“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?