"I'm positive you said eight. Didn't he, Gordon?"

Gordon was too busy giving him love to back up her story.

She pulled an orange from a bowl on the counter. "Is it true your parents were members of the British royal family?"

"One step from the throne." Byrne noted the Waterford dog dish as he made his way into the sunroom, but didn't comment.

"Liar. You grew up poor."

"Then why did you ask?"

"So I could irritate you by pointing out the differences in our backgrounds. Yours, humble and squalid. Mine, pampered and privileged. And if you want fresh juice every morning, I'm going to need an automatic juicer."

"Tough it out."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one with blisters on her palms."

He headed back toward the archway, the book he'd retrieved in his hand, the light from the tall windows sending a sluice of mahogany through his already dramatic hair. "I'll expect breakfast in my office in twenty minutes." He disappeared into the hall.

"Good luck," she muttered.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

She shot around the end of the counter and stuck her head through the archway. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

His chuckle drifted back to her, low and diabolical. "The Cinderella story in reverse. I only wish there were ashes in the fireplace so I could order you to sweep them out. Come along, Gordon."

She watched in disgust as her turncoat dog slipped after him into the office.

Half an hour later, she'd a.s.sembled a semidecent breakfast of two poached eggs on toast, a bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal topped with a mountain of brown sugar, and an admittedly tiny gla.s.s of fresh juice. Unfortunately, she was already pushing open the old library door when it occurred to her that she should spit in it.

Like the rest of the house, the library bore no resemblance to the dark, walnut-paneled room she remembered. White plantation shutters, open to the lawn on the west side of the house, let in the light. The hodgepodge of antiques she'd grown up with had been replaced by sleekly styled gla.s.s and granite furniture. Gordon lay on the abstract rug not far from Byrne's feet, along with paper wads that had missed the wastebasket. She set the tray on the end of the desk. Byrne turned away from his computer screen and studied his breakfast through a pair of Richard Gere rimless gla.s.ses. "I a.s.sumed you could read."

She was getting more than a little tired of his inferences that she was stupid. "There weren't any cookbooks in the kitchen, and I don't seem to have a pancake recipe memorized."

"Cookbooks are on the top shelf of the pantry." He studied the oatmeal. "I detest porridge, and where are my grilled tomatoes?"

He p.r.o.nounced it toe-mah-toes, which sounded pretentious as h.e.l.l, even coming from a Brit.

"I know you're technically an American citizen, but if you keep talkin' like that, you're goin' to get your sorry a.s.s kicked right out of Mississippi. And what kind of person wants to eat toe-mah-toes for breakfast? h.e.l.l, I can barely get one of those suckers down for dinner." She pointed to the bowl. "And that, my friend, is good ol' fashioned Quaker Oats. n.o.body over the age of three says porridge."

"Are you done?"

"I think so." She grabbed the oatmeal bowl, along with his spoon, and carried it to the couch, where she perched on the arm and dug into the brown sugar. "It's better with raisins, but I couldn't find any. Or blueberries, for that matter, so those pancakes were problematic from the beginning." She rolled the oatmeal on her tongue, savoring its warm, comforting glue. It had been forever since she'd had anything decent to eat, but she never seemed to get around to cooking for herself.

He pulled off the Richard Geres. "Go grocery shopping. That's what you're here for, isn't it? And did I invite you to sit down?"

She dragged the spoon upside down from her mouth. "We need to discuss my paycheck."

"We already discussed it."

"I want a raise." She gestured toward the poached eggs. "Eat before they get cold. The point is, you get what you pay for, and what you're paying for right now doesn't get you much."

He eyed the half-filled juice gla.s.s. "I seem to be getting exactly what you're worth."

Just to be mean, she leaned far enough forward to shoot him a view of her well-supported cleavage. "You have no idea what I'm worth, bucko."

He took his time looking, leaning back in his chair and not even bothering to be subtle about it. In the end, she was the one who got uncomfortable, and she used her oatmeal as an excuse to straighten back up, which he found too darned amusing for words.

"You should be careful how you showcase your wares, Sugar Beth. I might think you want to expand your job duties."

"You couldn't be that lucky."

"Perhaps now is the time to tell you that I have a weakness for agreeable women."

"Well, that sure does leave me out."

"Exactly. With agreeable women, I'm unendingly considerate. Gallant even."

"But with tarts like me, the gloves are off, is that it?"

"I wouldn't exactly call you a tart. But then, I tend to be broad-minded."

She suppressed the urge to dump her porridge in his lap.

He turned his attention to his eggs, which gave her a chance to look him over, not exactly hazardous duty. He wasn't a pretty boy like her first two husbands. Darren had been a dazzler, and Cy had posed for Mr. January in the stuntman calendar. But there was something about Colin Byrne...

Lethal cheekbones, lips too carnal for that long blade of a nose. His feet were huge but not clunky, because they were so narrow. She studied his hands. They should have been slender and elegant, but they looked as though they'd been designed to dig ditches. A dangerous bolt of heat shot through her. He might be the demon personified, but he was also too s.e.xy for her peace of mind. Apparently, she hadn't gotten rid of all her old suicidal instincts when it came to unsuitable men.

