nt, then began to read.
She was caught up quickly, though she hit what was obviously the middle of a descriptive paragraph. He had a way of pulling you into the scene, surrounding you with it.
And this one was dark and cold and quietly terrifying. Something lurked. By the first page she was in the heros head, knowing his sense of urgency and the underlying fear. Something hunted, and was already feeding off pain.
When she came, to the end of what hed written, she swore. “Well, damn it, what happens next?”
“Thats a hell of a compliment from a naked woman,” Jordan commented.
She jumped. She cursed herself, but she all but jumped out of her skin, which was all she was wearing. And she flushed, which was considerably worse. She felt the heat spread over her as she whirled to see Jordan standing in the doorway, jeans carelessly unbuttoned, hair mussed, a bag of Fritos, a can of Coke, and an apple in his hands.
“I was just…” There wasnt any way out of it, she realized, and so she simply told the embarrassing truth. “I was curious. And rude.”
“No big deal.”
“No, really, I shouldnt have poked around in your work. But it was just there, which is your fault for not closing the file.”
“Which would make it your fault for interrupting me, then distracting me with sex.”
“I certainly didnt use sex just so I could…” She broke off, heaved out a breath. He was grinning at her, and she could hardly blame him. “Hand over the Fritos.”
Instead, he walked to the bed, sat back against the pillow.
“Come and get them.” He reached into the bag, took out a handful, and began to munch.
“Anyway, it was the screen saver. It was making me cross-eyed.” Casually, she thought, she sat back down on the bed and tugged the bag of chips out of his hand.
“I hate that bastard.” He crunched into the apple, handed her the soda. “So, you want to know what happens next?”
“I was mildly interested.” She popped the top of the Coke, took a long sip. She ate some Fritos, traded them for the apple, traded them back. And, she thought in disgust, he wasnt going to crack.
“Okay, who is he? Whats after him? How did he get there?”
He took the Coke. Was there anything more satisfying than having someone who shared your love of books being so interested in one of yours? he wondered.
If you added the fact that your literary partner was a very sexy, very naked woman, it was just gravy.
“Its a long story. Lets just say hes a man whos made mistakes, and hes looking for a way to fix them. Along the way he finds out there arent any easy answers, that redemption—the real thing—carries a price. That love, the kind that matters, makes the price-worth paying.” “What did he do?”
“Betrayed a woman, killed a man.” He ate more chips, listened to the rain drum and patter— outside the window, and in the forest in his mind. “He thought he had reasons for both. Maybe he did. But were they the right reasons?”
“Youre writing it, you ought to know.”
“No, he has to know. Thats part of the price of redemption. The not-knowing haunts him, hunts him as much as whats with him in the woods.”
“What is with him in the woods?”
He chuckled. “Read the book.”
She bit into the apple again. “Thats a very underhanded method of making a sale.”
“A guysgotta make a living. Even if it is with „mundane and predictable commercial fiction. One of your pithy reviews of my work.”
She felt a twang of guilt, but shrugged it off. “Im a librarian. Former librarian,” she corrected. “And Im about to become a bookstore owner. I value all books.”
“Some more than others.”
“That would be a matter of personal taste rather than a professional outlook.” Now she wanted to squirm. “Certainly your commercial success indicates you write books that satisfy the masses.”