stick of gum. “Until they matter.” Then she flashed Morgana a smile. “Just say the word and I’ll run interference for you.”
Amused, Morgana patted Mindy’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’ll make this play on my own.”
Her mood brighter, Morgana stepped into the back room. What was she worried about anyway? She
could
handle it. Would handle it. After all, she didn’t know Nash well enough for him to matter.
* * *
He had plenty to keep him busy, Nash told himself. Plenty. He was sprawled on the sofa—six feet of faded, sagging cushions he’d bought at a garage sale because it was so obviously fashioned for afternoon naps. Books were spread over his lap and jumbled on the floor. Across the room, the agonies and pathos of an afternoon soap flickered on the television screen. A soft-drink bottle stood on the cluttered coffee table, should he want to quench his thirst.
In the next room, his computer sat sulking at the lack of attention. Nash thought he could almost hear it whine.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t working. Idly Nash ripped off a sheet of notepaper and began folding it. He might have been lying on the sofa, he might have spent a great deal of his morning staring into space. But he was thinking. Maybe he’d hit a bit of a snag in the treatment, but it wasn’t like he was blocked or anything. He just needed to let it cook a while.
Giving the paper a last crease, he narrowed his eyes, then sent the miniature bomber soaring. To please himself, he added sound effects as the paper airplane glided off, crash-landing on the floor in a heap of other models.
“Sabotage,” he said grimly. “Must be a spy on the assembly line.” Shifting for comfort, he began to build another plane while his mind drifted.
Interior scene, day. The big, echoing hangar is deserted. Murky light spills through the front opening and slants over the silver hull of a fighter jet. Slow footsteps approach. As they near, there is something familiar about them, something feminine. Stiletto heels on concrete. She slips in the entrance, from light into shadow. The glare and the tipped-down brim of a slouchy hat obscure her face, but not the body poured into a short red leather dress. Long, shapely legs cross the hangar floor. In one delicate hand, she holds a black leather case.
After one slow glance around, she goes to the plane. Her skirt hikes high on smooth white thighs as she climbs into the cockpit. There is purpose, efficiency, in her movements. The way she slips into the pilot’s seat, spins the locks on the leather case.
Inside the case is a small, deadly bomb, which she secretes under the console. She laughs. The sound is sultry, seductive. The camera moves in on her face.
Morgana’s face.
Swearing, Nash tossed the plane in the air. It did an immediate nosedive. What was he doing? he asked himself. Making up stories about her. Indulging in bad symbolism. So, sure, she’d climbed into his cockpit and set off an explosion. That was no reason to daydream about her.
He had work to do, didn’t he?
Determined to do it, Nash shifted, sending books sliding to the floor. Using the remote, he switched off the television, then took up what was left of his notebook. He punched the play button on his recorder. It took less than five seconds for him to realize his mistake and turn it off again. He wasn’t in any frame of mind to listen to Morgana’s voice.
He rose, scattering books, then stepping over them. He was thinking, all right. He was thinking he had toget the hell out of the house. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go.
It was his choice, he assured himself as he snagged his keys. He was making a conscious decision. When a man had an itch, he was a lot better off scratching it.
* * *
Her mood had improved enough that Morgana could hum along with the radio she’d turned on low. This was just what she’d needed, she thought. A cup of soothing chamomile, an hour of solitude, and some pleasant and
Amused, Morgana patted Mindy’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’ll make this play on my own.”
Her mood brighter, Morgana stepped into the back room. What was she worried about anyway? She
could
handle it. Would handle it. After all, she didn’t know Nash well enough for him to matter.
* * *
He had plenty to keep him busy, Nash told himself. Plenty. He was sprawled on the sofa—six feet of faded, sagging cushions he’d bought at a garage sale because it was so obviously fashioned for afternoon naps. Books were spread over his lap and jumbled on the floor. Across the room, the agonies and pathos of an afternoon soap flickered on the television screen. A soft-drink bottle stood on the cluttered coffee table, should he want to quench his thirst.
In the next room, his computer sat sulking at the lack of attention. Nash thought he could almost hear it whine.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t working. Idly Nash ripped off a sheet of notepaper and began folding it. He might have been lying on the sofa, he might have spent a great deal of his morning staring into space. But he was thinking. Maybe he’d hit a bit of a snag in the treatment, but it wasn’t like he was blocked or anything. He just needed to let it cook a while.
Giving the paper a last crease, he narrowed his eyes, then sent the miniature bomber soaring. To please himself, he added sound effects as the paper airplane glided off, crash-landing on the floor in a heap of other models.
“Sabotage,” he said grimly. “Must be a spy on the assembly line.” Shifting for comfort, he began to build another plane while his mind drifted.
Interior scene, day. The big, echoing hangar is deserted. Murky light spills through the front opening and slants over the silver hull of a fighter jet. Slow footsteps approach. As they near, there is something familiar about them, something feminine. Stiletto heels on concrete. She slips in the entrance, from light into shadow. The glare and the tipped-down brim of a slouchy hat obscure her face, but not the body poured into a short red leather dress. Long, shapely legs cross the hangar floor. In one delicate hand, she holds a black leather case.
After one slow glance around, she goes to the plane. Her skirt hikes high on smooth white thighs as she climbs into the cockpit. There is purpose, efficiency, in her movements. The way she slips into the pilot’s seat, spins the locks on the leather case.
Inside the case is a small, deadly bomb, which she secretes under the console. She laughs. The sound is sultry, seductive. The camera moves in on her face.
Morgana’s face.
Swearing, Nash tossed the plane in the air. It did an immediate nosedive. What was he doing? he asked himself. Making up stories about her. Indulging in bad symbolism. So, sure, she’d climbed into his cockpit and set off an explosion. That was no reason to daydream about her.
He had work to do, didn’t he?
Determined to do it, Nash shifted, sending books sliding to the floor. Using the remote, he switched off the television, then took up what was left of his notebook. He punched the play button on his recorder. It took less than five seconds for him to realize his mistake and turn it off again. He wasn’t in any frame of mind to listen to Morgana’s voice.
He rose, scattering books, then stepping over them. He was thinking, all right. He was thinking he had toget the hell out of the house. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go.
It was his choice, he assured himself as he snagged his keys. He was making a conscious decision. When a man had an itch, he was a lot better off scratching it.
* * *
Her mood had improved enough that Morgana could hum along with the radio she’d turned on low. This was just what she’d needed, she thought. A cup of soothing chamomile, an hour of solitude, and some pleasant and
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