Her gaze returned to those blunt, competent fingers. She blinked. "You're the one who put that chain across my driveway."

"You knew that."

"No, I mean you did it yourself. You didn't hire anyone. You poured the concrete and set the posts."

"It's hardly brain surgery."

"I wasn't even gone for two hours. And when I saw you afterward, you were wearing Armani."

"I believe it was Hugo Boss."

"You actually know how to do manual labor?"

"How do you think I supported myself after I lost my teaching job?"

"With your writing." If she made it sound like a statement, maybe it would be true.

"I'm afraid my ability to write anything worth reading was put on hold after you had your fun."

She lost her appet.i.te.

"My father was a bricklayer," he said. "Irish. And my mother was English. Rather an amusing story. She came from an upper-cla.s.s family that spent the last of its dwindling fortune making certain their only daughter could make a brilliant marriage. Instead, she fell in love with my father. Tears, threats, disownment. The stuff of great romance."

"How did it work out?"

"They hated each other within a year."

She knew what that was like.

"I got my love of literature and the arts from my mother, but I'm more like my father in personality. Mean, unforgiving b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Still, he taught me a useful trade."

"You worked as a bricklayer after you went back to England?"

"In this country, too. The novel I wrote before Last Whistle-stop wasn't quite the best-seller I'd hoped it would be. Luckily, I enjoy working with my hands, and I had no trouble supporting myself."

But he shouldn't have had to do it laying brick, and some of the starch went out of her. "You aren't ever going to forgive me, are you?"

"Let's just say I'm in no hurry." He flicked his hand toward the door. "Run along and find something degrading to do."

The telephone rang. He reached out, but she was p.i.s.sed again, so she beat him to it. "Byrne residence."

"Give me that."

"A freebie," she whispered.

"I need to speak with Colin," the woman at the other end said.

He held out his hand for the phone, clearly expecting the worst from her. It was tempting to give it to him, but she had a point to make, so she turned her back. "Mr. Byrne is working now. May I take a message?"

"Tell him it's Madeline." The woman on the other end made no attempt to hide her displeasure at being put off. "I'm sure he'll take my call."

"Madeline?" She turned back to Byrne. He vigorously shook his head. She settled back on the arm of the couch and reclaimed her oatmeal, finally beginning to enjoy herself. "I'm sorry, but I have orders not to interrupt him."

"He won't mind. I promise you."

"I'll make certain to deliver your message."

"I'm afraid you don't understand. I'm Madeline Farr."

Sugar Beth vaguely recognized the name of a New York socialite and put a little more magnolia into her accent. "Are you really? My, this certainly is an honor. I can't wait to tell all my friends I've spoken with you in person. Let me have your number."

She took a bite of oatmeal while an irritated Madeline reeled off a telephone number Sugar Beth didn't bother to write down. "Got it," she said when the woman paused for breath.

"It's very important for Colin to call me back by the end of the day."

"I'll tell him the minute I see him, but he still has messages backed up from last week, and he's been working so hard he barely comes out of the office, the poor ol' sod." She gave Colin a thumbs-up, making the point that she could talk his lingo anytime she pleased.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Do your best," the woman snapped.

"I sure will," she replied. "So lovely talkin' with you, Ms. Farr."

She hung up and regarded Byrne with satisfaction. "Note that I didn't tell her to go screw herself, even though she's obviously a b.i.t.c.h. I remained polite, fawning almost. At the same time, I didn't commit you to anything. In case you're not bright enough to figure it out, there's a real upside to having a sinner like me answer your phone. I lie, and your conscience stays clear." She rose from the couch. "Now, about that raise..."

He took a sip of coffee, unaffected by her outburst. "I'm having a dinner party in ten days to thank some of the people from the university who helped me with my new book. My agent and editor are flying in. A few others will be here, maybe thirty total, I'll let you know. The caterer's phone number is on your list. See what you have to do to get the house ready. And you'll need to serve, of course. After that, we'll discuss how much you're worth."

"You bet your sweet heinie we will."

She grabbed her oatmeal and headed out the door.

Colin listened to the taps of her ridiculously inappropriate heels retreating down the hallway. His writer's imagination could be a blessing or a curse, and right now he was cursed with the image of those tight black slacks hugging her bottom, and that little turquoise b.u.t.terfly bouncing between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He needed to look for a uniform company as soon as possible.

It was ironic. When he'd arrived at Parrish High, he'd been twenty-two, in the throes of his own hormonal overload, and it had taken all his self-control to keep his eyes from lingering too long on so many short skirts and supple b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But Sugar Beth had never tempted him. So how was it that now, older and infinitely wiser, he found himself bombarded with mental images of her lying naked and feisty in his bed?

He knew better. Painful experience had taught him to keep his s.e.xual relationships uncomplicated, but he still sometimes had to fight that instinctive part of him that was attracted to dramatic women. This was clearly one of those occasions. Still, age had taught him how to control his old weakness, and he wouldn't let it worry him.

