Chapter

3

Nell’s mouth went dry. He stared at her, eyes narrowed. She lowered her outstretched hand. Her stomach was cartwheeling. She pressed her hand against it, and forced herself to drop the hand. It twitched.

“I know you,” he said slowly.

Nell whipped up some instant bravado.

“Strip steak sandwich, soup of the day, apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream, and lots of coffee,” she responded.

“You’re the waitress.” His tone was accusing. He seemed so much taller. Of course. In the restaurant he’d always been sitting down. “You look different.”

“I’m not wearing an apron.” She resisted the urge to button up her jacket. No need to advertise her self-consciousness. And she’d buttoned her blouse to the top. Hadn’t she? Do not check. Don’t.

“You guys know each other?” the receptionist said, eyes goggling.

“Derek, that’ll be all,” the guy said.

Derek blinked innocently. “Can I make you guys some coffee?”

“Out, Derek.” Derek sidled out the door. Nell and the black-haired man looked at each other for a long, nervous moment.

“You told me you were an expert in poetry and a doctoral candidate at NYU,” he said.

“And so I am,” Nell replied.

“Excuse me for being personal, but you look far too young.”

She had to change her look. “I’ll be thirty in October,” she said. “Would you like to see my driver’s license?”

“Look, Ms…. uh…”

“D’Onofrio,” she supplied.

“Ms. D’Onofrio, I sympathize if you want to break out of waitressing, but I don’t hire young women just for scenery. If you’re not qualified, don’t waste my time. It would be unpleasant for us both.”

Nell was speechless. The nerve. And he’d just implied that she was, well…pretty enough to be scenery. A compliment hidden inside an insult, or maybe an insult hidden inside a compliment—she wasn’t quite sure which. “I gave you my credentials,” she reminded him. “And I didn’t misrepresent myself in the least. If you’d like to verify my references, feel free. I am more than qualified for the work you’ve described. I’m interested in the flexible hours. It’s difficult to find jobs that fit into a graduate seminar and teaching schedule.”

“If you’re a teacher, why are you waiting tables?” he demanded.

“Because it’s impossible to pay rent on a grad student’s stipend,” she retorted. “I’m a busy person, but I’m the best you’ll find for this project. If you want to interview me, let’s proceed. If you intend to keep insulting me, I’ll go.” She looked him in the eye.

He examined her for another long, harrowing moment, and tapped his pen against his keyboard. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”

Nell rummaged in her bag and handed him a résumé. He stared down at it and nodded. “Fine. Pull up a chair.”

Nell looked around. The chairs were piled chest high with computer printouts. The black-haired man got up. His sleeves were rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms bulged appealingly as he grabbed armfuls of paper and dumped them on the floor. “Derek was supposed to recycle this stuff last week,” he growled. “Sit down.”

Nell seated herself gingerly on the edge of the chair.

“We’re creating a cutting-edge computer game. More puzzle solving, less blood and guts. At various points in the game, to move to the next level, the player must decipher a map, break a spell, or defeat some magical creature. Instructions for the tasks will be encoded in texts that are stylistically in keeping with the game. I also hope to use stuff that has actual artistic merit. Good stuff. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite,” Nell said.

“We’ve been interviewing for weeks, but I’ve been unsatisfied with the pool of applicants. It was my idea to fax colleges and universities. I figured, if I want fancy writing, I should go to the source.”

“Sensible,” Nell commented. “You said last night that you’d never done anything like this before.”

“Right. I’m not a game designer. I design programs with practical applications. The game is my brother Bruce’s baby. My mission is to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. I’ve invested a fortune in graphic designers and programmers. I can’t afford for this thing to fail.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“Let’s get back to what I want from you,” he said.

“Of course.” The intensity of his gaze made his choice of words seductive. Nell clasped her hands and forced herself to concentrate.

“For example, to move to the second level, the player finds a manuscript that gives him these clues: a silver vial, a scrying pool, and a jeweled dagger. You pour the contents of the vial into the pool to understand where to find the dagger, which leads you to the next level. The labyrinth. Got it?”

“Uh, yes,” Nell said.

“So write something that gives clues, but leaves the player to figure out the details. While alluding to the overall quest of the game.”

“Which is?” Nell inquired.

He shifted restlessly. “To rescue the enchanted princess.” Nell raised an eyebrow. “I know, it’s been done,” he muttered, uncomfortable. “Maybe we’ll come up with something more original later.”

“Stick with the princess,” Nell said. “That’s always a winner. So. A computer game for hopeless romantics. Lovely. Just my cup of tea.”

Duncan tapped his pen impatiently. “There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s for magic and fantasy freaks.”

“You don’t think rescuing a princess is romantic?”

“That isn’t the point,” he snapped. “What can you do with the clues?” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, waiting.

She blinked. “You want me to write something on the spot?”

He nodded. Nell pulled off her glasses and polished them. It was easier to look him in the face when he was blurry. “What type of poetry?” she asked, in her most professorial tone. “Early, mid, or late medieval? Renaissance? Classical antiquity? Homer, or Catullus? Chaucer? Spenser? Sidney? Heroic couplets, like Pope? Or something more, say, Miltonian?” She put her glasses back on, blinking as his fierce, hawklike face came back into focus. Whew. Potent.

He scowled. “How the hell would I know? I don’t know anything about poetry. That’s why you’re here.”

“You don’t have to know anything,” Nell said. “The more clues you give me, the quicker I can structure the piece. I’ll just choose a style arbitrarily for now. A Shakespearean sonnet, for instance.”

He nodded. “Fine. Whatever. Go for it.”

He passed her a notebook and a pen. Nell scribbled down the list of elements: vial, scrying pool, dagger, labyrinth, enchanted princess.

She swiveled her chair so he was out of her line of vision, and let the magic happen. The world and Duncan Burke disappeared as she submerged herself into a state of inward concentration.

Twenty minutes later she turned back. “Take a look.”

He reached for the notebook. “Finished already? Just like that?”

“It’s a familiar exercise. I make my students do it all the time. The best way to study a poet’s style is from the inside out.”

He read the page she’d passed him, looked at her for a long moment, read it again, pen tapping ceaselessly against the keyboard.

“You want the job?” he asked.

The seductively pretty waitress had the wiles of an Arab street merchant when it came to bargaining. Duncan escorted her grimly to the door after finally agreeing to pay far more than he’d anticipated. She had a high opinion of how much her time and skill were worth. He admired that in a person, if it was backed up by content. Which it was, in her case. She was good. High-quality production, under pressure, while he watched. That was the kind of focused, high-octane energy he liked to infuse into his projects. It was expensive, but it was worth it.