“Rumblings?”
“You’re up for a new contract after this book. Rumblings, Lawrence. Think about it.”
It was all he could think of. His agent was subtly telling him to write for the masses and he just couldn’t do it. He didn’t know the masses; didn’t have the slightest idea how they ticked, what they thought, what they wanted to read. He’d been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, grown up in privilege, attended cricket and polo matches, and gone to England’s finest private schools. He’d made his parents proud, then ended it all in a crushingly enduring way that left everyone in his family wounded. So what in God’s name did he know about the huddled masses?
“They’re the ones who buy books, Lawrence,” his agent had said.
It wasn’t enough to get published; he had to sell, and Lawrence just didn’t know if he had it in him to write a book the so-called masses would want to read.
He knew what his older brother John would say then, could hear the disappointment, the pity. “Perhaps you should put aside your writing and do something more suited to a man with your education. Certainly, you can do something more than you’re doing.”
But he couldn’t, and he didn’t know if he ever would.
Lately though, his brother’s pity and concern had turned to disapproval and resentment. Lawrence had found he wasn’t very good at handling adversity. He’d always thought he would be. Hell, he’d been trained to handle the best God could throw at him. But he’d failed, and when he had, he’d wasted a very expensive education, then blown his inheritance in such a grand, mature way on beautiful women, expensive cars, and endless holidays at luxury resorts. At least he knew how to have fun. Before the money went dry, he’d take two or three months off and write something fabulous to keep his brother happy. Now the money was nearly gone, and he’d lost any real desire for expensive cars and luxury resorts. The women? Well, one couldn’t get a gorgeous woman without money, could one?
He pushed his hair off his forehead and idly stroked his beard, wondering if he should shave and knowing the only reason he wondered that was because of the woman downstairs. He shouldn’t care what she thought of him, but no matter how low his life had gotten—and God knew he’d been pretty damn low—he’d never let his appearance go.
Lawrence walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked at his reflection. “Good God,” he muttered, taking in his rather fiendish look. Then he smiled. He was a big man in pretty good shape, an intimidating guy at any time. But she’d stood there in the dark and threatened him with imaginary weapons. And when she had gotten a look at him with his wild, uncombed hair and his dark, two-week unkempt beard, she had stood her ground, even challenged him.
“Damn,” he said aloud, staring hard at his reflection. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 2
Lawrence made his way downstairs the next morning, bleary-eyed and unshowered, to the sound of someone humming cheerfully on the front porch. Good God, he thought, tough and perky. He stuck his head out the door, and she immediately smiled, stunning him for a moment before he remembered to at least try to frown.
“How is your search going for other accommodations?” he asked.
She put on a big show of frowning. “Not good. How’s your search going?”
He gave her a level stare before slowly closing the door, fighting a grin until he was out of sight. She wasn’t going to budge, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw her out. If she had thrown a hissy fit or even if she had cried, it would have been easier to demand that she leave. Hysterics were the best way to irritate him. This girl, this Kat person was, he had to admit, entertaining. As he had predicted, she was also distracting. Just knowing she was in the house seething about his existence had been enough diversion to keep him from focusing on his writing.
Last night he’d tried, God knew he’d tried, to type something remotely interesting, never mind the riveting moneymaker his publisher was looking for. All he could think of, though, was the way she’d pretended not to be scared when she’d run into him in the kitchen. Any sane woman would have run from the house screaming.
He stuck his head out the door again, thinking of making peace and that maybe if he were nice, she’d leave the house to him. “You want to join me for breakfast? There’s a diner down the street.”
Kat looked at her watch and frowned. “It’s almost eleven.”
“Is it? I was up nearly all night.”
She dropped her book and shifted in her wicker rocker so she faced him. She really was quite pretty, he realized, though definitely not his type. Most of the women he dated—in fact, all the women he dated—were tall, blonde, and busty. It was a sickness, a wonderful fixation.
“I didn’t realize I frightened you that much,” she said and smiled.
He couldn’t help but smile back. “You really do have to leave, you know. I’m a writer and I didn’t get any work done just knowing you were wandering about the house.”
“I’m two stories below you,” she pointed out. “I wasn’t wandering, and I don’t snore that loudly.”
“I don’t think you understand how vital it is that I’m alone.”
She gave him the strangest look, and he almost almost caved in right then and there. “I do understand,” she said evenly. “That’s why you need to go. I don’t just need to be alone; I need to be alone here. In this house. Alone. You can go write anywhere.”
Even though he knew she was right, he also knew he had inherited his father’s stubborn streak. The man would argue that the sky was purple until you believed it, too. Besides, he didn’t have the cash to go anywhere else. He didn’t even have a home of his own to go to, and he refused to stay with his brother and their three children.
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I’m not leaving.” Then he got what he thought was a brilliant idea, a sure way to get this tough nut to crack. “I’ve an idea,” he said overly casually and watched as her guard was immediately lifted. “If neither of us is willing to leave, I suggest we make the best of it and have ourselves a good time. A summer fling, so to speak.”
She looked up at him, her brows knitting just slightly. Then she turned back to her book, seemingly unconcerned. “Nice try, Larry. Though I must say your offer is tempting, now that you’ve shaven.”
My God, he thought, he might as well accept defeat. And he probably would have if he hadn’t been so bloody stubborn.
Kat watched the door close and stifled a laugh. This guy was an amateur, she thought, knowing she’d won that battle and that total victory was only a day or so away. Lawrence Kendall had met his match, she thought happily. It occurred to her she needed to know her enemy better if she was going to win this war of wills. Kat waited for Larry to leave for breakfast—it was noon before he made his way out the door—then grabbed her laptop, plunked herself down on the couch, plugged her computer into a phone jack, signed in to AOL, and then did a quick search on Amazon for Lawrence Kendall. There he was, or at least, there was Lawrence Kendall’s latest book: Visions of Solitude.
“That’s what I need,” she whispered. “Solitude.” He’d had five books published in all, and all were out of print but Visions of Solitude. She clicked on it and read some reviews, grimacing and beginning to feel a little bit sorry for Larry.
Then she decided to Google him.
Googling someone wasn’t really spying, Kat told herself as she typed in Lawrence Kendall, then pressed “search.”