hatchet, especially with the wedding coming up.”
Shay remembered what Mitch had told her the night before, when they were talking about hang-ups. “Is it working?”
“They’ve been civil to each other,” Ivy said, shrugging. “I guess that’s a start. So, are you and Mitch an item, or what?”
“An ‘item’? Have you been reading old movie magazines or something?”
Ivy executed a mock glare. “Stop hedging, Shay. You don’t need to tell me, you know. You can just sit by and see me consumed by my own curiosity.”
Shay sighed. “If you’re talking about the love-and-marriage kind of item, we’re not.”
Ivy’s eyes were wide with delight. “That’s what they all say,” she replied. “So the gossip is true! You and Mitch are doing more than working together!”
“Now that is definitely none of your business, Ivy Prescott,” Shay said firmly. “And exactly what gossip is this?”
“Well, you two were inside the RV together for quite a while yesterday….”
Shay willed herself not to blush at the memory and failed. She hoped Ivy would ascribe the high color in her face to righteous indignation. “What were you doing, standing out there with a stopwatch?”
“Of course not!” Ivy’s feathers were ruffled. She squirmed in her chair and looked incensed and then said defensively, “I don’t even own a stopwatch!”
7
T his is some pile of bricks,” Ivan announced, gazing appreciatively up at the walls of the house while Mitch was still recovering from the surprise of finding his agent standing on his doorstep. “Pretty big for one person, isn’t it?”
Mitch stepped back to admit the small, well-dressed man with the balding pate. Ignoring Ivan’s question, he offered one of his own. “What’s so important that it couldn’t have been handled by telephone, Ivan?”
Ivan patted his breast pocket and grinned. “An advance check of this size warrants personal delivery,” he answered.
Mitch turned and walked back toward the library where he’d been working over his notes for the Rosamond Dallas book, leaving Ivan to follow. Mrs. Carraway, who had been upstairs cleaning most of the morning, magically appeared with coffee and warm croissants.
Once the pleasant-faced woman had gone, Ivan helped himself to a cup of coffee and a croissant. “Nice to see you living the good life at last, Prescott. I was beginning to think you were going to spend the rest of your days crawling through jungles on your belly and hobnobbing with the Klan.”
Despite his sometimes abrasive manner, Mitch liked and respected Ivan Wright. The man was always direct, and he played hardball in all his dealings. “I guess I’m ready to settle down,” he said, and his mind immediately touched on Shay.
“That could be good, and it could be bad,” Ivan replied. “What are your plans for after?”
“After what?”
“After you finish the Rosamond Dallas book.” Ivan added jam and cream to his croissant.
“I haven’t made any plans for another project, if that’s what you’re getting at. I may retire. After all, I’m a rich man.”
“You’re also a young man,” Ivan pointed out. “What are you, thirty-seven, thirty-eight?” Without waiting for an answer, the agent went on. “Your publishers want another book, Mitch, and they’re willing to pay top dollar to get your name on the dotted line.”
The thought made Mitch feel weary. He was having a hard enough time working up enough enthusiasm to write about Rosamond, but he supposed that was because of Shay. No matter how delicately the project was handled, she would, to some degree, be hurt by it. “We’re talking about a specific subject here, I assume.”
Ivan nodded, licking a dab of cream from one pudgy finger. “You’ve heard of Alan Roget, haven’t you? That serial murderer the FBI picked up in Oklahoma a few months back?”
Mitch remembered. The man had been arraigned on some thirty-two counts of homicide. “Sweet guy,” he
Shay remembered what Mitch had told her the night before, when they were talking about hang-ups. “Is it working?”
“They’ve been civil to each other,” Ivy said, shrugging. “I guess that’s a start. So, are you and Mitch an item, or what?”
“An ‘item’? Have you been reading old movie magazines or something?”
Ivy executed a mock glare. “Stop hedging, Shay. You don’t need to tell me, you know. You can just sit by and see me consumed by my own curiosity.”
Shay sighed. “If you’re talking about the love-and-marriage kind of item, we’re not.”
Ivy’s eyes were wide with delight. “That’s what they all say,” she replied. “So the gossip is true! You and Mitch are doing more than working together!”
“Now that is definitely none of your business, Ivy Prescott,” Shay said firmly. “And exactly what gossip is this?”
“Well, you two were inside the RV together for quite a while yesterday….”
Shay willed herself not to blush at the memory and failed. She hoped Ivy would ascribe the high color in her face to righteous indignation. “What were you doing, standing out there with a stopwatch?”
“Of course not!” Ivy’s feathers were ruffled. She squirmed in her chair and looked incensed and then said defensively, “I don’t even own a stopwatch!”
7
T his is some pile of bricks,” Ivan announced, gazing appreciatively up at the walls of the house while Mitch was still recovering from the surprise of finding his agent standing on his doorstep. “Pretty big for one person, isn’t it?”
Mitch stepped back to admit the small, well-dressed man with the balding pate. Ignoring Ivan’s question, he offered one of his own. “What’s so important that it couldn’t have been handled by telephone, Ivan?”
Ivan patted his breast pocket and grinned. “An advance check of this size warrants personal delivery,” he answered.
Mitch turned and walked back toward the library where he’d been working over his notes for the Rosamond Dallas book, leaving Ivan to follow. Mrs. Carraway, who had been upstairs cleaning most of the morning, magically appeared with coffee and warm croissants.
Once the pleasant-faced woman had gone, Ivan helped himself to a cup of coffee and a croissant. “Nice to see you living the good life at last, Prescott. I was beginning to think you were going to spend the rest of your days crawling through jungles on your belly and hobnobbing with the Klan.”
Despite his sometimes abrasive manner, Mitch liked and respected Ivan Wright. The man was always direct, and he played hardball in all his dealings. “I guess I’m ready to settle down,” he said, and his mind immediately touched on Shay.
“That could be good, and it could be bad,” Ivan replied. “What are your plans for after?”
“After what?”
“After you finish the Rosamond Dallas book.” Ivan added jam and cream to his croissant.
“I haven’t made any plans for another project, if that’s what you’re getting at. I may retire. After all, I’m a rich man.”
“You’re also a young man,” Ivan pointed out. “What are you, thirty-seven, thirty-eight?” Without waiting for an answer, the agent went on. “Your publishers want another book, Mitch, and they’re willing to pay top dollar to get your name on the dotted line.”
The thought made Mitch feel weary. He was having a hard enough time working up enough enthusiasm to write about Rosamond, but he supposed that was because of Shay. No matter how delicately the project was handled, she would, to some degree, be hurt by it. “We’re talking about a specific subject here, I assume.”
Ivan nodded, licking a dab of cream from one pudgy finger. “You’ve heard of Alan Roget, haven’t you? That serial murderer the FBI picked up in Oklahoma a few months back?”
Mitch remembered. The man had been arraigned on some thirty-two counts of homicide. “Sweet guy,” he
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