had enough against the flamboyant brunette without putting such a weapon in his hands.
“Typewriter?” Cannon caught the word immediately and stared pointedly at Margie.
Margie thought fast. “I do a political opinion column for our local weekly newspaper,” she said.
“And you skipped meals because that took all day?” he asked suspiciously.
“I do a political opinion column every week,” she returned, “and I have to keep at least two weeks ahead in case I decide to run away to Bermuda with my latest boyfriend.”
“God help your poor husband,” he growled.
“My husband is dead, Mr. Van Dyne,” she said quietly, sobering at once. “He was killed in an airplane crash five years ago. Now if you don’t mind, it’s a subject I’d rather we closed. It’s very painful.”
He looked embarrassed, studying her for a long moment before turning his disconcerting gaze to his menu.
Margie studied her own. Even though she could now afford the prices at better restaurants, these staggered her. Nothing was under twenty dollars and the least expensive item was a simple chicken breast stuffed with a ham and cheese filling. She wasn’t fond of chicken, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be obligated to Cannon Van Dyne, even for a meal.
“Shall I translate for you?” Cannon asked with grudging politeness when the waiter returned and stood beside her.
She smiled with studied sweetness. “How kind,” she murmured demurely, “but I think I can struggle through it.” She looked up at the waiter. “Je prends la poule cordon bleu, s’il vous pla;afit,” she said in flawless French, “des pommes de terre Louis et des choux de Bruxelles.”
The waiter grinned at her, writing it all down. “Avec plaisir, madame,” he replied. “Monsieur?”
Cannon shot her a glare while he ordered himself a steak, a baked potato, and a green salad. The order was given in clipped English and he was still glaring at her when the waiter went around to take the rest of the order from Andy.
“Not bad,” he said coolly, studying her. “Your French is quite good. Do you speak other languages?”
“Spanish,” she told him. “Italian. A little Arabic and some Hebrew. I love languages. They were my passion when I went to college.”
“What was your major?”
“Journalism,” she said. “I only went for two years, though.”
He frowned. “Why did you leave?”
Her face closed. “I got married.”
“Margie’s a gourmet cook,” Jan told Cannon when the silence lingered after the waiter had departed. “She’s quite good at it.”
“Is she?” Cannon asked, glancing toward Margie. “What’s your specialty?”
“Goose,” she shot back.
Something flared briefly in his dark eyes. “Thinking of mine?” he murmured softly. “Forget it, honey, that’s been tried by experts.”
Her green eyes sparkled. “I do pretty well with buttered toadstools and deadly nightshade,” she added. “But you’d probably thrive on that kind of diet.”
“Margie!” Jan groaned.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cannon told the younger woman. “She can handle herself, and so can I.” His dark eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair, carelessly holding the wineglass in his graceful hand. “I don’t mind stimulating conversation at the dinner table. It’s rather refreshing.”
“Why?” Margie asked sweetly. “Do people usually dive under the table when they disagree with you?”
He cocked his head. “It’s safer,” he murmured.
“By the way,” Andy interrupted, taking matters into his own hands, “I called Mother earlier this evening to tell her Jan was coming down to Panama City with us.”
Cannon lifted a bushy eyebrow at Andy’s confident tone. “So she told me. I had a conversation with her myself, and I’ve decided it might not be a bad idea for Jan to visit, after all. As a matter of fact, I suggested that Mrs. Silver might want to accompany her sister.”
The three of them stared at him in surprise, Jan and Andy elated, Margie horrified. “I don’t do a great deal of traveling, Mr. Van Dyne,” she finally said quietly. “And I do have certain…obligations.”
“You can take the typewriter with you,” Jan promised, her eyes pleading. Margie knew her sister was hoping she wouldn’t do anything to upset the apple cart.
Cannon’s eyebrows rose. “Do you have some new kind of fetish?”
“I most certainly do not,” Margie replied tightly. “I simply take my responsibilities seriously. The newspaper depends on my column….”
“You may certainly bring your typewriter, then,” he said.
“You can teach it to surf,” Andy put in, grinning.
Margie grinned back. “I’m still trying to teach it the alphabet,” she returned, winking at Jan.
“At least promise that you’ll consider the invitation,” Jan begged, and Margie nodded her agreement.
Cannon didn’t say anything, but he watched her. It was unnerving, that steady, unblinking scrutiny. Against her will, she looked up, and found her gaze trapped. Some faint sensation began to flower inside her—a tickling along her nerves, a trembling excitement that she’d never before felt. Electricity seemed to flow from his eyes to hers, so that she had to tear her gaze away before she burned up.
She lifted her fork and almost dropped it. She was more unsettled than she’d thought, she told herself.
After dinner, they went across the street to a disco, where Margie found herself alone with Cannon when Jan and Andy wandered off to dance to the throbbing, deafening music.
Cannon lit a cigarette with steady fingers and sipped the coffee he’d ordered for himself and Margie. He looked as out of place as Margie felt. She would rather have been back sitting by that little waterfall—she had only belittled it to irritate him.
“Having fun, honey?” he asked mockingly.
She gave him her sweetest smile. “Just as much fun as you are, Mr. Van Dyne,” she replied, raising her voice to make him hear her. “Don’t y’all just love this quaint little place?”
He glared at her and took another sip of his coffee. He apparently liked it black, because she hadn’t seen him take cream all evening. It wasn’t surprising. Somehow it suited his image.
“My God, I’m going deaf,” he said after a minute, pushing the cup aside. He had an actor’s voice, soft dark velvet even when it was raised. “Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here.”
She
