Envy(41)

Mike turned away and stamped back into the kitchen. “My biscuits are burning.”

Parker returned to his computer screen, but the interruption had log-jammed his creative flow. He couldn’t focus on the last few sentences he’d written. They now seemed a jumble of words and phrases beyond translation. In an effort to assign them meaning, he forced his eyes to stop on each word separately. But no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t make sense of them. They could have been written in Sanskrit.

And then he realized why reading and understanding his own words had suddenly become a challenge: He was nervous. Which was odd, considering that everything had fallen into place more or less as he had planned. He’d made a few spontaneous adjustments to accommodate Maris Matherly-Reed’s personality, but she was responding to him and his situation even better than he had dared hope she would.

Now that he thought about it, getting her here had been almost too easy. He had pulled the strings, and, like a puppet, she had made the correct moves. He figured that’s what had Mike’s shorts in a wad this morning. Her innocent cooperation had lent her a certain vulnerability and made her seem almost a victim.

But she isn’t, he told himself stubbornly.

Yeah, he had tugged some strings to guide her in the direction he wanted her to go, but ultimately she was in control. Everything depended on how well she liked Envy, or if she liked it at all.

And that’s what had his shorts in a wad. Not only from the standpoint of the overall plan, but as a writer, he was nervous to hear what she thought of the pages she had curled up with last night. What if she thought they stunk? What if she thanked him for the opportunity to review more of his work but declined it and said her good-byes?

His plot would be screwed, and he would feel like shit.

Agitated, he turned his wheelchair on a dime and saw her picking her way along the path between the main house and the cottage. Originally it had been the detached kitchen of the plantation house. Parker had converted it into a guest house. Not that he entertained a lot of guests. Not that he planned to in the future. Nevertheless, the interior of the structure had been gutted and he had spared no expense to have it completely and comfortably renovated.

Accomplished with only one guest in mind—the one presently occupying it.

Maris glanced up and saw him watching her from behind the glass panels of the solarium. She smiled and waved. Waved? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had waved at him. Feeling rather goofy, he raised his hand and waved back.

She let herself in through the sliding door. “Good morning.”

“Hi.”

Her skin looked dewy. She smelled like floral-scented soap. Magnolia, maybe. She had his manuscript pages with her.

“It’s gorgeous here, Parker,” she exclaimed a bit breathlessly. “Last night it was too dark for me to fully appreciate the property. But seeing it in daylight, I understand why you fell in love with this place.” She looked out across the expanse of green lawn, the sugary beach, and the sparkling Atlantic. “It’s wonderful. So peaceful.”

“I forgot a hair dryer.”

Self-consciously she tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “I searched but couldn’t find one. Actually, it’s such a warm morning, it felt good to leave it wet. A hair dryer is all the cottage lacked, however. You did an excellent job on it.”

“Thanks.”

He continued to scrutinize her, and, as he intended, his scrutiny increased her self-consciousness. “The furnishings are charming. I especially like the iron headboard and the claw-footed bathtub.”

“Mike’s ideas.”

“Good ones.”

“Yeah, he’s into all that. Iron beds. Bathtubs. Mantels.”

“He has an eye for detail.”

“I guess.”

The conversation lagged for several moments, then they spoke at the same time.

He said, “Your blouse is wet.”

She said, “I read the new pages.”

“What’d you think?” he asked.

“My blouse?”

“It’s damp.”

She looked down and saw what had held Parker’s attention from the moment she stepped inside. She was dressed in the same skirt and blouse she had arrived in. Following supper last night, Mike had wheedled and pleaded, then insisted that she stay in their guest house. She had finally accepted the invitation, but because of the hour, it had been impractical to try and retrieve her luggage from the hotel in Savannah.

Consequently she had dressed in the same clothes this morning, except for her suit jacket, which she’d left off in deference to the climate. A damp pattern had appeared on the front of her blouse in the exact shape of her bra.

She rolled the sheets of manuscript into a tube, probably to stop herself from using them to shield her chest. “I washed out some things last night.”

Things, plural. If she’d washed out things, what had been left for her to sleep in? Surmising made Parker go a little dewy himself.

“I guess they didn’t get quite dry,” she explained lamely.

“The humidity.”

“I suppose.”

Their eyes connected but only for a millisecond before she looked away. She was embarrassed, and that was good. In fact, that was excellent. He wanted to keep her rattled and off balance. Too f*cking bad if Mike disapproved of the strategy.