"Ay me! For aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smoothe."

—William Shakespeare,

A Midsummer Night's Dream

"If I had as many affairs as you fellows claim,

I'd be speaking to you today from a

jar in the Harvard Medical School."

—Frank Sinatra,

Life magazine, 1965

Chapter Two

Saint Just pushed open the heavy wooden door with the tip of his sword cane and peered into the darkness. "And this would be ... ?" he asked Kiki Rodgers, daughter of the owner of Rodgers Regency Realty. Or, as Kiki had explained, pointing to the three gold Rs circled in gold thread on the pocket of her navy blazer, "That's our brand, sugar. The Triple R. Daddy's originally from Texas."

Saint Just wasn't as familiar with Texas as he probably should be, because he'd only been able to look at Maggie in confusion as they'd both stared at Kiki's remarkable bosom when they'd first met, without trying to look as if they were staring, and Maggie had whispered, "They like everything big in Texas, sugar."

In truth, he was still trying to sort out what was happening, as Maggie's request that he and Sterling accompany her to view a house she was considering purchasing was so completely out of character for the woman, who never did anything spontaneously, never acted on a whim—at least when it came to parting with a penny of her hard-earned money.

She studied every advertisement in the newspapers before she went shopping, planning her route, laying out her itinerary, and even then only purchased something new when he would finally put his foot down, insisting that she make a choice. He doubted she bought a packet of gum without first considering the thing.

And she was a creature of habit. The ornaments on her Christmas tree had to be placed in the same positions they'd been hung the previous years.

She always hesitated for a moment—five seconds, he'd decided, after keeping a mental count on several occasions—before putting out her foot (left foot first), and descending any staircase.

Her bacon went on the left side of her plate, her scrambled eggs always to the right. Even if she had to turn the plate around after it was placed in front of her.

She sat in the same chair, at the same table at Mario's, at Bellini's.

She always laid her napkin in her lap immediately, and then carefully rearranged the cutlery, moving the knife and spoon from the left and putting them to her right.

He could go on. Indefinitely.

Maggie was a creature of habit. A traditional person, one with routines, even rituals. Compulsive, in a nice way, he'd have to say. Reliable. Dependable.

Never spontaneous.

He didn't like feeling off balance, not the one in control. But Maggie seemed to have taken the bit between her teeth on this business of purchasing a new domicile, and what were women created for, if not to indulge them?

"Why, sugar," Kiki told him, suddenly not more than an inch away, her lush body brushing his as she leaned in beside him, "that there's the steps down to the wine cellar."

Behind them, Maggie chirped, "A real, honest-to-God wine cellar? I don't remember seeing that on the listing. Oh, wow."

Kiki turned to smile at her client. "Yes, it is exciting, isn't it? Here, let me show you," she said, reaching past Saint Just to turn on the light.

Saint Just stood back to allow her to precede them down the stairs, and then ushered Maggie and Sterling ahead of him before following the small troop to the cool, stone-walled room the size of Maggie's living room.

By the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, Maggie was poking about the floor-to-ceiling, freestanding shelves, gushing excitedly that she felt as if she was in "a library for wine."

"Yes, although depressingly small, don't you think?" he said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye as he peered at the dusty label of one of the half dozen or more wine bottles still lying in holders on the shelves. Those few bottles had probably gone to vinegar and had therefore been left behind at the time of the previous owner's departure. "I do very much fear that my own cellars—plural, Miss Rodgers—at Blake Manor would dwarf this paltry attempt."

"Oh, for God's sake, Alex," Maggie muttered quietly, "you don't have a wine cellar. Cellars. You don't have a Blake Manor. I made all that up, just like I made you up. Remember?"

"I remember, my dear, that the more interest one shows in a purchase, the higher the price and the less reason to negotiate toward a lower one," he responded just as quietly. "You take my point?"

Maggie shot a quick look toward Kiki, who was deep in conversation with Sterling about the joys of the kitchen they'd just viewed. "Oh, okay, I get it. Sterling's going a little overboard, right? Should we call him off?"

"Possibly," Saint Just responded, tamping down a smile. "Although I believe I was referring mostly to you, and this distressing tendency to gush 'oh, wow' every time a new door is opened."

