He stared at her, indecision written all over his face. She couldn’t tell whether he was making something up on the spot or working out whether he could confide in her. She pulled away and turned to slice the fresh loaf of Italian bread she’d bought earlier. She stuck a basket of sliced bread in front of him and he devoured apiece.
“I’m writing a novel,” he said as he worked on his secondslice.
“Anovel.”
“Yes. And you are the first person I’ve told aboutit.”
She remembered when Joe Stegna had told her he couldn’t finish his Shakespeare essay because he was building a rocket ship in his basement. He’d worn just that look. She crossed her arms and gave Luke that don’t-mess-with-me-I-can-give-you-an-F look. “And what is it called, thisnovel?”
He squirmed beneath her gaze.Ha!Gotcha.
“Prisons of the Mind.”He moved around the kitchen counter behind her, opened her cutlery drawer and got out two knives, two forks and two spoons. “I know that title sucks, but it’s just something to work with for now. What do youthink?”
Anybody could pull a title out of the ether, was what she thought, remaining unconvinced thatPrisons of the Minddidn’t wear a D-cup and moan a lot. “What’s it about? Yourbook.”
She opened the drawer beneath the one with the cutlery in it and passed him two place mats and two napkins. He lumbered back over to her small dining table and took his time setting it. “It’s hard to talk about, youknow?”
“I’llbet.”
He set the table as though barely aware he was doing it. “I thought it was going to be a straight mystery. In fact, I didn’t even start out to write a whole novel. I was only playing with some ideas. Then I got into this cop’s head. He’s the hero. But he’s losing it. This case is sending him over the edge. He starts having difficulty finding the line between fantasy and reality, and meantime the killer starts messing with his mind. I haven’t worked that part out yet. Nils is nodummy.”
“Nils?”
“That’s the killer’sname.”
“Nil.Nothing.”
He grinned at her as though she’d said the smartest thing he’d ever heard. “Exactly. At some point Jenkins, the cop, isn’t even sure of the villain’s real.” His eyes were burning with enthusiasm and she now saw that she’d misjudged him. Hewaswriting thisnovel.
She put the bread on the table between them and—what the hell, he already knew she’d planned to seduce him, he might as well know everything—pulled out the salad from the fridge. She handed him the bottle of Chianti, a corkscrew and a couple of wine-glasses.
He flicked a glance at her but didn’t say a word, for which she could have kissed him. He also turned off some of the lights and dragged a couple of candles over to the table so casually, she barelynoticed.
“I know it sounds stupid. Everybody and his uncle thinks they can write a book,but—”
“I think it’s fantastic. What a great way to stretch your mind and your creativity. And besides, you never know. It could be great. It sounds interesting already. I love psychological thrillers. Have youread…”
By the time the lasagna was ready they were well into a lively discussion about the books they liked, the writers they preferred, and he was admitting what he’d never told another soul, that he’d always dreamed of writingthrillers.
“How about you?” he asked as they dug into gelato. “Did you always want to be ateacher?”
She gazed at him across the table. Candlelight danced across his face, creating shadows and ridges, and reflected in his eyes. The ice cream was cold and sweet on her tongue. How amazing that after the complete debacle of her seduction plan, she should feel so utterly relaxed and able to talk about her life plans with this man. But, she found she could. “Yes. Always. I was the eldest child and we played school often, and I, of course, was always the teacher. My brothers and sister could all read and write by the time they started gradeone.”
“You must be anatural.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I’m pretty much learning as I go, but I do my best to keep it interesting. If I don’t know anything about a subject I try to bring in an expert.” She stopped and gasped, eyes widening as the obvious answer to her current dilemma stared back at her. “In fact, I’m doing a unit on journalism right now. I was planning to bring in a real live journalist. How’d you like to be our guestspeaker?”
He glanced up and raised his brows. “Me?”
“Sure, whynot?”
“I’m not a regular reporter, I workfreelance.”
“So what? That doesn’t matter at all. In fact, you’ll have a broader experience. Oh, please say you’ll doit.”
He looked really uncomfortable, and once again she was forced to accept that for all his confident outward demeanor, he must beshy.
Luke stared across the table at Shari, wondering if she’d still be as eager for him to talk to her impressionable high school students if she knew he free-lanced for other publications under the Lance Flagstaff pseudonym. If she knew, for instance, that his last column forMen’s Monthlywas titled, “Get Her Off EveryTime.”
