“Not to criticize or anything,” she said slowly, “but it’s pretty remote up here.”
“Privacy is vastly underrated.” He shrugged. “A good satellite connection and nowhere’s too remote, is it?”
“No, not anymore,” she agreed. She studied him for a few minutes in silence, then smiled faintly. “You know what they say about you in the village, don’t you?”
He could only imagine. “I’m the recluse up the hill?” he asked politely.
“The filthy rich, eminently desirable, and irresistibly attractive recluse up the hill,” she corrected. “And that was just what I heard in the checkout line at McCreedy’s.”
“Irresistibly attractive?” he repeated.
“Or so I heard.”
He laughed in spite of himself. “I fear to pursue that lest you find me other than self-effacing, but feel free to tell me more if you like.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know any more than that. Just wanted to see what you thought.” She looked at him seriously. “I wanted to make sure I’m not living next to a serial killer.”
He would have made light of that, but there was something about the tone of her voice that resembled what he’d heard the night before at the inn, so he kept his damned mouth shut. She was running, and obviously from something she didn’t like. If she wanted to assure herself her neighbors were safe, there was a reason for it.
He wondered what that reason was.
He shook his head. “I’m just a starving poet trying to write the occasional bit of verse whilst fighting off scores of women who can’t read first form.” Among other things, of course, but those other things he fought off were just not all that important at the moment.
“First form?”
“Seventh grade in America.”
She studied him. “I get the feeling most women don’t want you for your iambic pentameter.”
“Sad, but true. Unfortunately, rumors of my wealth and irresistibility are, I must admit, grossly exaggerated. But what of you? What mischief do you combine in order to feed yourself?”
She sighed and toyed with her teaspoon. “I’m not sure at the moment. I used to make jewelry.”
“Used to?”
“Lost it all in a bad business deal,” she said lightly, “which I’m trying not to think about very often.” She set her spoon down. “You know, I’d better get to the dishes. I have no idea what time it is, but it feels late. I lost my phone yesterday and apparently lost track of time right along with it.”
And then she very purposefully didn’t look at him.
He hadn’t made a bloody fortune at the negotiating table, never mind keeping himself alive on various medieval battlefields, by not being able to read his opponents. He scrambled for something to say, because he suspected she expected it.
He also had the feeling she had seen him stumble out of the past, damn it to hell.
At least he’d had his hair hanging around his face and down to his shoulders. He’d had the good sense to put it in a ponytail that morning.
“You know, that’s odd,” he said, congratulating himself on spewing out intelligible words instead of frantic stammers. “I had some Yank bang on my door this morning and tell me about a phone he found somewhere in his wanderings,” he said, lying with abandon to save his own sweet neck. “I wonder if it might be yours?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Another American?”
“A balding lad with a Hawaiian-print shirt. Know him?”
“Thankfully not.” She seemed to relax a bit. “What did the phone case look like?”
“Hello Kitty?”
She blinked, then looked at him narrowly. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m damned clever,” he corrected. “As well as a bit of an acquired taste, or so I hear. Want to go for a walk? You can see the sights along the way to my house, then decide if the phone is yours.”
