“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.