health, but Genevieve had eased the moment by promising that she would let her mother know and would get any books she wanted autographed. Sadly, that had remained a commitment unfulfilled.
Genevieve glanced toward the Texas version of a villa and hoped her mother wasn’t watching with her military-power binoculars from her second-story office. A tight publishing deadline was the only safe time Genevieve could be showing in the area and not be spotted without getting an immediate text message demanding, “Who is that?” When she’d first spotted Marshall Roark, Sydney had texted, “Who is that?”
“I’ve lost you,” Marshall said. “Is something wrong?”
“Can we go back inside?” Genevieve asked and began leading the way. “I’m afraid that if my mother catches sight of us standing here, she’ll invite herself over.”
“Ah, yes. I seem to remember you referring to her as ‘part bloodhound and part shark.’”
“She’s as environmentally efficient as the latter, too. Just about everything she sniffs out information-wise will end up in one of her novels. For someone who values his privacy, you’ll want to remember that.”
“You sound like you’ve been nipped a time or two.” Marshall’s long strides helped him beat her to the door and open it for her.
“Let’s just say you won’t find many Genevieves in East Texas. My namesake happened to be a character that she became so enthralled with, she couldn’t resist naming me that, as well. It helped being born forty-eight hours after she finished that manuscript.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” he replied. “So the Genevieve-based character was someone your mother had met before?”
“Who had enough tragedy in her life to become a book. Don’t bother asking me for the title,” Genevieve replied.
“You tempt me, but I’ll resist for now.” Marshall tilted his head as they paused at the bar. “You can’t see that the name suits you?”
“No more than Gigi does. That’s G.G., my married initials. Mother thought a character called Gabrielle Gallant was enough disguise to turn the most recent and painful chapters of my life into fiction, as well. The rest is another bit of New York Times–list history.”
“Ah. Ouch. Now I’m beginning to understand,” Marshall replied thoughtfully. His look was sympathetic. “So you two aren’t speaking? Excuse me—now I’m trespassing on your privacy.”
With a fatalistic shrug, Genevieve took a last sip of champagne and made herself set the half-full glass on the counter. “We speak. I’ve resigned myself to the reality that she’s incorrigible and, when she blithely shares her latest tromp into my life or the lives of others that I know and care about, she accepts that I need to avoid her calls for a day or a week, depending on the offense.”
“You’ve opened my eyes to a different perspective. It’s one thing to see print page opinions or the headlines from the news portrayed on TV dramas a month after the fact, but I’m realizing it’s not so entertaining when it’s your own history in novel form.” Marshall continued, “Would I be getting too personal if I asked if Sawyer is your maiden name?”
Genevieve tucked her BlackBerry into her bag. “Not at all. Charles Sawyer was my father. He died in a tractor accident when I was fifteen. As sad as that sounds, he was looking over some new land he’d just purchased. I guess I inherited his love of land. Mother’s current husband is Bart—short for Barton—Conway. Part saint, part Saint Bernard, not always tolerant of Mother’s shenanigans, but faithful, reliable, all of the qualities one needs with a high-maintenance wife like Sydney. They’re working on their tenth anniversary. My hunch is that he’ll stick. My prayer is he’ll stick. Between him and Dad was Whit. Whitfield Edwards. You won’t hear that name spoken unless there’s an obituary notice. Not Mother’s,” Genevieve intoned.
“Was theirs a bad experience partially due to things happening too soon after your father’s death?”
Pointing her index finger at him, she replied, “Bingo. For a time, Mother did consider the working title The Expensive Case of Rebound but she never wrote the book…or learned from the experience. She started dating Bart at an investments seminar two weeks after her divorce was final.”
“Sometimes it happens quickly for some people,” Marshall said, gesturing with his glass.
Genevieve shook her head. “You can’t be interested in any of this.”
“I actually believe in seminars. The results from several have kept me from firing a few employees.” When Genevieve failed to respond to that, he added, “What does Saint Bart do while your mother is writing? I didn’t see a boathouse, so I’m guessing he’s not a fisherman.”
“The only water Bart is interested in comes from his shower head or is the frozen kind—ice in his scotch. He likes golf, poker and the online link to his stock trader.” Genevieve pointed to the notes she’d left him. “Don’t forget the security people will be out tomorrow to check on your system and recommend upgrades.”
“Thanks. Should I make a point to introduce myself to the police chief?”
“Phil Irvine. I asked him to stop by in the next few days, but you’re right, it wouldn’t hurt to initiate the meeting yourself. He’s a good man. His son is a talented junior on the high school football team and already being watched by college scouts. His elder child, a daughter, died in a wreck last year. I’m only offering that because Phil can be a bit gruff these days. Please don’t take it personally.”
Marshall stayed her hand as she reached for her bag. “Do you ever stop working?”
His unexpected touch made it difficult to think, let alone answer. “I’m only trying to help make this impossible situation—”
“Easier. You have. But, Genevieve, do you think you could go off the clock now and just talk to me?”
She knew she should have resisted the champagne. So that intuition about his attraction had been dead-on, but while her heart skipped a beat in ridiculous pleasure, her mind—ever the devil’s advocate—was fast to hoist walls. “Oh, Marshall…you know that’s not a good idea.”
“Then you realize that I don’t want to talk about my neighbors or your family, I want to talk about you.”
She kept her gaze on the hand slowly clasping hers. “Yes.”
“What if I asked you to dinner?”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Because there’s someone already in your life?”
The easy way out would be to say, “Yes,” but that would be lying. However, she gently extricated herself and looped her bag over her shoulder. “Marshall…I’m flattered. Truly. And what you think you’re feeling is normal after suffering such a huge loss, but it’s not—”
“Don’t say ‘real.’ Not only isn’t this a temporary aberration, I was attracted to you the moment I saw your photo on the realty Web site. When I actually met you, I was relieved that Cynthia shook your hand first because I needed a moment to collect myself.”
His admission was everything a woman wanted to hear from a man she also
