Ain’t She Sweet?

longer than she should have, and she’d better put off the rest until tomorrow.

A good decision, as it turned out, because trouble lurked at the ducal estate. His Grace, it seemed, had grown restless waiting for the return of his lowly housekeeper…

“You are shameless!” he said angrily.

“Nonsense! You only say so because I drove your horses,” she answered.

GEORGETTE HEYER, The Grand Sophy

CHAPTER SEVEN

Where the devil have you been?”

Colin stalked into the kitchen with Gordon padding at his heels, just as Sugar Beth set the last of the grocery sacks on the counter. “Running your errands, your lordshit.”

“You took my car.”

“Did you expect me to walk?”

“I expect you to take your own car.”

“I like yours better.”

“Undoubtedly.” He loomed over her. “Just as I liked that brand-new red Camaro you used to drive in high school. Nevertheless, I didn’t take it upon myself to run off with it, now did I?”

“I bet if I’d left the keys lying around, you would have. That junker you drove was a major embarrassment.”

“Which was the only reason I could afford to buy it.” He swept his keys from the counter and pocketed them. “Where’s my lunch?”

“I thought famous writers drank their lunch.”

“Not today. It’s two o’clock, and all I’ve had is coffee and cold poached eggs.”

“They wouldn’t have been cold if you’d eaten them right away like I told you.”

“Spare me the stereotype of the sassy servant.”

“Fine.” She slammed a box of rice on the counter. “Leave me the hell alone, and I’ll bring your lunch as soon as I get to it.”

He regarded her glacially. “Hostility already?”

“Hostile or sassy-it’s all I’ve got. Take your pick.”

“Let me remind you that one of your duties is to prepare my lunch, which I expect to have served at something approximating lunchtime.” He turned his back on her, effectively ending the discussion, but instead of going back to his office, he wandered into the sunroom and threw himself in the big chair by the windows, all long, lithe grace and surly attitude.

She studied him as she put away the perishables. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, then crossed and uncrossed his ankles. By the time she’d tucked the onions in the pantry, she decided something more than her attitude was bothering him. She picked up a grocery sack that had fallen to the floor. “You probably didn’t know this, but in addition to being a stuntman, the late, and pretty much unlamented, Cy Zagurski fancied himself a songwriter.”

“You don’t say.”

“Bad country western. Cy was generally sweet, even when he was drunk, which, I’ll admit, tended to be most of the time. But drunk or sober, the minute he had trouble thinking up his next lyric, he’d start yelling at me.”

“In what part of this conversation am I supposed to express interest?” He sounded snooty as hell, but he didn’t make a move to get out of the chair, and as she set more oranges in the bowl, she congratulated herself on having acquired at least a little insight into human nature. “So tell me about your new book.”

“Which one?”

“The one that’s making you act like a prick, bless your heart.”

He leaned his head against the back of the chair and sighed. “That would be all of them, at one time or another.”

“All?” She peeled the cellophane from a two-pack of Twinkies, took one out, and wandered into the sunroom. “I know about Last Whistle-stop, and you said you’d written a novel a long time ago. Anything else?”

“The sequel to Last Whistle-stop. I finished it in July. It’s called Reflections, if you must know.”

Last Whistle-stop had ended in 1960, and if Reflections was a sequel, it stood to reason that her parents would be major characters. Considering Byrne’s feelings for Diddie, Sugar Beth decided she needed to get her hands on a copy as soon as she could. “When’s it coming out?”

“In about two months.”

“I’m guessing from the title that my parents and the Carey Window Factory might be major players.”

“Without the factory, Parrish would have died out after the 1960s like so many other small Southern towns. Is my lunch ready yet?”

“Just about.” She took a bite from her Twinkie and played with danger by sitting on the edge of a small rattan slipper chair near him. “What have you been doing since July?”

“Some traveling. Researching a novel.” He rose and walked toward the windows, his big frame blocking the sun. “A family saga. I’ve had it in mind for years.”

She remembered the crumpled paper scattered over the floor in his office. “So how’s it going?”

“Beginning a book is always difficult.”

“I’m sure.”

“This one is roughly based on my own family. The story of three generations of an upper-class British family set against the same three generations of a poor Irish one.”

“With everybody meeting up when the upper-class daughter falls in love with the bricklayer’s son?”

“Something like that.”

“Writing a novel is a big change.”

“Just because I’ve become known for nonfiction doesn’t mean that’s all I can do.”

“Absolutely not.” She wasn’t surprised that he sounded defensive. He’d been wildly successful writing nonfiction but failed at his early attempt at fiction. “You don’t seem to be brimming with confidence.”

He gazed at her Twinkie. “Is that organic?”

“I’m guessing not.” She went after a dab of filling with the tip of her tongue.

He grew very still, and the way his eyes lingered on her mouth told her he was reacting to her, whether he wanted to or not. She used to be mystified by women who didn’t know how to turn men on, since she could do it so easily herself. Then one day she’d realized that intelligent women relied on their brains to get ahead in the world, instead of sex. And hadn’t that been a real well, duh moment?

Still, sometimes you had to use what God gave you, and she continued to make oral love to the Twinkie, nothing even close to blatant-that would be too tacky for words-only a few slow swirls of her tongue to show this arrogant Brit he didn’t intimidate her. Or not much anyway.

His gaze stayed on her mouth. “You do enjoy playing games, don’t you, Sugar Beth?”

“Us tarts like to keep ourselves amused.”

He gave her an enigmatic smile, then turned away from the window. She expected him to head back to his office, but instead he walked into the kitchen and began examining the groceries she hadn’t finished putting away. “Apparently you didn’t read my instructions about buying organic food.”

“Dang, you were serious. I thought that was some kind of test to see if I could think for myself instead of being a blind follower of the ridiculous.”

Another of those arched eyebrows. She polished off the Twinkie and headed back to the kitchen.

“I believe I mentioned fresh produce, organic when possible. Whole grains, fish, nuts, yogurt.” He picked up a bag of cherry Twizzlers. “Your diet is abominable.”

“I had oatmeal for breakfast.”