I’ve read every one of your books.”

“Really? Which is your favorite?” Meg paused and put her fork down, obviously taking this seriously.

“I have two favorites. I can never decide whether I like the one about the wife who murders her adulterous husband, and then decides to rid her city of all cheating men-oh, and those guys totally got what they deserved. It was so deliciously gory. Or the woman who was abandoned by her father, and after she tracks him down and kills him-well, I don’t want to give any more away.”

“Men don’t do so well in your novels,” Arthur commented.

“I’ve had lots of different kinds of killers,” Meg told him. “And victims.” She sent him an odd look. “My current killer is definitely male.”

“Mmm.” Maxine nodded with enthusiasm. “Those two are my favorites, Arthur. But you can come up to the house and choose whichever you like.”

He was fascinated. He’d had a glimpse of how this woman worked; it would be interesting to see what her books were like. And if he could see her in them.

Maxine was enough of a fan, and she missed her home enough, that he and George didn’t say much. Fine with him. He wanted to know more about Meg, and he enjoyed watching her. He liked her quick intelligence and the thoughtful way she answered questions she must have been asked hundreds of times.

When Joe appeared a little overwhelmed, he excused himself.

George soon found an excuse to sidle up to the bar. “I haven’t seen you that smitten since Keira Knightley came into the pub.”

“Do me a favor, George?”

“Drop dead? Mind my own business? Do something vulgar to myself that will no doubt involve my bottom?”

“Walk Meg home.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s new here and I think a little scared of the dark. I’d appreciate it if you and Maxine would walk her right to her door on your way home.”

George stared at him as though he’d gone mad. “Wouldn’t you rather walk her home yourself?”

Of course he would, but the woman had jet lag and he wasn’t in the mood to make a fool of himself.

“Too busy. And she’s exhausted, can’t you see it?” Her eyes had that smudged look and her smiling response to what was obviously Maxine’s continued gushing was becoming mechanical.

“Yes, of course. Should have seen it myself. Can’t have the tenants dropping dead of fatigue. At least, not before they’ve paid the rent. Right. I’ll try and get her away from her most enthusiastic fan.”

“Cheers.”

With George’s usual social dexterity, he had the women on their feet and headed out the door before Maxine had quite realized she was leaving.

Arthur was gratified to see Meg turn as they reached the door and search him out. Across the noise and bodies, their gazes met and held for one of those timeless moments. When you’ve had a good sleep, he promised her silently, you’ll be hearing from me.

In an instant she was gone.

Chapter Four

The banging on the door pulled Meg out of an intricate scene. It was like a chess game, keeping so many things in her head and trying to see several moves ahead. She felt almost as murderous as her villain when she stomped to the door and yanked it open.

“What?” Then the scowl dropped off her face. “Oh, Maxine. I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry to bother you like this, but your phone’s not working.”

“Yes, it is. I unplugged it. I always do when I’m working.”

“God, I’m sorry. I’ve disturbed you.”

Well, that was the truth, but there was something about Maxine that made her impossible not to like. Besides, she had purchased all of Meg’s books. In hardcover, Meg was sure. So she forced a smile to her face and pushed her hair out of the way. “It’s good to see you. Do you want some tea?”

“No. But you look like you could use some. In fact,” her new friend said with devastating frankness, “you look like hell.”

“I probably do.” Meg was pretty sure she’d showered this morning, but she had no idea what she was wearing, if or what she’d eaten today, or even what day it was. She grinned. “The book’s going really well.”

“Then I’d hate to see you when it’s not. Look. Have you eaten lunch?”

“I’m not sure.” She glanced at the kitchen, looking for hints. There was a cup with a tag hanging out-that was the herbal green tea from breakfast. Whatever else she’d eaten was a mystery. She’d cleaned up after herself.

“Tell you what. I’ll come in and make you lunch and a cup of tea. I’m not staying, but you really look like you could use a meal.”

Meg blinked. She felt disoriented, as though she’d been ill or in solitary confinement, which, come to think of it, she had. Self-imposed solitary confinement. She followed Maxine into the kitchen.

“So I came to invite you to watch the boys play soccer tomorrow,” Maxine said, “and come to dinner at our place after.”

“Boys? I didn’t know you had kids.”

Maxine laughed. A good, rich sound. “Big boys. George and Arthur, among others. They play soccer two Saturdays a month. Overgrown schoolboys who still like to run around in shorts and push each other into the mud. I thought we’d have a few people back for dinner.”

“By your place, I assume you mean the castle?”

“Not a castle, honey. A house. And if you ever figure out how a five-hundred-year-old pile of stone with hundreds of rooms doesn’t count as a castle, you let me know.” While she talked, she bustled about the small kitchen and Meg was still too stunned to stop her. She realized she’d become a little obsessed, so driven to work while the writing was going well that she’d lost touch with the world.

“So? Can you tear yourself away?” Maxine was opening the tiny fridge and poking in cupboards.

“I don’t know. Is amateur soccer something I’d enjoy watching?”

Maxine glanced up from her position crouched on the floor. “Between us? They look hot as hell.”

“I’m not sure-”

Maxine rose. “You have no food in this place and the milk’s sour. I am staging an intervention. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get you some lunch.”

“The café?”

“The castle.”

“I thought it wasn’t a castle.”

“Quit stalling. Come on.”

“I need to back up my files. And comb my hair.” She glanced down at herself. “And change my clothes.”

“I’ll wait.”

Meg glanced longingly at her computer. What if she left and the muse took off, too? Could she take that chance? “If I paid you fifty bucks would you leave?”

“Not a chance. Guests who work themselves to death don’t give the place the right ambience.”

“Okay.” She sighed heavily but there wasn’t much heat behind the gesture. She had to back up her files first on the device she kept on her key chain. It went everywhere with her, in case her house burned down when she was out. She had a secondary backup system, of course.

When she sat down to back up, she noticed she’d left a sentence half finished. She hated doing that, so she finished the sentence. And then she was worried that she’d forget where the scene was going. Maybe she could get in a couple of paragraphs before Maxine noticed…

The hand waving in front of her face startled her. “Whaa…?”

She turned to find Maxine staring at her and shaking her head. “You were somewhere completely different. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so scared I’ll lose the momentum. You don’t know how long it’s been since the writing’s flowed like this.” She inhaled and noticed a wonderful aroma of food. Real, cooked food that hadn’t come out of a can or box. She looked around and noticed a tray sitting on the low table in front of the couch. “How did you…? I thought we were going to the castle for lunch.”

“I lost you. After I called your name twice and you didn’t answer, I figured you were going to be a dud for lunch company. And you seemed so happy typing away that I walked over to the pub. It’s today’s lunch special. Vegetable soup, a Cornish pasty and salad. Now you sit down and eat while I make some tea.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not staying. I’ve got some things to do. I really only came over to invite you for tomorrow. And I’m picking you up, by the way, so you don’t end up forgetting.”

Meg knew she should feel guilty, and in fact she did, but she decided to simply be grateful for the food delivery instead. The soup was incredible. The Cornish pasty, a pastry-wrapped meat dish, was delicious and filling. By the time the tea was ready, she’d forked down the last of the salad and was feeling all the contentment of enjoying her first decent meal in days.

“Please stay and have some tea with me. I could use the company.”

“Won’t I interrupt your work?”

“No. I was getting a little crazy there.”

“Okay,” Maxine said, looking pleased.

Meg blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes.

“Is it always like this for you? Writing nonstop for days?” Maxine asked, pouring tea and passing it.

“Almost never. That’s why I’m scared to quit. It’s a case of whatever’s working…” She sipped her tea. “I’m a pretty organized person, and I have a fully equipped office in my home in Seattle with a wonderful reference library. I’ve written thirteen books there without a hitch. Inspiration comes to me when I’m already at work. Sure, I’ll get a spell where I can’t type fast enough to keep up with the story. Oh, those days are the best. And I have been known to write all night when the mood is on me. But with this book”-she nodded toward the computer, where the cursor winked at her coyly-“nothing was working. This trip was really desperation. And almost from the first day I got here, I’ve had that sense of urgency. The story’s suddenly bursting to be told. It’s amazing.”

She sipped more tea.

“Did you know you’d write better in England?”

“No. That’s the scary thing. I was so desperate. I had no idea I’d write here at all. I wanted to get away for personal reasons.”

“How did you find us?” Maxine asked.

“Your Web site.”

A cat’s-got-the-cream smile curled her new friend’s lips. “The Web site was my idea. I’m working all the time on new markets and profit centers for this place.”

“It’s wonderful. I’ll certainly recommend it to my friends and acquaintances.”

“Excellent. So.” Maxine settled back and tucked her feet under her. “Tell me about this guy?”

Meg laughed. “How did you know it was a guy?”

Maxine sighed. “Isn’t it always? Who was he?”

Did she want to talk about this? Strangely enough, for the first time in months, Meg found she did. “He was another writer. A good writer, too, but not very successful. It’s not easy to find interesting, attractive men who are also literate.”

Maxine snorted. “Been there.”

“I was fooled by the packaging, I guess, and saw what I wanted to see. He taught college English and wore tweedy coats with elbow patches. He smoked a pipe. You know the type.”

“I fell in love with an art prof exactly like that.”

“Well, I was a fool. I didn’t realize he was jealous of me until I let him start critiquing my work. He’d be so helpful, showing me all my weaknesses, pulling my scenes to shreds, poking holes in my plots, questioning my character motivations. I never realized he was destroying my confidence until I found myself struggling in a way I hadn’t struggled before.”

“Pompous-assed little weasel.”

“Yep.” She stared down into her tea, frowning. This part was hard. “I finally called him on it. I told him I wasn’t going to let him read my work anymore. It was interfering with my confidence. He called me spoiled and manipulative. That made me mad, so I yelled at him that he was jealous.” She shook her head. “Big mistake. Then he really let me have it. And the trouble with truly literate men is that they can destroy you with such beautiful, big words. We broke up, of course, and then these vicious reviews started appearing online. All with false names, or maybe he was getting his students to write them. Who knows? I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t write.” She made a face. “I ran away.”

“And what a good thing you did. That asshole is history and you can write here.”

“That’s true.” Meg leaned back and let her gaze roam the comfy cottage, take in the fields outside. A rabbit hopped across the grass in front of the French doors. “I feel free again. I’m having more fun writing than I’ve had in a couple of years.”

“Excellent.” Maxine beamed at her. “Maybe we can advertise a resident writer’s muse among the many other benefits of a holiday at Stag Cottage.”

Meg laughed. “I’m not sure muses work that way, but what do I know? This is a magic spot for me, though, that’s certain.”

“I’m glad you’re here. It’s great to have somebody from home to talk to.”

