“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.