* * *
Maris was glad she had changed for dinner because for the first time since her arrival, it was being served in the formal dining room, the hanging ghost notwithstanding.
She was wearing a gray silk dress she had bought early in the season at Bergdorf’s, thinking it would be perfect for dinner out in the country. She reasoned that the lightweight fabric, slip-style bodice, and flared skirt were also perfect for dinner at home in an antebellum plantation house. She had accessorized it with a choker of pale coral beads.
Mike had laid a beautiful table. Fragrant magnolia blossoms had been arranged in a crystal bowl in the center of the table, flanked by silver candlesticks with white tapers. He’d used china, silver, and crystal stemware that represented good taste and a sizable investment.
“This is lovely, Mike,” she remarked as he held the lyre-back chair for her.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Parker said from his place at the head of the table. “It’s all rented for the evening.”
“Yes, from Terry’s Bar and Grill,” Mike said drolly. “Besides smoking baby back ribs, he does a huge formal party rental business.”
She laughed. “Wherever it came from, I like it.”
“It all belonged to Parker’s mother,” Mike informed her as he poured the wine, forgetting that he’d delegated that job to her.
She looked toward Parker for confirmation. “The tableware was handed down through generations of Mom’s family. It was bequeathed to either the first daughter or daughter-in-law. My mother had neither, so it came to me by default. It’s been in storage since she died. This is the first time it’s been used.” He slid a glance toward Mike. “Can’t imagine what the special occasion is.”
Maris raised her wineglass. “To the completion of Envy.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Mike raised his glass.
“It’s not finished yet,” Parker reminded them, but he raised his glass all the same.
The crystal stems sounded like chimes when they clinked them together. The Pinot Grigio was cold and crisp, a perfect complement to the meal Mike had prepared.
Parker might have disavowed that this was a special occasion, but she noticed that he had changed for dinner, too. She wondered if Mike had mandated the extra grooming or if it had been voluntary. Although his only nod toward styling his hair was to rake his fingers through it, the tousled look suited him. He had recently shaved; she could smell the sandalwood soap. He was wearing his customary casual pants, but his shirt was tucked in. The sleeves were rolled back to just below his elbows, revealing his strong forearms.
The candlelight blurred the lines that years of pain had etched into his face. It softened the hardness that resentment had stamped on his features and allayed the bitterness that compromised his smiles.
He also seemed to be relaxed and enjoying himself. While they ate, he regaled them with wild stories about Terry, of Bar and Grill fame, who was reputed to be everything from a modern-day pirate to a drug runner to a white slave trader.
“I don’t know or care which rumor is true or if any of them are. He grills one hell of a burger.”
Maris shuddered at the memory of the tavern. “I can’t recommend the place. Totally unsavory clientele.”
“Hey!” Parker said, looking affronted.
She gracefully turned the conversation back to the book. “The tension mounts.”
“I presume you mean between Roark and Todd.”
“It’s becoming palpable,” she said. “What I read today leads me to believe that it’s soon to come to a head.”
“I’m giving nothing away.”
“A hint? Please?”
He looked at Mike. “Think I should divulge a few plot twists?”
The older man considered it for several seconds. “She is your editor.”
“That’s right, I is,” Maris declared. They laughed, then she leaned toward Parker to make her appeal. “What if you’re about to make a fatal mistake, editorially speaking? If you talk me through the next few scenes, I could steer you clear of any potential pitfalls and save you a lot of rewrites.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You know what that sounds like? A veiled threat.”
“Not at all.” She flashed him a saccharine smile. “It’s outright extortion.”
He placed his palm over the mouth of his wineglass, and his strong fingers absently traced the pattern cut into the crystal. His eyes remained on her. She looked back at him with challenge.
Mike pushed back his chair and stood up. “Who’s ready for strawberry sorbet? I made it myself from fresh berries.”
Without disengaging her eyes from Parker’s, she asked, “Need any help?”
“No, thank you.” Mike went into the kitchen through the connecting door and it swung closed behind him.
Maris was slightly short of breath. Her tummy felt weightless despite the meal she’d just eaten. Two glasses of wine were hardly enough to make her feel this light-headed. So she attributed her sudden case of the flutters to the way Parker was looking at her—like she was the tastiest item at the table that evening.
“Well? What’s it to be, Mr. Parker?”
“Tell you what.” His eyes, which had strayed to the vicinity of her breasts, moved slowly up to her face. “We’ll play a game of high-card draw.”
She arched her brow inquisitively.
“Remember the scene in Grass Widow,” he continued, “where Cayton and the reluctant witness to the murder played that game?”
“Vaguely,” she lied. Actually she remembered it vividly. When the book was published, that scene had created a buzz. “Erotically charged,” was how Publishers Weekly had described it. “The reluctant witness was a woman, right?”
“Frenchy. Fragile, fair, and flighty. So nicknamed because—”
“That part I remember.”
He grinned a fox’s grin. The one he grinned right after isolating the plumpest hen in the flock. Maris knew she’d been had, but she didn’t care. In fact, she was struggling to contain the idiotic smile her lips were aching to smile.
Pulling a serious face, she said, “My memory is a little dim on the rules of this game.”
“Easy. They used a standard deck of cards. They each draw a card. High card wins.”
“Wins what?”
“If Cayton won, Frenchy had to give him a clue to the murderer’s identity.”
“What if she drew the high card?”
“Cayton granted her a sexual favor.”
“He granted her a sexual favor.”
“Right.”
She tapped her pursed lips with her fingertip as though stymied by the illogic. “It seems to me that—and correct me if I’m wrong—that Cayton would win either way.”
“Well, see, he made up the rules, and he’s no dummy.”
“But Frenchy—”
“A crotch-throb by any standards. Long red hair. Legs that go on forever. Pale freckles on her tits. An ass that… Well, you know the type. But, unfortunately, she’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
Maris gave the swaying chandelier overhead a glance before continuing. “So the outcome of this game was that Cayton got the information and the crotch-throb.”
“Was that a brilliant idea or what?”
“And you expect me to be no brighter than Frenchy? You expect me to play by these rules?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On how badly I want to hear those plot twists?”
“Or on how badly you want those sexual favors.”