Somehow, Maxine’s visit broke the spell of urgency she’d been operating under. Meg had written more in the last week than she’d managed in months. And now that she’d been pulled out of her writing cave she felt stir crazy. When Maxine told her she was going into town if she needed anything, Meg begged a ride and had the fun of shopping in a British supermarket, looking at biscuits instead of cookies, crisps instead of potato chips, and discovering there were kinds of apples she’d never heard of. Her senses seemed starved after too many days indoors, so she spent time hovering over the Cox’s Red Pippins and the black currants, the grapes and melons and figs. She loaded up on fruit. And she bought cheese and fresh bread, veggies and chicken. Two bottles of French wine. And fresh flowers for the table, because she deserved them.

She discovered an Internet café, and while Maxine was at the post office she checked her e-mail, finding nothing urgent. A note from her agent about a book sale to Poland, a few fan letters, some chatty e-mails from friends, an invitation to join a panel in the fall at the Elliot Bay Book Company. Suddenly, she felt so far away from her regular life. But in a good way. She’d needed this break.

Once home, she put away the food and decided that a tramp around the countryside would do her good. The tray and the few dishes from the pub lunch were still on the table. She washed them and decided to begin her walk by dropping them off.

As she clambered over the stile and headed for the pub, she noticed her pulse was kicking up. She’d see her villain, her gorgeous/scary villain.

As it was, she saw Arthur sooner than she’d expected, nearly colliding with him as she rounded the corner. Only by amazing dexterity-and him having the sense to grab the soup bowl before it crashed to the ground-was disaster averted.

He looked even more dangerous somehow, when he wasn’t inside the pub. As though the lion had been let out of his cage. He’d be unpredictable. Unfettered.

Every time she saw him she experienced the shiver of attraction and the hint of danger. She’d assumed it was because she’d used him as the model for her villain.

But now she wasn’t so sure. There was something about him that made her very wary. She might write about dangerous men but in her life she preferred safe ones. The kind she could control. This man was not safe or controllable.

And she was far too glad to see him.

“I was starting to think you’d gone home,” he said, his voice as rich and rough as the Liffey River.

“No. I’ve been working.” She glanced up at him and admitted, “Maxine dragged me out today, and now I can’t seem to go back inside.” It was the weather, too, she decided. One of those days that was still warm, but with a hint of the coolness to come. There’d been some rain, she thought, in the last few days, but now it was clear and sunny. “I’m going to take a walk.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. Too much work isn’t good for a body. I’m taking a break myself.”

“Care to join me?” She said the words before she’d thought them through, before she realized she was thinking them.

There was the tiniest instant of silence, as though he were surprised, too, and then he said, “Yeah, all right. I’ll run these things inside.” He relieved her of the tray and dishes and was back, leaving her just enough time to beat herself up for asking him along.

They walked along the river, where there were miles and miles of footpath. “I hear from Max that you’re coming to watch the football tomorrow.”

“Yes. Maxine isn’t easy to say no to. She says she’s coming to pick me up so I don’t forget.”

“You don’t want to come?”

Was it her imagination or did he sound a little hurt? Oh, dear. She didn’t want him to think she was avoiding him. “No, of course I want to come.” But that sounded a bit too eager, didn’t it?

She made a grunty-groany sound she hoped indicated frustration. “It’s this book. It’s finally going well. I’m terrified to stop in case I can’t start again.”

“Lots of murder and horror?”

“I’m really getting to the good stuff now.”

He looked down at her, an expression almost of challenge on his face. “You haven’t called me in the middle of the night.”

Her stomach curled over, as though she were on the downhill rush of a roller coaster. She returned his gaze, feeling breathless. “I haven’t been scared enough.” Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she wondered how such a tough face could have such a sensuous mouth. “Yet.”

“I know a wonderful technique for chasing away fear,” he said softly, turning to face her. The river lapped quietly behind them, and a breeze ruffled the trees.

“You do?”

“Yes,” he said, and grasping her shoulders, he put his mouth on hers, soft and slow, but determined. She’d known it would happen, of course. She supposed she’d known it from the first second she’d seen him. His mouth was warm, so warm, his lips strong and agile. Her hands ended up on his shoulders, though she had no conscious thought of putting them there, so she felt the play of muscle, the warmth of his body.

He pulled away slowly, looking down at her as though he knew the single kiss had rocked her to her pedicured toenails.

“Desire,” he said. “That’ll keep your fear at bay.”

Oh, how wrong he was. Now she began to fear that this very inconvenient and impossible-to-stop attraction was going to totally screw up her work.

The author of a book couldn’t have sex with its villain.

Chapter Five

Meg was finger-combing the last dampness from her hair. She hadn’t been able to decide what to wear for dinner at the big house, and finally settled on a simple coffee-colored linen dress with chunky amber beads and earrings. Her heels were never going to make the tramp all ten miles or whatever it was up to the house, so she stuck on her walking shoes and carried her ridiculously high-heeled sandals in a shopping bag.

After days being cooped up with her muse, she was pretty excited to be going out.

A butler opened the heavy oak door to her. A real, honest-to-God butler. Oh, and wasn’t he straight out of central casting with his beaky nose, long face, and air of gentility.

She gave her name, and he looked discreetly off into the distance when she hastily changed her shoes, then relieved her of her shopping bag.

He trod with stately slowness down the flagstone hall. She almost expected him to announce her, like at a ball, but he merely opened a door and said, “You’ll find his lordship and Miss Maxine in here.”

“Thank you.”

She entered and saw not Maxine or George, or anyone except the tall, dark man standing beside the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel and a crystal glass winking amber in his hand. Arthur’s eyes warmed when he looked at her and she suddenly felt as breathless as she had in that moment right before he’d kissed her.

Then Maxine rose from her chair and came forward, breaking the spell.

“I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “George needs cheering up.”

Meg smiled at the poor earl, sitting with his bare foot wrapped in a tensor bandage and resting on a low footstool that had to have been embroidered by the Normans shortly after the conquest. Other than the bare foot, which showed a certain purple aspect, he looked movie star handsome.

“How’s your ankle?” she asked him as she walked over and gave him her hand.

“It bloody hurts,” he complained. “If that great oaf hadn’t trodden on me, I’d be standing up and greeting you properly.”

Since the wicked way he was grinning at her had her thinking that Maxine was going to have her hands full, she shook her head at him. “It looked to me like you were both playing like you were ten years old.” The soccer players were all in their thirties, with a few who looked to be in their forties, but they’d played their football, as they insisted on calling it, as though they were kids, running and shoving and getting filthy. Max was right, though-they were all men in their prime and they looked totally hot.

“Nonsense. You don’t understand the complexities of the game,” he told her.

“You are such a wally,” Arthur told him. “And if you can’t greet your guests properly, I can.” Then he walked forward, said “Hello,” and gave her a quick kiss. Just a brush of his lips over hers, really, but the thrill danced all the way down her spine.

“Hello,” she said, telling herself there was no need to blush. He was only winding up their host. Still, the tingle remained.

Arthur, who was standing in for George as host, it seemed, in anything that required standing, asked her what she wanted to drink. “Um, I don’t know.”

He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Brimacombe, the cook and housekeeper, tends to solid British fare. I recommend a good stiff belt of something.”

“Surprise me,” she said, knowing that one way or another, he was going to do exactly that.

There were two other couples. Old friends of George’s who’d also played today and their wives. Meg fell into the evening feeling almost like a spectator at a play. These people had known each other forever and the back-and-forth banter, the in-jokes, and the shared history were laid out before her. Of course, they were polite, well-mannered people, and they included her. The discussion was general, but every once in a while there’d be a line or a joke that had to be explained.

Since she was now writing a book set in England, with a British villain and a lot of characters much like these, she was only too happy to watch them live their very English lives in front of her, while she absorbed.

The perfect butler announced dinner and a single waitress served it, a come-down, she suspected, from earlier days when there would have been a full staff. The meal was fine. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with peas and green beans and roast potatoes. Maybe a little overcooked for her taste, but not so dire that she really needed the martini in her system. She wondered if Arthur had ulterior motives for getting her drinking and one glance at him convinced her that he did.

The conversation flowed with the wine. From British-American relations to books to new plays in London ’s West End.

She discovered that George and Maxine were at the stage in their relationship where they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. A touch here, a steamy glance there. Obviously, those two were deep-down crazy for each other.

And Meg discovered that Arthur had a sneaky sense of humor and that he was a local chess champ.

“Do you play?” he asked her.

“Sometimes. But I’m not very good.”

“We’ll have to have a game,” he said, and the way he looked at her made her wonder if chess was the game he had in mind.

And then Maxine brought up the subject of Meg’s writing. “You know, I’ve always fancied writing a book,” said Charles, one of the men.

“Then you should do it,” she said. She heard this all the time and always wondered why, if they wanted to do it, people didn’t sit down and try. It was like saying, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to speak German,” without ever taking a lesson.

“Meg writes the most incredible murder mysteries,” Maxine said. “I can never sleep when I’ve got one on the go. Honestly, they’re terrifying.”

“Don’t you find it difficult to imagine the mind of a killer?” asked Charles’s wife, Nora.

“Well, yes and no. The thing to remember is that in his or her mind, the killer has no other choice, no option but to kill. He may be insane, but in his mind, it’s the right thing to do. He or she is the hero in their own mind. If I can find a compelling enough reason for what they do, then my villain comes to life.”

“You sound like you approve of your villains.”

“Not approve. But they are my favorite characters.” She glanced at Arthur and found him rapt.

“But a killer? Someone like that would be so evil.”

Arthur spoke from across the table. “I think every man has it in him to kill.”

Yes. She’d known he would see it that way, of course.

“Could you kill a man?” Maxine asked him, her eyes wide. She reached for George’s hand.

“I have done,” he said matter-of-factly, and Maxine gasped. Meg looked at him and saw the lines harden in his face. His eyes grew suddenly stony.

“Arthur was in the army,” George said. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Arthur asked.

“Well, of course it is,” George insisted. “You were fighting for your country.”

“That’s what I was saying. It’s all a question of motive. Am I not right, Meg?”

“Yes. I think so. People kill for many reasons. Duty to your country, of course, but also revenge, greed, obsessive love.”

“I don’t think I could kill anybody,” George said, making a face. “All that blood. It would put me off.”

“What if your home were threatened?” Arthur challenged. “Or Maxine? You’d kill to protect them.”

The glance Maxine and George shared was intimate and powerful. Oh, yes, she thought. George could act the upper class English twit, but he had a great deal of strength.

She knew from Max that he’d pretty much given up his career as an architect when his father died suddenly, and he was forced to come home and manage a cash-draining estate decades before he’d anticipated stepping into the earldom. He didn’t complain, though. He was managing to hold everything together, run a huge estate, and build it into a business. That took guts. And drive. Yes, she thought, he was one you could rely on in a tough corner.

When the evening broke up, Wiggins, as she’d discovered the butler was called, appeared with her bag of shoes. She changed into her flats even as Maxine said, “Why don’t I run you home in the car?”

The other couples were staying the night, since they lived in different villages quite far away and the wine had been flowing.

“No. It only took me ten minutes to walk here. I need the air.” She’d understood what Arthur had meant about the cooking when the dessert turned out to be bread pudding.

“I’ll walk you home,” Arthur said, as she’d somehow known he would. A quiver went through her.

