Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

She put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound. She needed a minute before she could speak.

“I really frightened you,” he said in a concerned tone. “You’re trembling.”

He touched her hand and she jerked back instinctively. His thumbnail was ridged. “What happened to your thumb?”

He took his hand back and looked down at the misshapen nail. “I banged it with a hammer a couple of months back. Terrible looking thing, I know.”

“It’s weird because my murderer has a thumbnail exactly like that.” Of course, his misshapen thumbnail didn’t make Arthur a murderer. It meant she’d noticed his nail and it hadn’t registered consciously.

She shook her head. “Sorry. I scare myself when I’m writing. You crept up on me when the murderer was leaving the scene.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Writing your books frightens you?”

“Of course. If I didn’t scare myself I’d be worried. It would be like a comedy writer not getting her own jokes, or a cookbook writer not feeling hungry when she dreamed up recipes.”

He nodded, looking down at her with a thoughtful expression. “Better to end up laughing or eating a fine meal than trembling with fright, though.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes I get so scared when I’m writing that I can’t sleep.”

“What do you do then?”

“Keep writing. With every light burning and all the doors locked.”

“Well, I can assure you it’s safe round here, but if you’re ever bothered by anything, you can call me.” He gave her a rueful grin. “For a chat. I’m a light sleeper, myself. I live alone, so you’d not be disturbing anyone.”

“Thanks,” she said, hoping that she’d be strong enough to resist. Or at least strong enough not to phone him unless she was really, really scared. She wasn’t happy with herself for being so pleased that he’d casually let her know he slept alone.

“Shall I take your bags upstairs, then?”

“That would be great. I found some tea bags and everlasting milk. Do you want a cup?”

He hoisted her three bags with such ease she felt jealous, knowing her arms and shoulders would be sore tomorrow from hauling them on and off the train. “Better not. I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Okay.” She was relieved, of course, since she didn’t want to be interrupted now that the heat of the story was upon her, and she’d only asked out of politeness. But now that he’d turned her down, she wished he was staying, instead of abandoning her with no one but a murderer for company.

Hunger pangs, eye strain, and jet lag finally dragged her out of her story. A glance at the watch she’d already set to local time told her it was seven.

She prepared to head back to the scene of the murder.

Arthur didn’t admit to himself he’d been watching for the new tenant of Stag Cottage until the door opened and in she walked, the eccentric author who seemed to spend a great deal of time in her own world, deaf and blind to real life being lived under her nose.

Her hair flowed over her shoulders, glorious, the color of wheat right before harvest. Rich with gold and biscuity browns. She’d changed into a dark green sleeveless jumper, a black skirt that showed off a very nice pair of legs, and leather sandals. She’d applied makeup, he noticed, since he last saw her. She glanced around as she walked in, not shy exactly, but unsure.

He waved to get her attention and she sent him a smile that might be all about relief at seeing a familiar face, but which nevertheless got his blood up. She was much too pretty for her own good. Or his.

“How’s the writing going?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the din.

“Fantastic. I have a very good feeling about writing here.” She’d done more than change her clothes, he noted. Her hair was shiny and slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes were hazel. Big and round and thoughtful. She had a glossy magazine smile, fine skin, and a few freckles.

“What can I get you?”

“Red wine, please.”

He poured it for her and set her glass in front of her. “Everybody comes up here eventually. I’ll introduce you round, if you like. Or are you here for absolute peace and quiet?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I was. I’d have stayed home with the cans of soup and crackers in the cupboard.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone in town will be a nuisance. We get plenty of toffs-George’s friends-coming through. And film and telly stars, of course, since the castle’s been used for everything from toothpaste commercials to costume dramas.”

“Well, that’s a big relief.” She held up her glass in a silent toast and sipped. He served a few more drinks, keeping half an eye on her. He could have sworn she was off in her own world again, but when he had time to mop up a spill, he found her chatting happily to Edgar Nolan, who ran the tobacconist’s shop across the way. Edgar was an old widower, harmless, but he could bore the eyebrows off a beetle given half the chance.

George and Maxine wandered up to the bar. “Bugger me, if you don’t get uglier every time I see you,” the lord of the manor said to him.

“You can sit yourself outside with the rest of the lager louts,” Arthur responded. Having proven their mutual respect and esteem, Arthur turned to Max. “Hallo, gorgeous. When are you going to give him the shove and run away with me?”

“How’s Friday for you?” Max asked. But her hand never left George’s. If he’d ever seen two people crazier about each other, he couldn’t remember it.

He grinned at her. “What can I get you, luv?”

“Do you have those little bottles of champagne?”

“Of course,” he said, hauling one out. He didn’t bother asking George, just pulled him a pint. Probably because he’d been ribbed so mercilessly as a teenager, Lord Ponsford had learned early to prefer beer to anything posh. Knowing they’d soon find friends and disappear into the crowd, Arthur said, “Come and meet the new tenant of Stag Cottage. Another Yank.”

George cocked an eyebrow.

Maxine was predictably thrilled to find that their temporary tenant was American. George did his charming lord-of-the-manor routine, then sent Arthur a glance that conveyed definite approval. Yeah, keep away, dirty dog, was what he telegraphed back.

Already, Maxine was catching up on news from home. Politics and celebrity gossip seemed equally fascinating. While they were at it, he and George discussed how they were going to annihilate their opponents next Saturday on the football pitch, in their local over-thirty league.

“I’m starving,” Maxine said. “Meg, will you join us for dinner?”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, really, I insist. I want to know what the Supreme Court is up to. Not to mention the latest on Jennifer Aniston. Hello! is great if you need to know about Liz Hurley or the Beckhams, but I feel like I’m losing touch with home.”

“You were in Los Angeles two months ago,” George reminded her.

“You don’t understand, honey.”

Maxine turned to Arthur, as he’d half known she would. Maxine already knew him too well and took as keen an interest in his affairs as his sister did. “Come and take a dinner break,” she ordered him.

If he didn’t want to eat dinner with Meg as much as Maxine knew he did, he’d be annoyed. But Maxine was right-he did. So he shrugged and said, “I’ll see.” Which, of course, Max being Max, she took as a yes.

“Great.” She turned to Meg. “We order off the board here. I can recommend everything, but my favorites are the shepherd’s pie and the lasagna-meat or vegetarian.”

Meg, who he suspected was feeling the effects of international travel followed by a good few hours spent murdering people, looked a little dazed. “Vegetarian lasagna sounds good to me.”