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s 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.”