“It’s not far.”

“No. But it is dark. Don’t want you tripping on a rabbit hole and ending up like George there.”

“I don’t know,” George said, having hobbled into the hall with the aid of a cane and Maxine’s arm. “You could come round and keep me company in my infirmity.”

“Good night, George,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. She hugged Maxine. “Thanks. This was just what I needed.”

“Come anytime.”

Arthur and Meg set off in the direction of her cottage.

It was surprisingly dark. Well, duh. What had she expected? Streetlights? As though he’d read her mind, Arthur said, “I’ve got a penlight. Let me know if you want me to switch it on. I always find my eyes adjust in a minute or two.”

“No. It’s fine. There’s some light from the moon.”

The night was quiet and still. She liked the dark, though she was intensely aware of the man beside her. Once she stumbled over a rock she hadn’t seen and he grabbed her hand to steady her.

He didn’t let go. She could have pulled away, but she liked the feel of him, the sturdy, capable hand, the warmth of his skin.

“I bought one of your books today, when I was in town.”

“You did? I thought Max was going to lend you one.”

“I decided I’d like to have my own.”

“Well, thank you. Which book did you choose?”

“Tying Up Loose Ends, I think it’s called.”

The book that first put her on the Times list, but she didn’t tell him that. “Well, let me know what you think of it.”

“I will.”

After that, they didn’t talk much.

When they reached her cottage, he still didn’t talk, merely turned her to him and took her mouth.

Okay, so she’d guessed it was coming, had spent most of the short walk wondering how she felt about it and whether she’d stop him if he tried to kiss her. Now she knew that he wouldn’t give her time to stop him and how she felt about it was indescribable. It was even better this time. He was so warm, so strong, his mouth both taking and giving.

Drugging pleasure began to overtake her senses. It had been so long since she’d felt like this. Excited at the possibilities of a man, wanting, with quiet desperation, to be with him. Held by him, taken by him. She began to shiver and he moved closer, so her back was against the stone wall and his warm body pressed against her.

Her hands were in his hair, wonderful, thick, luxurious hair. Her mouth open on his, wanting, giving, taking. She felt him hard against her belly and experienced a purring sense of her own power. And also a stabbing sense of regret.

She couldn’t do this, she reminded herself. Her book. Her book was her priority. If and when she finished the novel, then she could think about indulging herself like this. Not until then.

So she tipped her head back out of kissing range and looked up into that dark, intent face. “What was that about?” She’d meant to sound sophisticated and slightly amused. A woman who got hit on all the time on every continent. Instead she sounded husky and, even to her own ears, like a total goner.

“I’m interested. I’m letting you know.”

“Telling me with words would be too mundane?”

“Words are your world. I’m more a man of action.” Oh, man of action. Oh, aphrodisiac to her senses. She’d always gone for the cerebral types, but there was something about a man who tackled the world in a physical way that appealed to her on the most basic level. His words from dinner came back to her. He’d kill to protect those he loved. Every other man she’d been with had been of the pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword persuasion, mostly, she suspected, because their swordplay was so minimal.

Arthur was a man who would make her feel safe. When she crawled into bed, terrified of the fruits of her own imagination, she could see herself burrowing against his warm skin, his arms coming round her in comfort.

Then she gave herself a mental slap. What was she doing? Always imagining things. Arthur ran a pub. Was obviously single and probably took a fancy to every unattached woman who rented the cottage. How convenient.

She shook her head with mingled irritation and regret. “I’m here to work. I really don’t have time for…anything personal.”

“That’s a shame.” He ran his warm, leathery palm down the side of her neck so she wanted to press against it. Rub at him like a kitten.

“I have to finish this book. I can’t afford any distractions.”

“I’m glad I distract you,” he said, a thread of amusement running through his voice.

“You are?”

“I wouldn’t want to think I was the only one feeling…distracted.”

“Well, it was a very nice evening,” she said, easing away.

“Did you not want me to come in, then, and check under the bed for monsters?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll tell you what. You see that lighted window, across the way there?”

“Yes.” There was only one lighted window. It wasn’t that tough to spot.

“That’s my house.”

“You don’t live over the pub?” For some reason, she was surprised.

“No. I live in that house there. And anytime you see my light, you can call me.”

“I told you-”

“I know. But even a hard-working writer needs a distraction now and then.”

Before she could respond, he was kissing her again, fast and addicting, like a shot of heroin before he headed away, so sure she’d soon be pining for more that he didn’t bother to say good-bye or even glance back.

Well. If he thought she was going to run after him, he was going to be seriously disappointed.

He was a dark shadow, and then he was gone, blending into the night, so only the odd scuffling sound allowed her to chart his progress.

“Go on in, now,” he said from the direction of the stile, and she was annoyed with herself that she’d so obviously been staring after him in the blackness.

She didn’t say a word but opened the door and slipped inside.

Right. For two days now she’d played. It was time to get back to work. She licked her lips, tasting his kisses, and was flooded suddenly with a wanting so sharp she closed her eyes against it.

Chapter Six

Arthur felt his heart pound and his innards clench. When he turned the page he noticed his fingertip was damp with sweat. No wonder Meg Stanton was afraid of her own books. She wasn’t the only one.

Knowing the author herself was a stone’s throw away, as needful of him as he was of her, made him half crazy with the wanting. Reading her book was a poor substitute for going to bed with her, but he’d thought it might at least lull him to sleep. Instead, she’d not only left him aroused and unsatisfied, but now she was scaring the wits out of him.

One more chapter, and then he’d put the damn thing down, he promised himself.

When the phone rang he jumped, jarred out of his terrified skin. Fool, he admonished himself, glancing at the clock. Two A.M. Who’d be calling at…

He glanced out the window on his way to pick up the ringing phone and noted that his wasn’t the only light on in the area. Meg’s upstairs light was glowing like a beacon.

A grin tugged at his mouth as he identified himself on the phone.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Meg, as he’d known it would be, but still, the sound of her voice acted like stroking fingers on his skin.

“Wake me? You kept me awake, woman.”

“You were thinking about me?”

“Aye, I was. But worse, I started reading your book. Bloodcurdling stuff.”

“I know,” she said with smug pride.

“Are you working this late, then?” He rubbed a hand across his chest. Hoping that she wanted more than a chat.

“I was. Now”-she blew out a breath-“I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Well, that’s two of us.” He grinned broadly and settled back on the bed. “What do you think we might do about that?”

“Do?” She sounded startled. “I don’t want to do anything. I mean, I wanted to explain. I was kind of abrupt earlier.”

The stiff paper of the book jacket crinkled as he opened the cover, revealing a photo of the author. It was a professional photo of Meg looking full on at the camera, in a black dress, smiling slightly. She wore pearl earrings and her hair was suitably restrained. Looking at that photo acted on him the way graphic nude photos in a men’s magazine might.

“You were telling me you don’t have time for me, with your book to write. I understood.”

“Yes, but I think I was a bit arrogant.”

Not arrogant, he thought, but hasty. They could have been tangling the sheets and enjoying each other at this moment instead of talking on the phone. Obviously, she was feeling as aroused and deeply unsatisfied as he.

She sighed. “In the daytime it’s so peaceful here. But at night, it’s so black out there. Not a light for miles.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” He soothed her automatically, hearing the trace of nerves.

“Oh, I know. It’s not that. It just feels…well, kind of lonely.”

“It can be.”

“How do you stand it?”

“It was peace I was after when I came here. The army is never peaceful. And believe me, you are never lonely.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she said softly.

“Well, never alone at any rate.” He shifted. “What are you doing at this moment?”

“I’m trying to get comfortable in bed.”

“Ah.” He looked at the formal publicity photo and smiled to himself, imagining her in bed. In what? Flannel nightie? A sexy scrap of lace and silk?

“What are you wearing?”

There was a pause. He heard her uncertain intake of breath. “You’re not planning on having phone sex with me, are you?”

It wasn’t easy to keep his laugh inside his chest. She was adorable. “I hadn’t thought about it. Would you like to have phone sex?

A longer pause. He could tell she was thinking about it as clearly as he knew what her answer would be. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Of course not. That won’t keep the monsters under the bed.”

“No,” she said softly, “it won’t.”

He let the silence lengthen just long enough. “Do you want me to come over, then?”

“I thought you were scared, too.”

“Terrified. I’ll run all the way.”

She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was so unexpected. For all her ladylike ways, the laugh was low and sexy.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

“I’m not sure I am, either.” And he found it was true.

“I could make you some coffee if you came over,” she said.

“But that would keep us awake.”

“Warm milk?”

“That’s a long way to run in the dark for a bit of milk.”

“Maybe there will be something to go with it.”

“Like what?”

“A chocolate cookie. I mean biscuit.”

He laughed aloud at that. Well, there were biscuits and there were cookies. “I’m on my way.”

He didn’t run. He savored the night air and the quiet sounds of the countryside asleep. The big house slept. The flats and houses of the village slept. He looked about himself and saw no light but hers. And it drew him the way a fire draws a cold man.

When he got to the door she was waiting for him. With her face scrubbed free of makeup and her hair down around her shoulders, she looked young. She wore a pale blue terry cloth robe and a pair of sheepskin slippers. All very practical, not a bit sexy. And he found himself growing frantic for the taste of her skin, anxious to ease her out of the robe and toss the slippers across the room.

However, he wasn’t the sort of man to begin ravishing a woman in the wee hours when she was alone in her house, unless he was certain she wanted him to ravish her.

Her breath shuddered slightly as she drew it in. Her eyes were wide and alluring. Her lips were slightly parted.

“Lead the way, then,” he said, his voice a husky whisper of sound.

She took his hand, turned and led him, not to the kitchen, but up the stairs. Her palm was so warm it was almost feverish, and he felt the fine trembling within her. As she walked up ahead of him, he knew her body was unfettered by underwear, and he was as aroused as though she wore nothing at all.

Soon, he thought, she would.

He would tease her about her warm milk later. For now the atmosphere was serious.

He knew the room well, of course, had helped the delivery men bring in the new bed at the end of the summer season. But with her things scattered about, it seemed mysterious, very feminine, and all hers. He smelled the subtle scent of her skin and her powders and women’s lotions and things. There were some bottles neatly lined up on top of the bookcase, her clothes hanging regimented in the wardrobe where the door was ajar.

“I’m glad you rang,” he said.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

So he held her. First he simply held her, feeling the shape of her press against him, the smell of her hair as he buried his face in it.

“You smell so good,” he murmured.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him even closer. “Thank you for coming.”

Then he took her mouth, because he couldn’t help himself. She clung to him, kissing him the way she had earlier, like a drowning woman.

She made tiny purring sounds in her throat. He doubted she was even aware of them but they drove him half mad. He wanted to rip away her clothing and throw himself onto her, into her, and the effort at civilized control had sweat breaking out on his forehead.

