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.”