Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

When they’d ordered, George took them away to settle at a table. She fit right in with them, Arthur thought. Already Meg and Maxine were on the friendliest terms. A lot of people were intimidated by George’s title and all the pomp that surrounded him, at least until they got to know him. But he could tell Meg wasn’t like that. He suspected every man would have to prove himself in her eyes. Prince or pauper.

He waited until the food was up to take his break, reasoning that Meg hadn’t asked for his company and she’d made it fairly clear she wasn’t looking for any action. At least, not on her first day here. Give her a week or so to acclimatize and he might see if he could interest his temporary neighbor in a possible holiday fling.

The dinner rush was ending and Joe was on with a couple of waitresses, so Arthur picked up the tray of food and delivered it, serving himself today’s special: chicken Kiev.

“Oh, my God,” Maxine squealed as soon as he sat down. “I can’t believe you’re Meg Stanton.” She looked at Arthur and George in turn. “I love her books.” She shook a carrot stick at Meg. “You have kept me awake way too many nights.”

He could tell from the pleased and rather smug look on her face that Meg thought a sleepless reader was a high compliment.

“So you’re famous?” He’d accepted that she was a writer without ever thinking she might be well known. Well, he’d never heard of her, but that didn’t mean much.

“No-”

“Yes,” Max interrupted. “She’s totally famous in the States. Maybe not so much here. But I’m sure that will change. I thought your last book was your best yet.”

“Is it a chick read?” George wanted to know.

Maxine rolled her eyes. “Lots of men read her novels. My dad is a huge fan.”

Arthur had wondered the same thing, whether the lady was writing for her own kind, but he wasn’t going to have his nose snapped off. “I’ll have to track down one of your books.”

“I can lend you one. I think I’ve got them all,” Maxine said with pride. “In fact, while you’re here, maybe you could sign them for me?”

“I’d be delighted,” Meg replied.

“I can’t believe this. I know, I’m gushing. But I am such a fan. I’ve read every one of your books.”

“Really? Which is your favorite?” Meg paused and put her fork down, obviously taking this seriously.

“I have two favorites. I can never decide whether I like the one about the wife who murders her adulterous husband, and then decides to rid her city of all cheating men-oh, and those guys totally got what they deserved. It was so deliciously gory. Or the woman who was abandoned by her father, and after she tracks him down and kills him-well, I don’t want to give any more away.”

“Men don’t do so well in your novels,” Arthur commented.

“I’ve had lots of different kinds of killers,” Meg told him. “And victims.” She sent him an odd look. “My current killer is definitely male.”

“Mmm.” Maxine nodded with enthusiasm. “Those two are my favorites, Arthur. But you can come up to the house and choose whichever you like.”

He was fascinated. He’d had a glimpse of how this woman worked; it would be interesting to see what her books were like. And if he could see her in them.

Maxine was enough of a fan, and she missed her home enough, that he and George didn’t say much. Fine with him. He wanted to know more about Meg, and he enjoyed watching her. He liked her quick intelligence and the thoughtful way she answered questions she must have been asked hundreds of times.

When Joe appeared a little overwhelmed, he excused himself.

George soon found an excuse to sidle up to the bar. “I haven’t seen you that smitten since Keira Knightley came into the pub.”

“Do me a favor, George?”

“Drop dead? Mind my own business? Do something vulgar to myself that will no doubt involve my bottom?”

“Walk Meg home.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s new here and I think a little scared of the dark. I’d appreciate it if you and Maxine would walk her right to her door on your way home.”

George stared at him as though he’d gone mad. “Wouldn’t you rather walk her home yourself?”

Of course he would, but the woman had jet lag and he wasn’t in the mood to make a fool of himself.

“Too busy. And she’s exhausted, can’t you see it?” Her eyes had that smudged look and her smiling response to what was obviously Maxine’s continued gushing was becoming mechanical.

“Yes, of course. Should have seen it myself. Can’t have the tenants dropping dead of fatigue. At least, not before they’ve paid the rent. Right. I’ll try and get her away from her most enthusiastic fan.”

“Cheers.”

With George’s usual social dexterity, he had the women on their feet and headed out the door before Maxine had quite realized she was leaving.

Arthur was gratified to see Meg turn as they reached the door and search him out. Across the noise and bodies, their gazes met and held for one of those timeless moments. When you’ve had a good sleep, he promised her silently, you’ll be hearing from me.

In an instant she was gone.

The banging on the door pulled Meg out of an intricate scene. It was like a chess game, keeping so many things in her head and trying to see several moves ahead. She felt almost as murderous as her villain when she stomped to the door and yanked it open.

“What?” Then the scowl dropped off her face. “Oh, Maxine. I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry to bother you like this, but your phone’s not working.”

“Yes, it is. I unplugged it. I always do when I’m working.”

“God, I’m sorry. I’ve disturbed you.”

Well, that was the truth, but there was something about Maxine that made her impossible not to like. Besides, she had purchased all of Meg’s books. In hardcover, Meg was sure. So she forced a smile to her face and pushed her hair out of the way. “It’s good to see you. Do you want some tea?”

“No. But you look like you could use some. In fact,” her new friend said with devastating frankness, “you look like hell.”

“I probably do.” Meg was pretty sure she’d showered this morning, but she had no idea what she was wearing, if or what she’d eaten today, or even what day it was. She grinned. “The book’s going really well.”

“Then I’d hate to see you when it’s not. Look. Have you eaten lunch?”

“I’m not sure.” She glanced at the kitchen, looking for hints. There was a cup with a tag hanging out-that was the herbal green tea from breakfast. Whatever else she’d eaten was a mystery. She’d cleaned up after herself.

“Tell you what. I’ll come in and make you lunch and a cup of tea. I’m not staying, but you really look like you could use a meal.”

Meg blinked. She felt disoriented, as though she’d been ill or in solitary confinement, which, come to think of it, she had. Self-imposed solitary confinement. She followed Maxine into the kitchen.

“So I came to invite you to watch the boys play soccer tomorrow,” Maxine said, “and come to dinner at our place after.”

“Boys? I didn’t know you had kids.”

Maxine laughed. A good, rich sound. “Big boys. George and Arthur, among others. They play soccer two Saturdays a month. Overgrown schoolboys who still like to run around in shorts and push each other into the mud. I thought we’d have a few people back for dinner.”

“By your place, I assume you mean the castle?”

“Not a castle, honey. A house. And if you ever figure out how a five-hundred-year-old pile of stone with hundreds of rooms doesn’t count as a castle, you let me know.” While she talked, she bustled about the small kitchen and Meg was still too stunned to stop her. She realized she’d become a little obsessed, so driven to work while the writing was going well that she’d lost touch with the world.