He skimmed his hands over her breasts, smiling against her lips when she quivered with reaction. Over her belly, and then he found the cord of her robe. It came undone with one pull, but instead of pushing it off her shoulders and letting it fall, he traced the opening, followed the lines of the open robe, so he touched silk, warmed by her skin, and felt the resilience of her flesh beneath. He cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric and felt them jump to life under his palms, the nipples teasing him. He continued up, over her shoulders, this time knocking the robe free, so it fell in defeat to the floor.

There was a lamp burning in the corner of the room, giving a soft, golden light to the proceedings. When he eased back from kissing her, he saw that her face was softly tinged with the pink of arousal, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged.

Need and want warred with care and consideration, so he was strung tight with conflicting desires as she began undoing the buttons of his shirt with fingers that quivered. Damn, he wished he’d sprinted over here in nothing but a robe. Would have saved him an agony, an eternity told out in buttonholes.

After an eon, she got the last one undone and smoothed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, as though she were afraid of wrinkling it. But her touch was soft and sure. And she did the maximum touching of his bare skin.

He reached for the hem of her nightgown-silk and lace, not flannel-and brought it slowly up, unwrapping her like a gift. Her skin was post-summer golden. She was long, a little curvier than her clothes had led him to believe, her breasts small and high. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he kissed her again.

She undid his belt, opened his fly, and then surprised the hell out of him when she reached inside and cupped him with her long-fingered, capable writer’s hands.

He heard his breath draw in on a sharp hiss, felt the curve of her lips beneath his own. She was pleased with herself for shocking him, he could tell. He nudged against her hand a little, letting her explore to her heart’s content until he felt things getting a little too warm, then he backed away, toed off his trainers, stripped off his jeans and socks, and came back against her, rubbing her naked body with his.

She was so soft, her skin fine and paler, even with her light tan, than his darker, hairier body. He probably looked like some great hairy beast to her. He must take extra care to go slowly, gently.

Oh, she liked them hairy, she thought. Loved the rasp of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive breasts. Loved his darkness against her paler skin.

His mouth was everywhere, it seemed, nipping at her, eating her up.

The bed was a mess from where she’d tossed and turned in it for hours, trying fruitlessly to convince herself she wasn’t scared. That the villain she’d so brilliantly created was in fact that, a product of her feverish and far too fertile imagination. That he wasn’t at this moment creeping up the stairs to stab her in the heart as he had his last victim. But it was no good. As she’d written the victim, she’d become her. Of course, only through feeling terror could she portray it for the reader. But imagining herself murdered took its toll. Why couldn’t she have found her niche writing fairy tales for toddlers?

When Arthur wrapped his arms around her she felt comforted, not confined; when he pushed her to her back on the rumpled bed her skin trembled with excitement, not fear.

He spread her legs and she felt herself burn with need. Oh, God. He was so big and gorgeous and it had been so long. He played with her, kissing her all over, touching her with hands that were as tough and leathery as she’d guessed, but that were surprisingly gently and sure.

He’d brought condoms, thank God, since she hadn’t packed any.

When he fitted himself to her, she felt that moment, that eternal moment, when he hovered on the brink. Not yet lovers, soon to be, and then, impatient of waiting, she grabbed his hips and pulled him into her.

He spread her, filled her. And when their passion grew, he stabbed into her, her gorgeous, sexy villain, thrusting again and again. Even though she cried out, it wasn’t a dreadful end she experienced, but something new and very exciting.

When at last they slept, the night was at its thickest and darkest, but she felt warm, comforted, and very, very safe.

Chapter Seven

The sound of rain drumming softly on the roof woke her. Meg’s eyes opened slowly and her whole body reveled in the luxury of a good, deep sleep. And she was warm, so warm.

Gradually, she came to full consciousness and became aware of the naked body pressed against hers, the soft puff of Arthur’s breath against her hair, and that his big, workingman’s hand was curled possessively round her breast.

She needed to pee, she needed coffee, she wondered what time it was. But still she didn’t move. She remembered the way they’d made love last night, learning each other, exploring, touching, tasting.

The wind kicked up, and the rain drumming on the roof was joined in chorus by the drops slashing against the windowpane. What a great day to stay in bed and be lazy. They could make love all day, eat the food she’d bought-thank heavens-only two days ago. He could build them a fire. They’d be as cozy as alpine skiers nestled up at the lodge after a hard day on the slopes, with their roaring fire and their glühwein. Did Arthur ski? She knew so little about him. Except that he was the most exciting lover she’d ever known.

She turned to look at him, his dangerous face softened by sleep. A coarse black beard already shadowed his jaw.

She’d make him breakfast, she decided. And she’d give herself a whole day off. Sliding out carefully, she padded to the bathroom. She’d shower, get the coffee on, and make her new lover breakfast. How long had it been since she’d been this excited about a man? She pondered the question as she stepped into the shower and decided that she’d never in her life been this excited about a man.

Arthur woke to the sound of water. At first he thought it was rain, then realized it was the shower. He glanced over at Meg’s spot, but of course it was empty.

He blinked at the clock. Ten. They’d had a good lie-in, then. But after the night they’d spent, their bodies had needed the rest. He stretched, enjoying the pull in all his muscles, and the slight scent of Meg that clung to the bedclothes.

He didn’t really need to be at the pub until evening. Joe was covering the lunch shift. Maybe he’d take Meg out for a good old English fry-up. Bangers and beans, eggs, fried tomato and fried bread, with lashings of hot tea. Then he’d bring her back here or take her to his place…

Except that she’d been very frank about her need to work. Sure, she’d been the one to ring him up in the wee hours, but still, if he wanted to see her more than when she was shit-scared in the middle of the night, he’d have to show her he was sensitive to her need to work.

Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed, yawning, and shoved himself back into his clothes.

He was dying for a pee, but he’d wait until he got home, not sure how she’d feel about him barging into her bathroom to relieve himself on such short acquaintance. Of course, he’d been inside her body and knew the taste of her intimate juices, but women were incomprehensible about the bathroom.

She seemed like a closed-door type. The shower had stopped, so he banged on the door in passing.

“I’ll be off then, love,” he said. He wished he could join her in the shower, or take her back to bed all damp and smelling of soap, but she’d likely have his hide if he distracted her from her precious book.

Her voice sounded odd. “You’re going?”

“Yeah. Hope the work goes well today.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t open the door, so he’d likely been right.

“Well, cheerio.”

“Yes. ’Bye.”

He whistled as he ran down the stairs. He ought to do some tidying up at home, and maybe some shopping. And he’d definitely change his sheets. After all, nobody could work all day and night every day. Not even Meg.

Because he was preoccupied he did a very stupid thing. He walked right out of Meg’s front door without having the bloody sense to have a doss out the window first, which is how he all but bashed straight into Maxine.

He recoiled at the sight of her, feeling as stupid as though he’d been caught by his nanny doing something naughty. Her knowing smile didn’t help.

“Well, hello, Arthur,” she purred. She wore wellies, a yellow mac, and a striped umbrella, and managed to look like a runway model.

Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck. “Hi, Max. I was just…um…changing a lightbulb for Meg. Bloody things keep burning out. I’ll have to have a look at the electrical when I get a minute.”

“Good idea.” Her amusement circled him like smoke. “And next time you come to change a lightbulb, lover, make sure you fasten the buttons on your shirt in the right order.”

He didn’t say another word, simply barged past her and plunged into the rain.

When Meg heard the knocking on her door she thought Arthur must be back. Hopefully for breakfast. But then why didn’t he let himself in? Had he locked the door behind himself? But when she ran lightly down the stairs, in jeans and her favorite blue cotton sweater, it wasn’t Arthur standing there, but Maxine.

“Oh,” she said, wondering why on earth she should feel embarrassed and whether Maxine could tell she was blushing.

“Hey, neighbor. I just passed Arthur coming out of your place.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I wonder what he was doing here so early.”

“He was looking at the faucet in the upstairs bathroom. It sticks.” Luckily, the faucet did stick, and she’d been thinking of mentioning it or she never would have invented such a smooth lie. Not that she even wanted to lie to Maxine, but the relationship was too new. Anyway, she wasn’t even sure it was a relationship, especially not the way Arthur had sprinted out the door this morning without so much as a cup of coffee or a kiss good-bye.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked Max, who was still standing, dripping on her doorstep.

“No. I’m not staying. You left one of your earrings last night. It must have fallen off at dinner.” She dug into her pocket and emerged with a dangle of amber.

“Thanks. I didn’t even notice. The catch must be loose.” She took the earring and played with it like worry beads. “I haven’t started work yet. I’m going to make some coffee for myself. I wish you’d stay.” Maxine did not strike Meg as a woman who would slog through mud to return an earring. Something was on her mind, and even if it was no more than nosiness about Arthur and her, she wouldn’t mind the distraction of another woman’s company.

“Well, okay.” Maxine stepped inside, removing her damp outer clothes and stepping out of her boots.

She wore thick woollen socks that someone had knit by hand. Meg had a feeling the socks were a new part of her wardrobe since she’d moved here.

“What?” Maxine said, following her gaze. “Did I put two different socks on? I do sometimes.”

“No. I was thinking you probably didn’t bring those socks from L.A. ”

A snort of laughter greeted her. “You’re right. I pretty much had to abandon my L.A. wardrobe.” She sighed softly. “There are days I really miss Rodeo Drive.”

“So? What’s the deal with you and George?”

She shook her head and looked helpless. “Bliss. Pure bliss. I cannot help myself. I’m crazy about that man.”

“You know, it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s crazy about you, too.”

“All I wanted was documentary footage of the earl. Who’d have thought I’d end up with the earl himself?”

“Will you stay?”

“I think so. I’m in negotiation for a series that would be a joint production of the company I work for and the BBC. But”-she shrugged-“if it doesn’t work out, I think I can keep myself busy on the estate.”

“Wow. Isn’t it hard to leave your home?”

“It’s hard to leave the people you love. I have a sister who needs me right now. She just got divorced and her job is probably going to end. I feel a long way away. But”-she looked out of the window in the direction of the manor house-“you make your home, too. I think mine is here.”

Meg couldn’t imagine moving across an ocean for a man, but she’d seen the way George and Maxine were together. For love like that? Maybe.

She poured coffee and served it.

“I’m glad Arthur fixed the faucet for you.”

“It was really no big deal,” she said, wishing Maxine would shut up already about the faucet.

“It’s funny. When I bumped into him, he told me he was here replacing a lightbulb.”

Their gazes met. Maxine raised one eyebrow. “And his shirt was buttoned all wrong.”

Meg put her coffee down, the ceramic mug making a sharp click against the table. She slumped back and looked at the ceiling, feeling like her mom had just caught her sneaking in past curfew and she was about to be grounded. “Okay, so I slept with him. And I’m not apologizing for lying to you about it. It’s so new. Last night was our first time and it was-oh, God, I’m babbling.”

“You’re cute when you babble. Hey, I think it’s great, and don’t think I’m trying to pry into your private life. But it’s hard. You know? I’ve been a journalist and researcher for a long time. And this is my first stint as a matchmaker. I got curious. Can’t help it.”

