the Davisons, he would bet the same ratty old furniture was still in residence.
That was the only way his cabin was better than hers. He’d brought some of his own stuff—a leather couch, an oversize armchair, a couple of bookcases—and borrowed the bedroom furniture and dinette from his parents. The table was an oval oak pedestal, with four ladder-back chairs, and the bedroom set was his grandmother’s antique mahogany.
He’d added rugs, too, and a television, DVD and stereo system, but he hadn’t unpacked a single thing for the walls. Photographs, a couple of meritorious commendations he’d received, gifts, mementos…anything that would personalize the space and reveal anything about the past seventeen years was packed up in his folks’ attic. It could all stay there until it rotted.
What would her space reveal about her past? Someday he would have to wangle an invitation into her cabin to find out.
“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” he said as her gaze finally reached him. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine.”
“That’s all? I’ve got beer and pop, too.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, then came to stand at the table, her hands gripping one of the ladder-back chairs. He figured her goal was to look as if she was casually resting her hands, but her fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Why so nervous? He wasn’t likely to throw her to the floor and have his way with her, not when it meant burning the lasagna. Force wasn’t his style. Persuasion was way too much fun.
But maybe force had been someone else’s style. Maybe that was why she was cautious and evasive.
But it wasn’t his business, remember?
He got two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then set the table. As the timer went off, he pulled the lasagna from the oven and stuck the foil-wrapped bread inside, then asked, “What’s your book about?”
She’d been looking out the window. Now her gaze jerked back to him. “My…my book?”
“The one you’re writing. The one that’s set here in Oklahoma. What is it about?”
“Oh…well…” Her fingers tightened even more around the chair back. “It’s…it’s a love story.”
“Most romance novels are, aren’t they?” he asked dryly.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Using insulated mitts, he carried the lasagna pan to the table, then returned with the bread. After he slid into the nearest seat, she slowly pulled out the chair she’d had a death grip on and sat. He waited until they’d served themselves, then gave her time to take a bite before asking, “So? What’s it about?”
“It’s about…” When she looked up, her face was warm but her eyes were cool and her full lips had flattened into an aloof line. “I’m really not comfortable discussing it. If I tell people the story in detail, then there’s not much purpose in writing it—is there?—because I’ve already told it.”
He wasn’t asking for a scene-by-scene description. A general overview would have been fine, something like “a story of a spoiled Southern belle during and after the Civil War” for Gone With the Wind. He didn’t need names, subplots or even the highlights.
“Do you publish your books under your own name?”
This time she didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze focused on the plate in front of her. “No, I don’t. You were right—this is excellent lasagna. Is it an old family recipe?”
“Someone’s old family, but not ours. Mom came across it years ago, made a few changes and has been fixing it ever since.” Just as bluntly as she’d changed the subject, he changed it back. “What’s your…aw, hell, I can’t think of the word. Your alias?”
For a moment he thought she might laugh, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth faded. “Alias?”
“You know, your fake name. Cassidy McRae aka what? Jeez, don’t you ever look at Wanted posters?”
“No, I can’t honestly say that I do.” She paused. “Do you?”
“I used to. A lot.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Not for pictures of myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Trust me, if I was wanted by the cops, Reese would turn me in so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.”
“Your own cousin?”
“He’s a cop first, my cousin second.” That wasn’t entirely true. Reese would never break the law, but he would bend it a little if circumstances warranted it. Sometimes that was the only way to see justice done.
“Then what’s your interest in Wanted posters?”
He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been a cop himself. With his luck, she would probably have a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. The few writers he’d met in the past, mostly reporters, were filled with them. “Curiosity,” he said with a shrug. “I watch America’s Most Wanted, too.” Once again he abruptly shifted direction. “You never told me what your alias—”
“Pen name.”
“—is.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Maybe I want to pick up a couple of your books and see what they’re like.”
“They’re very hard to find. Most of them are out of print.”
“Then you could loan me some copies.”
Her smile was quick and uneasy. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on…you don’t have a single copy of your own books?”
“Well, of course I have some, but not with me. They’re back home in my office in San Diego.”
“Lemon Grove,” he corrected.
She grimaced. “Hey, it’s all one big city.”
“And they’re in storage, with the rest of your office.”
Her face turned almost as red as the sweet tomato sauce that oozed between the layers of noodles. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything’s in storage.”
His back was itching again. He shifted in his chair, rubbing against the spindles. If he checked Directory Assistance for Lemon Grove, California, would he find a listing for Cassidy McRae? Instinct said no, but that wouldn’t mean anything. Most women who lived alone in big cities had unlisted numbers. But if one of his cop buddies checked the utilities and didn’t find a recent account in her name…
It would prove she’d lied about where she lived. So what? She was an author, and no doubt had fans. For some people it was a short step from fan to stalker. If some stranger was buying his book and thought he was making some sort of connection, he
