Naked Once More by Elizabeth Peters

job?”
    “Job,” Jacqueline repeated musingly. “I suppose it could be called that.” She shifted into “park” and turned off the engine.
    “You haven’t answered my question.”
    “Why the hell should I?”
    The bare minimum of muscles twitched in the long, hungry face, just enough to tilt the corners of the mouth. He relaxed, arms resting on the window ledge, head inclined. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you, Mrs. Kirby?”
    “Not at all, I am aflame with curiosity. How do you know my name? Who are you? Why were you eavesdropping? By what right do you inquire into my activities? Aren’t you afraid I’ll start screaming ‘rape’?”
    The man straightened. “May I join you?”
    “No. I’m curious but I’m not stupid. Besides, you aren’t answering my questions, you’re asking your own.”
    “My name is Paul Spencer. I was a friend of Kathleen’s.”
    “I see.”
    “I doubt that you do. Let’s just say that I admired her and her work. I—and many others—would hate to see it turned over to a hack.”
    “You really do have the most delightful way of putting things,” Jacqueline said admiringly. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that old saying about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?”
    “She tried.” The muscular contortion that was not really a smile twitched at his face. “But from what I’ve heard about you, Ms. Kirby, I thought vinegar would be more acceptable.”
    “You’ve heard of me?”
    “Even in the back of beyond, we occasionally come across the
Times
Book Review, not to mention
People.
And I’ve read your books.”
    “Really.”
    “They’re pretty bad.”
    “Compared to what?” Jacqueline murmured. He might or might not have heard her; he went on with scarcely a break. “But not as bad as the effusions of some of the others who’ve come here. And I had a sense, especially in your second book, that you were capable of doing better. What’s your problem? A bad editor, lack of ambition, or pure greed?”
    “Greed, of course,” Jacqueline said. “There is a level of lousiness above which you cannot rise if you hope to make the best-seller lists. Mr. Spencer, I’m absolutely adoring this conversation; there’s nothing I would rather do than sit here and listen to you insult me. But I fear I must tear myself away. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day under even more romantic circumstances.”
    She reached for the key. Spencer leaned forward, his face just outside the window. “You were up there, last night.”
    She knew exactly what he meant, and there was no point pretending she didn’t. “If you know that, you must have been there too. Were you the one who…”
    “Who what?” His eyes had narrowed.
    “I heard laughter. And a twig snapping.”
    “Did you? Well, it must have been me then. No one else could have been there. Could they?”
    Jacqueline started the engine. “Good-bye, Mr. Spencer. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this.”
    “Oh, I doubt that. I’ll bet you could if you tried.” He stepped back. “Good-bye, Ms. Kirby. Till we meet again.”
    Jacqueline couldn’t resist glancing into the rearview mirror as she drove off. He stood stock-still in the middle of the drive, arms folded, looking after her. The lined face and graying hair might be the result of grief and a hard life, but he was not a young man.
    Built like one, though, said a part of Jacqueline’s mind she tried to keep under control. Look at those shoulders. He’s tall, too; at least six-two, and if his hands were clean, they’d be…
    The figure in the mirror began waving its arms in agitation and Jacqueline turned her attention back to the windshield to find herself heading straight for a tree trunk. She gave the wheel a twist, and jounced around the curve in the track.
    She had wanted “the job” before. Now she was wild to get it. The hope of reading Kathleen Darcy’s own notes for the book she had not lived to write was enough to set a dedicated