Meg sat forward, thinking that journalists were also pretty good at spreading news. “You tell anybody anything and I’ll make you the murder victim in my next book. Got it?”

“Absolutely. I won’t tell a soul.” Maxine’s eyes were dancing, and Meg was suddenly glad she had a female friend here. Even though they’d only recently met, she had a good feeling that she and Maxine were destined to be friends.

“And, since you’re obviously dying to know, it was fantastic.”

“Hah. I knew it. I always figured he had to be good in bed. Some guys, you can just tell. I thought last night that there was something happening between you two.”

“Hey, it’s nothing really,” Meg said, thinking of how he’d disappeared so fast this morning. “Only a casual holiday thing.”

“Arthur’s not the casual type,” Maxine informed her. “Since I’ve been here, I haven’t seen him fixing anybody else’s faucet or replacing her lightbulbs.”

“Really?” Her heart bumped and she wasn’t sure whether the knowledge that she wasn’t one in a string of women made her feel better or worse.

“I’m not saying he’s a saint, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure he has women, but he’s not a player, if you know what I mean.”

Maxine didn’t stay long. After a little more of the female bonding of a good gossip over a cup of coffee, she left.

Meg slapped peanut butter on whole wheat toast, because it was a healthy breakfast, and ate it with a banana for potassium. She did not think about what she would have eaten had Arthur stayed.

Then she cleaned up her small kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, turned the phone off and the computer on, and sat at her desk, while her coffee grew cold and the cursor blinked at her, teasing.

She thought about Arthur and what she’d learned of him last night. A man who could kill. A man who had killed. That’s why she’d seen him so clearly as her villain, that first day. It wasn’t merely his rugged, dark good looks and the hint of danger. It was something deeper that she’d glimpsed without understanding what it was. That dark place inside him.

Many men and women went to war. Many had come home, and how many carried that dark shadow within them?

A man of many parts, of darkness and of light.

When she began typing, she followed her villain as he went home, having stabbed his victim through the heart, which was his individual signature. She entered with him into his home in the suburbs, where he climbed into bed and made slow, tender love to his wife.

She shivered when she wrote the next scene, where he arrived at his appointment the next morning with her novel’s protagonist, his psychiatrist. Meg knew what the psychiatrist didn’t. She was his next intended victim.

She finished her work for the day, feeling excited. For some reason, this book that had been so stubborn to begin was now flowing. She packed up her computer and walked up to Hart House, where Maxine had told her she could use the Internet connection. After checking her e-mail and finding an amusing story from one of her writing pals, and some routine messages from various friends and relatives, she felt as though she’d never left home.

If she lifted her head, she’d see her own office wall, with her calendar, her inspirational framed quotes, her own book covers which her father always had framed for her. She’d look out her window to waving cedar trees and the bird feeder where the chickadees played.

She’d spent a lot of time in the last few months watching the chickadees, so much so that she could identify a few of them. And there was the crow who liked to give them a bad time, and the cat from next door who would watch from the ground, tail flicking.

Now, when she raised her head she saw a small Vermeer. Behind her left shoulder was an honest-to-God suit of armor, and on the walls of the office were various family photos: the weddings, picnics, usual fare, except that some of these family snaps included members of the royal family.

And that’s when she knew she was miles from home. Some days it seemed like centuries from home.

She e-mailed the first few chapters of her book to her agent, knowing her rejuvenated muse was going to make one man in New York very happy.

When she’d sent the chapters, she packed up her laptop once more and emerged to find Maxine pacing the grand entrance hall with a cell phone glued to her ear, giving rapid-fire instructions to some poor lackey. She held up a hand to Meg indicating she should wait.

Wiggins walked in his slow, stately way across the flagstone entry hall, his very blank expression giving away his disapproval of Maxine’s conversation. Did he disapprove of her doing business in the front hall? Ignoring a guest? The very notion of the cell phone? Probably a bit of all three, Meg decided, responding to his greeting of “Good afternoon, miss” with “Good afternoon, Wiggins.”

Maxine wrapped up with an order to “overnight me the script.” Then she clicked her phone shut and turned her attention to Meg. “Had a great idea,” she said.

Somehow, when Meg looked at that very determined, very businesslike face, she had a bad feeling she wasn’t going to love the idea.

“Writers’ holidays,” Max said, grinning broadly.

Yep, Meg thought. Her instincts hadn’t led her astray. “What about them?”

“Don’t be dense. Here. With you to lead them. We’ll fill the place with novice writers and you can teach them all how to be best sellers. Isn’t it a great idea? And, of course, we’ll make a documentary of the process.”

“If there were a course that taught people how to be a best seller, believe me, there’d be a lot more best sellers.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. You can teach writing. Hey, I could do a section on filmmaking. We could bring in a few more people and a few more pounds. God knows we could use them.”

“I’m not-”

“Come on, think about it. We’ll have a meeting sometime before you go home. I think it would be great, but if you hate the idea I’ll-”

“Give it up?”

“No.” Maxine sent her a duh expression, then grinned with devilry in the curve of her lips. “I’ll find out who your greatest competition among suspense writers is and ask them.”

Meg immediately envisioned Constantin Fishbourn staying in her cottage, lecturing with appalling pomposity, telling students how to write badly, plot sloppily, and drink heavily. The very notion infuriated her. She narrowed her eyes. “You are a very devious woman.”

“I know. And I wouldn’t do it unless you absolutely turned us down.”

“I’ll think about it,” Meg said loftily.

“It’s all I ask. And, not to put pressure on you or anything, but I told George I wouldn’t marry him until this place was in the black. You know, every pound counts. So, you coming tonight?”

Meg could not believe she was being blackmailed like this. She shook her head, half aggravated, half amused. “Am I coming where?”

“I keep forgetting you don’t live here. Isn’t it weird? It feels like you’ve been here for years instead of weeks. Darts. We play every week at the pub.”

“I’m not very good at darts.”

“You can be on my team, then. I’m killer.”

The pub equaled Arthur, who had so casually drifted out of her door this morning as though the night of searing intimacy meant nothing to him. Casual? What could be more casual than a game of darts? She’d show Arthur Denby casual, all right.

“I’d love to come.”

“Excellent. We meet at seven. Want us to pick you up on the way?”

“No. I can get there on my own.”

So she found herself, at precisely seven, outside the pub door. She was wearing her favorite Seven low-rider jeans, a gossamer soft cashmere sweater in her preferred shade of green, Italian leather boots, and some chunky jade jewelry she’d picked up at a Seattle craft fair. Her hair shone, her makeup was fresh. She was as hot as she had it in her to be.

With a deep breath, she opened the door.

Her gaze went straight to the bar. And there was Arthur, pulling the cork out of a bottle of bordeaux. The corkscrew drilled into the cork with efficient precision, and then his arm muscles flexed and he pulled the cork out with the same ease with which she’d take an egg out of an egg carton. She remembered the way those arms had felt around her last night, the way his hands could arouse her. He’d brought her so much pleasure with hands and mouth and driving cock last night that she was momentarily light-headed with the pleasure of seeing him again.

For a long second she couldn’t move, could only stand there inside the door watching him. Then his gaze lifted and stared unerringly directly at her, as though he’d known she was there.

It was the kind of moment she’d write about, the kind she didn’t believe happened in real life, a moment of absolute intimacy across a crowded room.

His blue-gray eyes darkened and burned into hers. She felt branded, marked, compelled. She couldn’t look away or move. Then his gaze traveled her body, and she decided the ridiculously priced jeans were worth every penny.

Casual, she reminded herself, as she walked slowly forward, fighting the urge to sprint, to pound across the floor so fast her boots would catch fire. To launch herself over the ancient, scarred wood of the bar and into his arms. To take his mouth with her own, drag him down to the floor behind the bar where neither of them would emerge for several days.

Instead she walked slowly. And said, “Hi,” as though she hadn’t come in his mouth last night.

And he said, “Good to see you,” as though he hadn’t buried himself inside her body and called out her name as he exploded.

Casual, she reminded herself as her pulse kicked up and she curled her fingers against each other to keep from reaching for him.

God alone knew how long she might have stood there staring at the man like a publican’s groupie, when she heard herself hailed.

“Hey, Meg.”

She turned. “Maxine. Hi. Hello, George. Is your ankle better?” They’d come in behind her and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Yes, thanks. Sorry, we’re a couple of minutes late. We got held up.” She glanced at the pair of them and saw the heightened color in Maxine’s cheeks, the wild hair, and a red mark on her lip that looked like a bite mark. George might be limping slightly, but it obviously hadn’t slowed him down in bed.

He wore a similarly blissful, just-fucked expression. He held onto Maxine, but not only for support for his injured leg.

Instinctively, she glanced at Arthur to find him meeting her gaze with a broad grin on his face. Yep, he seemed to be saying to her privately, freshly shagged.

Chapter Eight

“Right, then,” George said, as though calling a meeting to order. “What will you have to drink?”

Meg was certain she must have played darts sometime in her life. There were vaguely related family members and old friends of her parents who’d been into British pub style rec rooms, and the odd bar she’d visited that included a dartboard among its attractions. But if she’d ever thrown a dart at a dartboard, it hadn’t made much of an impression.

Maxine hadn’t lied. The woman was a menace. George was too busy making jokes and being charming to bother aiming. Still, he did a great job. Played the game with the same focus as Meg’s Aunt Martha and Uncle Bert gave to their weekly bowling team.

She was the odd one out. The only player who tossed darts the way she might throw a penny into a fountain.

“It might help if you opened your eyes next time, Meg,” George offered.

“Right.”

“Honey, it’s not a paper airplane,” Maxine reminded her after her next round. It seemed Max didn’t like to lose, and her new teammate was pretty much making losing inevitable.

“Arthur,” Maxine finally wailed. “We need you.”

He was there in a gratifyingly short amount of time. “What seems to be the problem?” His voice was low, rough, and sexy. She felt it rumble through her like an earth tremor.

“Meg’s never played darts in her life.”

“I told you I’m terrible,” she reminded Max.

“I thought you were being modest. Arthur, can you help her?”

Meg shot her new friend a fierce glare. It must have been obvious to everyone that Maxine could have given her some coaching. She was the best player of the bunch.

As though having read the annoyance in her eyes, Maxine said, “I can’t teach things. Arthur’s good at that.”

Warm hands settled on her shoulders, sending heat and sexual awareness flooding through her. “Relax,” he said in her ear.

“Are you kidding? Maxine will have me clapped in the dungeon if we lose.”

“I’ll come and rescue you if she does,” he said into her ear so only she could hear. “Though it might take me a while. The thought of you tied up and helpless gives me ideas.”

He wrapped his hand around hers, the one holding the dart, and showed her how to aim, how to throw. With his help, her dart actually hit the outer rim of the actual dartboard. She was delighted.

“Arthur, you have to be on my team. We’re losing.”

“All right.” And like that, they had a new team member and she had Arthur sitting so near her their thighs touched. Under the table he placed his hand on her knee and then trailed his fingers higher, bringing her to aching life.

