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Maris was standing just inside the open doorway. The first time she came to the deserted cotton gin, she’d been apprehensive and hesitant to enter. This morning her aura was glowing as red hot as a new star. If the threshold on which she was standing had been the gateway to hell, Parker doubted she would have been intimidated.
Given that he could see the outline of her legs—all the way to the top—through her skirt, her fury was ineffectual. At the very least, it was compromised. His eyes were drawn to that vaguely defined delta, but he concentrated on keeping them in a neutral zone above her waist. God knew he didn’t need to provoke her any more than she was already provoked.
Unflappably, he asked, “You didn’t like the book?”
“Fuck you.”
“I guess not.”
With her hands clenched into fists that she held stiffly at her sides, she walked toward him, quoting as she came, “ ‘At least they had parted while all the memories were still sweet.’ ” She came to a stop within a yard of his chair and he noted that she was wearing eyeglasses. “You’re either a plagiarist or
a consummate liar, and either way you’re a son of a bitch.”
“So you said. I got it the first time.”
“Which is it? Just so I’ll know. One’s as despicable as the other.”
“I believe you quoted from chapter seventeen, page two hundred forty-three. Deck is at his late wife’s grave.” He feigned puzzlement. “I’m not sure if one can plagiarize oneself. Can one?”
She was too angry to speak.
“Deck is grief-stricken but grateful that he’d had her in his life for even a short time,” he continued. “It was rather good, I thought.”
“Good enough to use again. In Envy. After Leslie broke up with Roark.”
At what hour of the day had she discovered the telltale passage? he wondered. Had it been late last night as she lay in the guest cottage bed, or had she been reading over her morning coffee? The circumstances really didn’t matter. She knew his secret, and she was pissed.
“Why did you lie to me, Parker?”
“I never lied about it,” he countered calmly. “You never asked me if I was Mackensie Roone. You never asked me if I wrote a mystery series featuring Deck Cayton. Even when we were talking about him last night, you never once said—”
“Don’t be obtuse, Parker! You lied by omission. Otherwise, you would have volunteered that vital piece of information.”
“Vital? Hardly. It wasn’t even important. It wasn’t relevant. If you’d’ve asked, I would have—”
“Invented some bullshit story. Like this has been from the very beginning.”
“If I hadn’t wanted to be found out, I wouldn’t have deliberately used that sentence in Envy and then recommended that you read the first Deck Cayton book.”
“Which was another of your games to test how sharp I am,” she shouted.
Her hair was tousled and her cheeks were pink, as though she’d run all the way here from the house. Truth be told, she looked adorably disheveled and smelled of the vanilla in freshly baked tea cakes. But she wouldn’t welcome the compliments.
“I’ve never seen you wearing glasses. Do you ordinarily wear contacts?”
Impatiently she raked her hair back. “What I want to know is why.”
She had lowered the timbre of her voice, although it appeared to have been an effort. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as though the volume and vituperation trapped inside were creating inner turbulence.
“Why did you play this ridiculous game with me, Parker? Or Mackensie or whatever the hell your name is.”
“Parker Mackensie Evans. Mackensie was my mother’s maiden name. When I was deciding on a pseudonym, it seemed a logical choice. Tickled my mom no end for me to use it. It has a nice ring. It’s androgynous. It’s—”
“Answer me”
“—safe.”
“From what?”
