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.