When it was her turn to throw he turned, looked deeply into her eyes, and said, “Think of something you really want, and aim for the center.”

What she really wanted was to be naked in his arms, his body deeply and completely connected to her own. Her desire was reflected in his eyes. She rose, brushed past him. Picked up the dart.

She thought about the way she’d focused last night, the way Arthur had of giving her his absolute attention. She stared at the board, saw the center, imagined. Dart equals penis, bull’s-eye equals-she started to feel warm. Well, focusing on sex couldn’t make her a worse dart player and might in fact make her a better one. She squinted, imagining the moment of perfect union between dart and bull’s-eye, pulled her wrist back, and launched.

Then she closed her eyes.

“Good God,” said George.

“I don’t believe it,” cried Maxine.

“Bull’s-eye,” said Arthur.

She opened her eyes and sure enough, her dart was dead center on the board. She checked around to see if in fact someone else had thrown a dart that accidentally landed in the center of their dartboard, but no. That blue one was definitely hers.

Maxine hugged her, squealing in excitement, and she looked over her friend’s shoulder, finding Arthur’s gaze on her. He knew, of course. He knew.

Well, whatever it took to fit in during the weekly darts game, she was willing to do. In fact, she felt like she was beginning to belong here, finding the rhythms of Ponsford. While she didn’t know many people, she recognized faces from the village. She imagined their lives, the predictable rhythms of a week. All the ties of a small community, the binding of family, friendships. She felt a mild ache and realized it was sadness that this wasn’t hers. Not really. Not beyond three months.

The dart players left, all but George and Maxine and her. George was politely listening to an extremely boring man explain at great length something to do with soil drainage.

She glanced at Maxine, who pulled a face. “This whole lord-of-the-manor crap isn’t half as fun as it seems.”

“Yeah. I can see how much you hate your life.”

Maxine chuckled. “I wish you weren’t going home. You’re the only person around here who gets me, and who will come to my July Fourth party next year.”

Finally, George was able to extract himself. Putting an arm around Maxine, he said, “Ready?”

Meg started to rise.

Arthur put a hand on her arm. “Don’t leave.”

She was trying to think of a reasonable excuse to stay when she found that Maxine was already dragging poor, limp-jogging George toward the exit and bundling him out the door.

“They didn’t even say good-bye,” Arthur said.

“I think they’re on to us.”

“Do you mind?”

She was surprised, and probably showed it. “No, of course not. I thought you’d mind. You’ll have to live here long after I’m gone.”

His eyes flashed. “I don’t mind. Closing time’s in half an hour. Wait for me and I’ll walk you home.”

There was such a world of meaning in walk you home that her knees turned to mush. “Okay.”

“Joe,” he called to the kid who helped him. “Tell them it’s last call.”

“All right.”

An hour later, the last customer said good-bye, and the bartenders and servers weren’t far behind them.

She was alone in the pub with Arthur.

“Well?” she said, when he began turning out the lights. “Are you going to walk me home?”

He turned and gazed at her, cold fire in his eyes. She shivered. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. He walked up to her, put his hands around her waist. He kissed her, mouth open, so hungry there was no room for finesse, and then hoisted her onto the bar. She gasped in surprise and then laughed. He perched her on the big bar and stepped between her open legs.

“I thought about you all day,” he said, pressing his mouth to her belly, breathing warmth through the cashmere.

“You did?”

“Mmm. I was hoping you’d come for the darts tonight.”

His hands slid under the wool, warm and tough and leathery.

“And if I hadn’t?”

“I’d have come to you.”

That was something, she thought as he opened her jeans.

After the pair of them had managed to wriggle off-her-and unpeel-him-her skintight jeans, and then the ice blue silk panties beneath, he resumed his former position, standing between her legs.

He put his big hands on her thighs and pushed them gently apart, spreading her, exposing her. Heat settled in the very spot where his gaze was raptly centered. She leaned back on her hands, feeling as though she were on a stage. If she looked out, there were the dim shapes of tables, the room fading to blackness as she looked farther into the pub. The surface of the bar was hard under her. When she breathed she smelled the yeasty beer, and a hint of the steak and kidney pie that had been tonight’s dinner special.

He pressed kisses to her open thighs, warm, soft, fleeting kisses. Desire pooled heavy inside her, which he could probably see for himself since he’d managed to place her in the beam of one of the overhead pot lights. If she leaned back on her elbows, her upper body disappeared into darkness, but the way she was positioned, the way he held her, there was no way to avoid the light that beamed on the area from her belly to her thighs.

Arthur slipped one finger inside the gorgeous woman spread before him. “You’re so wet. So hot,” he murmured, his dark head bent over her. He curled his finger toward her pubic bone, finding her G-spot and pressing lightly. Her gasp told him he’d hit his own bull’s-eye. He slipped a second finger inside her. Already her clit was swelling, flowering under his gaze. Her torso was still mostly covered by the soft wool sweater, and with her head thrown back he couldn’t see her face, but he’d spent enough time watching her last night that he could imagine her expression.

Her eyes would be closed, her lips smiling slightly. She was so damn polite, even in bed, that she smiled with closed lips as her pleasure began. But when it mounted, she lost all her manners and bucked and moaned like a wild woman.

He was looking forward to taking her to that place. Just the thought had his prick feeling as hard as the oak she was sitting on.

He leaned forward and touched her with his tongue. She must have been expecting it, but maybe not quite yet, so he felt her hips jerk forward, pressing her more deeply against his mouth. He took her up, following her rhythm when she began thrusting her hips against his mouth and fingers, licking, teasing, and finally sucking on her as her passion grew hotter. Her lips swelled until they were as hard as his cock, her honey was flowing, and the sounds she was making were wild.

“I’m going to…I’m going to…”

“I know,” he said against her damp flesh.

And then she did. He held her hips and licked her from the outside, rubbed her from the inside until she exploded in his arms, against his mouth. And then, with a final cry, she slumped, limp and pulsing against him.

Her legs were draped over his shoulders, her thighs trembling with reaction. He kissed them, so white, the skin so soft, even softer now that she’d come.

She pushed herself up to sitting, her eyes still unfocused, her mouth swollen and moist. “I want you inside me,” she said, her voice passion-rough.

Not something he needed to be told twice.

He’d stuffed a couple of rubbers in his pocket before closing time, so he unzipped, dropped his drawers, and was ready in seconds.

There was nothing elegant about the pose, but he didn’t care and he doubted she did, either. He lifted her carefully down, keeping his hands on her ass and her thighs still splayed. She put her arms around his neck and he slid her, soft and open and hot, right onto his burning cock.

She opened her mouth on his, kissing him deeply as they started to move. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he buried himself deeper, driving up and into her while she clutched him, the echoing pulses of her orgasm stroking him like damp fingers.

He wanted her to climax again before he let go, but he was so hot, so horny, so absolutely desperate that he wasn’t certain he could make it. She surrounded him, her scent, her taste, the feel of her, so hot and eager and agile, and the little sounds she was making against his mouth were the last straw.

He pulled her away, giving them both a second of anticipation, then let go so she slid down the length of him, deep and hard.

Once more, twice, and the climax built, uncontrollable, unstoppable within him. As he groaned into her mouth, he felt her own wild tremors and let go completely.

It seemed like days later when he could see again. His chest burned as though he’d run a bloody marathon. She was on her feet, but they clung together still, leaning against the bar and panting. His legs were trembling, his trousers were around his ankles. He must look a right fool, but at the moment, he couldn’t have cared less.

She straightened and began looking down at the floor. When she spotted her knickers in a dainty heap, she bent down, giving him a view of the nicest ass he’d ever been privileged to see.

He reached out and rubbed the gorgeous, fleshy curve. “Come back to my place,” he said.

She stepped into her panties and then dragged on her jeans.

When she turned back to him, her face still wore the glow of recent pleasure.

“If I leave your home in the morning, won’t people be suspicious?”

“I hate to tell you this, but when I left Stag Cottage this morning I bashed straight into Max. I told her I’d been changing that bloody lightbulb in the lounge that keeps burning out, but I’m not sure she believed me.”

Meg bit her lip, her face reddening.

“I’m sorry, love, I should have had a doss out the window before I blundered out the front door at ten in the morning.”

But instead of consternation or embarrassment, which he was expecting, Meg burst out laughing. “I told her you were over fixing the faucet in the bathroom, the one that sticks.”

“And when I got home, my buttons were done up all wrong.”

She laughed louder, holding onto the bar for support. Suddenly, he found himself joining her. “So,” he said at last, “do you think she’s guessed anything’s up?”

“Totally, she called me on it. But, you know, she’s really excited. She thinks she made the match.”

“Do you mind very much?”

“Of course not. I’ll be leaving in a couple of months. It doesn’t matter to me.”

She’d be leaving, of course, but not for a good while yet, so he put the notion of loss out of his mind. “I want you to come to my house. I want to make love to you in my bed and sleep beside you all night.”

“Will we get any sleep?”

“Only enough to get us ready to go again. What do you think?”

“I think it’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

Chapter Nine

They walked out of the pub and down a village road lined with the low stone walls that were so prevalent in this part of England.

He held her hand in a loose, warm grip and they didn’t speak. She was still savoring the amazing sex; she suspected he was, too.

She hadn’t slept with a ton of men, but with enough to know that what happened between her and Arthur was special. There was something about him that inspired her trust and that left her free to let herself go.

The night was cool, but after the heat of their passion, not unpleasantly so. There were few lights still burning in the village, and other than a cat skulking under a bush doing whatever it is that cats do at night, they were alone. Their footsteps shushed along the road. They turned again and she saw a pair of carriage lamps burning in a wonderful two-story stone house. She was surprised when that was the house he led her to. Inside, her astonishment grew. Had she expected some slovenly bachelor flat in a basement? She supposed she had.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she cried when he flipped on the lights inside and she saw that the place had been furnished with antiques and paintings on the walls that, even to her inexpert eye, were obviously the real thing. “How old is the house?”

“Late seventeen hundreds. It was the parsonage. It fell into disrepair so I was able to pick it up quite cheaply a few years ago. It’s been my hobby ever since, fixing it up and furnishing it to period.”

His pride was evident and she found that endearing.

When he led her upstairs, her steps were quick, knowing that pleasure awaited her.

“I’ve got two rooms up here that I haven’t got to yet, and then I’ll be done.”

She walked into the master bedroom and fell in love. With the window seat that needed a woman’s touch. A pretty cushion, she thought, so you could sit in there and read a novel with a cup of tea. She loved the angles of the ceiling, the slight unevenness of the floorboards. He’d kept the room masculine, but she thought a few more touches of the feminine would make the room perfect.

A few more things like the vase of roses on the mahogany drum table would give the room more balance. She had a suspicion that the roses were there for her, and that made her heart skitter.

“The bathroom’s through there,” he said. “I converted one of the bedrooms.”

“I take it this isn’t authentic to period?” she teased as she took in the marble shower enclosure, the huge tub, and the gleaming sinks.