He'd inherited his foolish romanticism from his mother. When he was a boy, it had made him far too caught up in dreams of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses for his father to tolerate, and after a few beatings, Colin had learned to confine that part of himself to the stories he wrote in his head. Still, it had taken his disastrous five-year marriage to a deeply neurotic American poet with raven hair, milky white skin, and haunted eyes to make him understand that he could never again express that secret part of himself anywhere but on paper. He'd loved Lara desperately, but there hadn't been enough love in the world to satisfy her kind of neediness. One rainy New Orleans night nine years ago, she'd run their car into a concrete abutment, ending her own life and taking the life of their unborn child. It had been the worst time of his life, a black h.e.l.l that had swallowed him whole for nearly two years. He'd vowed never to put himself through anything like that again.

Once again, he considered the wisdom of having the ultimate high-maintenance female working in his house, but the opportunity for revenge had been too sweet to resist. Still, he wouldn't let her distract him again. From now on, he'd direct every bit of his energy where it belonged. Into his new novel.

He heard the faint sound of running water in the kitchen. Last night it had taken him nearly an hour to come up with that overloaded list of things for her to do today. The dinner party had been in the works for a month, so that was pure serendipity. He smiled and checked his conscience to see if he was ashamed of himself, but the romantic boy who'd once dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses had developed the heart of a cynic, and his conscience didn't say a word.

Sugar Beth tossed aside Colin's list long before she got to the end and concentrated on the essentials. As she'd expected, his freezer was stuffed with frost-encrusted ca.s.seroles from the good women of Parrish, but the rest of his refrigerator was nearly as empty as hers. He'd tossed a pile of clothes destined for the dry cleaner on the couch, and a package addressed to a New York literary agency needed to go to the post office. He'd also left a note about some books waiting to be picked up at the bookstore. If she got enough done, maybe she'd be able to start searching the house this afternoon.

She polished off her coffee, set her oatmeal bowl in the sink to soak, then grabbed the keys to his Lexus. No way was she using her gas to run his errands. As an afterthought, she tossed the keys to her old Volvo on the counter, just in case he had an emergency. She was nothing if not considerate.

His Lexus smelled like designer cologne and a portfolio of tax-free munic.i.p.al bonds. She set her purse on the seat. Inside was the envelope he'd left her with a hundred dollars in petty cash and a note saying he wanted a receipt for every penny. Suspicious b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

As she came out of the dry cleaner, she met Sherry Wilkes, a former cla.s.smate, who backed her into a corner and filled her in with a description of all her health problems, which included acid reflux, eczema, and early-stage endometriosis. Sugar Beth supposed she should be grateful that someone female wanted to talk to her, but the encounter only made her think about how much she missed the Seawillows. So far she hadn't run into any of them, but that wouldn't last forever. She wasn't looking forward to being cut dead by the women whose friendship she'd held so cheaply.

She found the town's new bookstore catty-corner across the street from Winnie's antique shop. Hand-painted African animals formed a border around the plate-gla.s.s window, which displayed current best-sellers, biographies, and a wide selection of works by African American novelists. A toy train surrounded a display of autographed copies of Last Whistle-stop designed to attract the tourists. In the center of the window, the store's name, gemima books, was printed in bold brown letters outlined in black. Beneath that, a smaller inscription read All people with free hearts are welcome here. The only sign Sugar Beth could remember from Parrish's former bookstore had read no food or ice cream.

She heard the sounds of Glen Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations as she entered. Two elderly women chatted by the cookbooks, and a mother with a toddler browsed through the parenting section, aided by a clerk with curly blond hair. Sugar Beth used to believe nothing smelled better than the perfume aisles of a department store, but that was before she'd discovered the companionship of books. Now she breathed in the smell of the store.

A tiny woman, her head shaved to reveal the elegant shape of her skull, came toward her. She wore a close-fitting saffron, long-sleeved top, wooden beads, and a slim, calf-length wrap skirt made of kente cloth. She had a dancer's body, what little there was of it, and she smiled as she slipped behind the cash register.

"What can I do-? Well..." She lifted her eyebrows. "Well, well, well."

They were probably close to the same age, so they might have gone to school together, but Sugar Beth didn't recognize her. There'd been little social interaction between the black and white kids, although they'd been expected to get along together, thanks to the influence of her father's hiring policies at the window factory. Although Griffin Carey had been a Southern traditionalist in many ways, he'd held liberal social views, and he'd used his economic clout to enforce them. Modern-day Parrish, with a relatively prosperous African American community and a forty-year history of racial cooperation, had reaped the rewards.

Sugar Beth braced herself for the worst. "I'm afraid you have me at a loss."

"I'll just bet I do. I'm Jewel Myers."

"Jewel?" She couldn't believe this beautiful woman was Jewel Myers, the scruffy tomboy daughter of Diddie's housekeeper Ellie. "I-uh-didn't recognize you."

"I grew up while you were gone." She seemed amused. "I became a radical lesbian feminist."