She walked back into the bedroom, losing herself in imagining, as she’d done since she was a child.

“Tell me you’re not picturing a grisly murder in my bedroom,” he said, watching her in some amusement.

“No.” She shook her head. “I was picturing this house with the vicar and his wife and several children reading, or sewing. Taking tea in that lovely room downstairs. You know, I get the feeling that this house has held a great deal of happiness, don’t you?”

He didn’t look at her as though she were crazy, but as though he finally had found someone who got it. “First time I walked into this house it felt…content. I bought it soon after.”

It was too big a house for one guy. She felt that it must be waiting for him to settle down and have some kids so the sounds of laughter and young voices would fill the house once again.

But, long before that, she suspected the walls were going to echo the sounds of their passion when she saw him advance on her with that look in his eyes she was beginning to know well.

His predatory look.

She’d already had two orgasms tonight, and now she was firing up like a woman who hadn’t seen action in months. How did he do that to her?

Then he put his mouth on hers and she knew exactly how he did it.

Chapter Ten

When they woke the next morning, the sun was shining. In the daylight, the old parsonage was as perfect as it had been the night before. The gardens needed work. He kept the lawn mowed and the hedges trimmed, but she could see that the rosebushes needed pruning and the beds were empty of color.

She’d put a wrought-iron table and chairs right there, she thought, looking at a flat patch of grass that would make a perfect place for a stone patio. Mentally, she added a rose arbor, a small stone fountain, or maybe a birdbath in that corner under the mock orange.

Whoa. What was she doing? Inserting herself into the scene?

Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad. This wasn’t her house, even her country, and this man certainly wasn’t hers. Well, not in the long term.

With regret, she turned away from the window to find him watching her with an odd expression on his face.

“What?”

“You look good in my house. Right.”

How bizarre that they should both be thinking the same thing at the same time. On such a subject.

She smiled and tried to lighten the mood. “I was planting a flower garden in my head.”

“That’s another thing I haven’t had much time for.”

He came up and touched her shoulder. He was always doing that, dropping little touches as he passed. It was like this second conversation going on between them on a much deeper and unspoken level that had nothing to do with the superficial words.

It felt like he was saying, You’re special, I care, as though he needed that briefest physical connection between the major ones.

If she’d thought about it before, she’d have said that some guy touching her all the time would irritate the hell out of her; but it wasn’t true, and she found she was starting to do it, too. For such a new relationship, they already had patterns of behavior that were astonishingly intimate.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Mmm. Please.” He poured a cup and added a drop of skim milk and half a spoonful of sugar into the china mug before handing it to her. She stared at him. “You know how I like my coffee?”

“Bartender’s trick. Memorize your best customers’ drinks. Brings them back.”

“Am I one of your best customers?”

“The best.”

“You make good coffee.”

“Thanks. I’m also handy with a fry-up. I can make you breakfast or I can let you scamper back to Stag Cottage to get to work. Which is it?”

She blinked at him, comprehension dawning. “Is that why you rushed out of my place yesterday morning? So I could work?”

“Of course. You made such a bloody production about not having the time for a bloke that I reckoned my only hope of another shag was to make myself scarce.”

“Oh.” She felt foolish, and was fairly certain her cheeks were pinkening. “I thought you were racing off out of there to keep things casual.”

He came up to her, up and up until they were pressed hip to hip, and he glared down into her eyes. “Then you are a very silly woman.”

She’d been called a few things in her life, but silly, in that utterly endearing way, had never been one of them.

She felt silly. Deliciously so. “Well,” she said, nudging him with her hips until she got a gratifyingly firm response, “I’m not so silly that I’d turn down breakfast.”

On top of her earlier surprises, she discovered that the man could cook. No bangers and beans and chips this morning, but an omelet with spinach and feta cheese. She squeezed oranges for juice, and they ate at the round table by the window.

Of course, the sailcloth table mats would have to go. The round table begged for a linen cloth, in a pink toile, perhaps.

She could see them sitting here, sharing the paper years from now. But she could also see him in her modern West Coast house. He’d never been there, but she could see him as clearly as though in memory. It was the spookiest damn thing she’d ever experienced.

After breakfast, she wasn’t ready to leave him. She said, “I need to drive into town to the Internet café. Could I beg a ride?”

“Absolutely. It’s my day off. I’m at your service.”

When they got to town she felt good walking by his side. He told her a few stories about the shopkeepers and some of the people they passed, nearly all of whom knew him and then glanced at her curiously.

She had an e-mail from her agent, which she’d half thought might be there. She clicked on it. No matter how many books she wrote, she worried over each one. She thought this book was good, but what if she’d been fooling herself? What if her writer’s block had become so bad she’d completely lost her judgment?

Before she could come up with any more what-ifs, she opened the damn thing.

Hi Meg, This is the best thing you’ve ever written. The villain is delicious. Much love, Herbert.

Relief washed over her. And a sense of absolute satisfaction took its place. Herbert had no idea. Oh, yeah. The villain is very delicious, she thought to herself. Her great fear, that somehow she’d lost her own judgment, that after her uncharacteristic dry spell, she was writing dreck and unable to distinguish it, was relieved.

She even had the secret satisfaction of knowing that her sneaking suspicion that this was her strongest book yet was shared by someone whose opinion she trusted.

Today was a very good day.

“What’s put that smile on your face?” Arthur asked her when they met outside once more. “Apart from me, of course.”

“My villain is delicious,” she informed him.

“I hope that means he’s less terrifying than the awful bugger in the book I’m reading.”

She chuckled in delight. “No, it means he’s much, much worse.”

“How can someone so young and full of light write such evil?”

She shrugged. “I have my nightmares on the page.”

“I’d best get you home so you can get a few more written down.”

And so their days fell into a pattern. They slept together every night, either at Stag Cottage or at the parsonage, though increasingly, it seemed, she found herself in the parsonage. The place comforted her almost as much as Arthur’s arms wrapped around her in sleep comforted her.

She went to the darts nights, and improved enough that she could usually hit the board, or not stray too far, though after that first one, the bull’s-eye continued to elude her. She and Maxine had lunch or coffee, or simply walked the estate. The days grew cooler, more rain fell. Fall progressed and an early frost reminded her that winter, and the end of her time here, was approaching.

Her work was going well. Too well. The book that wouldn’t start now raced to its end, long before she was ready.

She had two weeks until her time was up. Then a week. Arthur took her to London, where Christmas decorations were another reminder of how little time was left. They shopped in Soho and Carnaby Street, Oxford Street, and Knightsbridge. She bought gifts for home, and in Liberty of London saw the toile tablecloth she’d pictured on Arthur’s kitchen table. She bought it, and napkins and a pottery jug in a matching shade of dusky rose, where a person could put a couple of tulips from the garden, early roses, or a handful of wildflowers.

They had afternoon tea at the Ritz, something she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl.

“How’s the book coming, then?” he asked her over tea and scones and tiny, delicious cakes. He hadn’t asked her for a while. She knew they both marked the progress of her book as the journey to the end of her time in England, and their time together.

“It’s going well. Frighteningly well, in some respects.” He didn’t ask her what she meant. “I’ve got my big climax between the villain and the heroine still to write. Heart-pounding suspense, terror, and then the conclusion.”

“He’s the delicious one?”

“That’s right.”

“Hmm. What happens to him?”

She drew a finger across her throat.

Arthur bit into a scone with strong white teeth. “Shame, if he’s delicious.”

“He has to die,” she said, gazing across at Arthur and wishing it weren’t so. “To release the heroine. That’s how it ends.”

They were no longer speaking of some fictitious villain and they both knew it. Somehow, he’d become as central to her as the villain was to her story, and soon both would be gone.

“No hope of saving him?” His eyes were sad and serious. She looked at his handsome, rugged face and knew she’d fallen in love with him.

“How?” she asked him.

When they returned home they were uncharacteristically somber. He made love to her as though it were the last time, and when their cries echoed around them, her eyes stung.

It was a long time before she slept. Arthur was silent and still in the bed beside her, with his arm around her, his hand curled around her breast, but she was fairly certain he wasn’t asleep either.

Of course, they’d never exchanged words of love. It hadn’t mattered. She knew he loved her as much as she knew she loved him. But what was the point of getting any deeper into a relationship that had been limited from the start?

Sometime in the middle of the night she turned to him, and found his eyes open and on her. She reached for him, climbing onto him and riding him with desperation, as though she could cram an entire lifetime into this last week.

There was no finesse to her loving; she was greedy and desperate, grabbing at his skin, scratching, riding hard, until they were both sweat-drenched and panting.

“I love you,” she cried, as though the words had been yanked out of her.

“I know, love. I know.”

When she slumped down onto his still-heaving chest, her cheeks were wet. He kissed her slowly and then held her until at last she slept.

She awoke determined to make their last few days good ones. She could mope and whine and snivel at home. She’d have lots of time.

Arthur was still sleeping when she woke, heavy-eyed and a little sore.

Well, she could make him coffee. And breakfast. She slipped into the spare bedroom where she’d stowed all her bags from their shopping trip and found the toile cloth, the napkins, and the jug.

When he came into the kitchen half an hour later, she thought she’d never seen anything so good as this scratching, shirtless man with his black hair sticking out in tufts and his boxers riding low. “Smells good,” he said. She gave him a bright smile, one that suggested No, I didn’t cry all over you and tell you I loved you last night, and handed him his coffee.

And, as he turned to sit at the table, he stopped.

“Don’t say it’s too girlish,” she begged as she saw him staring at the pretty cloth, the neatly folded napkins, and the jug containing a scatter of rose hips since that was all she could find in the garden.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “I wouldn’t have chosen it, mind, but it’s exactly right.”

“I saw them at Liberty ’s and knew it would look great.”

“I think this house is better with you in it,” he said, still staring at the cloth. “It’s been waiting for you for a long time.” He turned to her slowly. “So have I.”

“Don’t say it, please don’t say it,” she begged.

She saw a flash of impatience along with the sadness. “How can I not say it? You know it’s true as well as I do. You belong here. You work well, you’ve made friends, we’ve found each other. Why can’t you cancel your ticket home and stay?”

“You make it sound so easy, but it’s not you being asked to give up your life. It’s me. Would you give up this? The pub? Your house? Your friends? Come home with me if I asked you?”

He regarded her. “Are you asking me?”

Her heart felt like a moth flapping around a hot lightbulb. Stupid, foolish, and determined to be incinerated.

“I don’t know. Love hasn’t worked out that well for me in the past.”

“Of course it hasn’t,” he said with contempt. “Any more than it has for me. You think you’re going to find what we have again? This”-he gestured back and forth between them-“this happens once in a lifetime if you are very, very lucky.”

“I wish I knew what to do,” she said softly.

“You’d best tend to whatever you’ve got burning on the stove.”

She gasped and turned to find the fancy oatmeal she’d made from Woman’s Weekly was scorched. Perfect.

Just perfect.

She left after breakfast but when she got to Stag Cottage she was too restless to write. Arthur had broken the unspoken agreement between them. Well, she supposed she had first when she’d blurted out her love, but surely some allowances could be made for a woman in midclimax.

He’d asked her in the cold light of day, however, bringing up not only love, but a future. A family, meals stretching for their lifetime around that toile-covered table in the parsonage kitchen. Or around the sleek glass and steel table in her Seattle kitchen with the granite counters and the stainless appliances.

Two homes. Why not?

It was such an appealing image, and so terrifying she couldn’t even bear to consider it seriously.

She stopped at Stag Cottage only long enough to drop her bags and change into walking clothes, then she headed out, needing to think.

Her path took her, as it often did, beside the river. The walking path was a favorite. There was a pair of swans that hung around, and she took out the whole wheat bread she’d brought specially and tossed them a few pieces.

Behind her was Hart House, as elegant and grand every time she looked at it. The village had to be the prettiest in England.

She and Arthur and Maxine and George would be best friends all their lives and have children together. She’d write part of the time in England, and of course give in to Maxine’s demands that she run a writers’ retreat here.

And they’d live part of the time on her side of the pond. She could certainly be as flexible as she wanted to be and Arthur had intimated he could be, too. Although she hadn’t put him to the test by asking him.

But the solution was perfect. Frighteningly so. Joe, the other bartender, would likely be thrilled to take over the pub part of the year.

And perfect scared the hell out of her. Life was messy and fraught with disaster. In her books, the minute things were going too well was the time her characters should be looking over their shoulder because terror, disaster, and death were creeping up behind them as sure as it was chapter four.

She didn’t hear herself hailed until a hand grasped her shoulder. She swung round to find Maxine, out of breath and half laughing. “I had to chase you miles, yelling your name. What’s up?” Then the smile faded. “Oh, honey. What’s wrong? You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“Is it Arthur?”

“Of course it’s Arthur. Who else can wreck a perfectly good day like the man you’re in love with?”

“Don’t tell me he doesn’t love you back, because if you tell me that then one of you is lying.”

“Oh,”-Meg flapped her hands-“of course he loves me. It would be so much easier if he didn’t. Or I didn’t.”

She kicked a stone out of her path and into the water, plop. Bringing the greedy-assed swans floating back.

“Ah,” Maxine said, in the tone of a woman who had been there. “It’s the go or stay dilemma, isn’t it?”

“No. There’s no dilemma. My life is in Seattle. Arthur’s is here.”

“So what are you going to do? Walk away from a guy who makes you glow?”

“No…” She glanced up. “I glow?”

“Like Rudolph’s nose.”

“Oh.”

“If it’s any consolation, Arthur’s glowing, too.”

“I left a man who was controlling. Who made me lose confidence in myself. It was so bad I stopped being able to write. I can’t go through that again.”

“I’ve sure seen how much your confidence has been suffering since you got here. And the writing’s definitely not going well.”

“Gaaaggggh!” Meg yelled, so the swans, who were still hanging around the bank, floated off with their beaks in the air. “Weren’t you scared?”

“Of course I was. I still am when I realize that no one in this country understands the concept of the Super Bowl. And these people fry bread. In bacon fat. I’m telling you, you look at an English breakfast and your arteries clog.”

Meg smiled. “I can’t move to a foreign country for a man. I can’t.”

“Have you asked him to move to the States?”

She thought about how he’d dared her to do exactly that this morning and panic washed over her anew. “How can I ask that of him? His whole life is here.”

“Seems to me that he has the right to decide for himself what’s important.”

“I wish I hadn’t come here. There was a darling stone cottage in Wales.”

Maxine laughed at her. “No, you don’t. You’re a big girl, Meg. Act like one.”

And finally, in despair, she stalked back to Stag Cottage and did exactly that. She acted like a big girl. She wrote the final chapter that she’d been putting off because it seemed symbolic that when her story ended, when the villain she’d recognized the moment she saw Arthur, was no more, then her romance would as effectively be over.

And Arthur was a villain. He’d stabbed her in the heart as effectively as her murderous psycho.

Her computer hummed and the words danced in front of her eyes for a few minutes. She felt like a drowning woman with her life flashing before her eyes as she wrote herself to The End.

Meg wasn’t one to plot her books ahead. She knew writers who had systems, with color-coded charts and diaries for their characters. She admired that kind of organization and knew she would never write a book if she charted the whole thing out first, and already knew her characters intimately.

For her, that was the point of writing the book. It was the voyage of discovery as she came to know these people and their story. Sure, she was the one creating the world and the people in it, but she discovered that world by writing it.

So she typed her villain to his justly deserved doom.

And never had she killed off a villain more unwillingly.

But there he was, as she’d always imagined the last chapter. He had the heroine with her back, literally and figuratively, to the wall. He’d toy with her a little. Because he had the luxury of time and privacy, and because he believed that she of all people would appreciate his brilliance, his subtlety, his daring.

He’d been her patient. He’d had her attention, her clinical diagnoses, occasionally her smile. But he’d never had her respect. He wanted it, ferociously.

And when he didn’t get it, he grew angry, exactly as the psychiatrist had hoped. Her only chance to get out alive was to use her knowledge of his diseased mind against him. So she taunted him, shamed him, ridiculed him. It was a dangerous tactic, but she didn’t have any other weapon.

Finally, he snapped. She’d been watching his eyes, so she knew the second he lost control. When he rushed at her, he was no longer the cool madman, but an overgrown boy in a vicious tantrum. She kneed him hard in the balls as he came at her.

It wasn’t enough to save her from the knife, but the move saved her life. By the time the police arrived, she had her attacker at gunpoint, having retrieved her handgun from her purse, and called the cops from the cell in her purse while she staunched her bleeding arm with her Hermes scarf.

When the detective with whom she was having an on-again, off-again affair arrived on the scene, there was some catchy banter about women and their purses. He offered her a lift to the hospital. She said only if he hung around to see her home.

Behind them, the villain was carted away, raving and furious.

But he wasn’t dead.

Chapter Eleven

Meg stared at the page, the final page of her novel.

It wasn’t often that the ending surprised her. Not like this. How could the villain not be dead? All along, she’d envisioned that final desperate fight. The psychiatrist would get to her bag, she’d reach in it for her gun, which she shouldn’t even have in her purse, but the detective had warned her to be extra careful and so she’d tucked it in there that morning.

Of course, the weapon had fallen to the bottom under the lipsticks and the pack of tissue. Oh, there it was-no, shit, that was her sunglasses case.

And the madman would be almost upon her when she’d grab the gun, fumbling for the safety, and boom, she’d shoot him through the bottom of her Fendi bag. Shot through the heart, they’d discover in the autopsy, in a nice bit of irony.

How could it not have ended that way?

Meg read the final scene again, her hands shaking, from too much coffee probably.

Had she cheated? This new final scene, was it some manipulation by her own psyche?

She reread the entire chapter. And then she saw what she’d missed with her clever bit of shot-through-the-heart irony. The quick, clean death wasn’t enough of a punishment for this guy. No. Prison. Lack of control. No privacy. Being looked down on, ordered, insulted. Forced to perform menial tasks. Oh, how her villain would suffer. It was a much more fitting punishment.

Her new ending was the perfect one.

In every way.

She stretched back in her chair, reached her arms up to the ceiling, and stretched.

Done. She was done. Of course, she needed to read and polish it a few times, but her story was told.

She walked to the tiny village, humming under her breath. She stopped in at the newsagent’s. The shop carried a couple of international papers, always a day or two late, but she limited herself to the Sunday New York Times.

Tramping back across the fields with her paper, a pint of milk, and a loaf of fresh bread, she stopped for a moment and took a slow, luxurious turn. It took no imagination at all to picture this as it had been a hundred years ago, two, three hundred years. Block out the cars and trucks and the telephone poles, and the scenery would have looked almost precisely the same. Sun glinted off the fields while sheep munched quietly, barely bothering to lift their heads as she walked by on the common footpath.

The village at her back was postcard quaint with its old stone houses scattered with thatched roofs. Hart House rose like a fairy tale, and behind the lawns, at the edge of the wooded section, sat her little house. Built from the same pale stone.

It was so peaceful. A perfect place to work. She’d never felt so content. Perhaps it was a perfect place to live. At least, part of the year.

She wouldn’t give up her house on Bainbridge Island. Why should she? And Arthur wouldn’t give up the parsonage. Or the pub. They’d simply enjoy two homes.

She opened the thick oak door and walked in. The fresh flowers she’d bought herself yesterday were a cheerful sight on the kitchen table where she’d written. She opened the French doors to connect herself with the outdoors.

“Still at your murder and mayhem?”

She glanced up to find Arthur walking toward her. She couldn’t have written a better timed entrance.

“No,” she said. “I’m finished.” She reached for the bottle of bordeaux on the counter. “Care to celebrate with me?”

“Yes.” He walked in, looking much less happy than she felt, and kissed her. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I know there’s a corkscrew here somewhere.” She opened the cutlery drawer and he reached over her shoulder. “I’ll do it.”

While he opened and poured the wine, she watched him, feeling ridiculously pleased with herself.

He handed her a glass and raised his. “Here’s to my favorite author,” he said.

“And here’s to my favorite villain.”

“You drink to your villains?”

“Well, I have a small secret. Something I’ve been keeping from you. I never, ever write characters who are in any way like people I know. Never ever.”

“I see. Makes good sense, that.”

“Except this time.” She looked up at him, at that strong face, the sharp cheekbones, the blue-gray eyes, and the black hair. He gazed at her in the same magnetic way he’d stared at her that first day. “I saw you and you were the perfect model for my sadistic killer.”

He blinked. “Well, cheers.”

She laughed. Oh, she was so high on this moment she might never come down. “You know what? I always fall in love with my villain.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Especially this time.”

He put his glass down as though he’d forgotten about it. “What happens to this one? In the end. You said you were going to kill him off. Was it very gruesome?”

She put her own glass down beside Arthur’s and walked up until they were almost touching. “I thought he was going to die. All along, I knew his death. But when I wrote it, I found out I was wrong. He doesn’t die.”

“Don’t tell me the rotten bugger gets away?”

“Oh, no. He gets caught, of course.”

“Does he now? What’s his punishment?”

She kissed the man she loved more than all her villains combined. “He gets the perfect punishment.”

“And that is?”

“A life sentence.”

He reached out and traced her jaw with one finger, his blue-gray eyes glinting at her. “To be served where?”

“Does it matter?”

Maxine was right, she realized, gazing at Arthur-he did glow. Or maybe it was her own glow of happiness reflecting back. He smiled at her. “Not particularly, no.”

He moved, letting his finger trail lazily down the side of her neck to follow the curve of her collarbone. She shivered as ribbons of pleasure played over her skin. They were going to make love, right here in the kitchen, maybe on that sturdy table where she’d typed her novel, always with his dark, sexy image before her.

“Come with me to Seattle?”

He pulled her to him and kissed her, a long, perfect kiss. “I thought you’d never ask.”