"Oh." But then she grabbed his arm and pulled him behind the last rack, obviously not quite understanding the acoustics of a fifteen-by-fifteen foot cube constructed entirely of stone. "I want this house, Alex. It's perfect. We can be private, we can be together, we can—you know damn full well Faith doesn't have a wine cellar. A cooler, maybe. One of those under-the-kitchen-counter deals, but not a cellar. I mean, she lives on what, the twenty-sixth floor, or something? No way can she have an authentic wine cellar. Is that petty? Don't answer that."

"As I quite value my neck, yes, I do believe I will refrain from comment. I will, however, take my life into my own hands and ask if you're seriously considering purchasing a house in order to upset Miss Simmons, as it seems out of character for you, my dear."

"I know. My bad, right? But that's not why, okay? It's just that Faith got me thinking, you know? If she can buy a monstrosity like she bought, then I should be able to take a chance, a leap of faith—no pun intended—and believe in myself and my future enough to make a purchase of this size. You know what a purchase like this says, Alex? This house? This house says I've made it. I'm not going to get tossed out on my ear again, because I've got a real career. A real future. I'm secure. I mean, you can't owe as much money as mortgaging this place would cost, not if you weren't confident about your future. Right? This house, the mortgage—they'd be like affirming statements."

"Are you insinuating that you'd purchase this house in order to convince yourself of your own worth?"

Maggie frowned. "Don't be logical, Alex. And stop playing Doctor Bob, okay? I want this house. I want ... I want us to have this house."

"Ah, now that's comforting. You've decided that I'm ... staying?"

"It's been months, Alex, and you haven't poofed yet. So, yes, I've decided you're probably here to stay, that you're evolving, like you keep saying, becoming more your own person and not just my creation. Making your own place in ... well, in the real world. It's goofy, but I'm beginning to believe it. Is that all right with you? That I'm thinking about making ... plans?"

"I can say with all truthfulness, yes, I'm delighted. But you do pick your moments, my dear. We could hardly be less private, if you've taken it into your head to propose."

"I'm proposing us living in sin, not getting married," Maggie said, blushing delightfully to the roots of her thick, artfully sun-streaked brown hair.

"But you have been sadly compromised," he pointed out to her.

"Not exactly sadly," Maggie said, grinning at him.

"It is my duty as a gentleman to protect your reputation by offering my hand in—shall I go on?"

"No, I know the drill. But forget the drill. Are you with me on this house thing, or not?"

Saint Just peeked out from behind the rack as Kiki informed them that she and Sterling were going back upstairs for another look at the six-burner gas stove Sterling had been loathe to leave in the first place.

"You just follow when you want, sugar."

Maggie opened her mouth to answer—or to ask just who Kiki thought she was calling sugar —but Saint Just put a fingertip to her lips, keeping her silent.

"We'll join you in a few moments, Miss Rodgers," he told her as Maggie glared at him.

Maggie pushed his finger away once Kiki and Sterling's footsteps could be heard on the wood floor of the kitchen above. "So what's your problem, Alex, because you obviously have one. You say you don't have a problem, but you do, don't you? Is it this house? Or me? Is it me? You don't want to live here with me?"

"There is a Spanish proverb, which says very justly, 'Tell me whom you live with, and I will tell you who you are.' "

"The Earl of Chesterfield," Maggie said, nodding. "So what do you think the earl would say about you, living with me?"

Saint Just thought on this for a moment. "That I, an esteemed member of the peerage and thus a person who should know better, should be horsewhipped? That, or that I, too, should be visiting weekly with Doctor Bob."

"Ha-ha. Nobody said ours was a ... a normal association. Well, somebody might, if they knew what was going on, how you got here, but then that person probably wouldn't be normal. But it's normal for us, right? So that can't be the reason. Maybe you don't want to share expenses? Maybe you want to stay where you are, not live with me again? Because I'm not staying where I am. It's time I owned my own house, put down ... put down roots."

"A commendable aspiration, I'm sure. I also thank you very much for your kind invitation to include Sterling and myself. I have absolutely no problems with the move, the purchase. However, I do feel somewhat unhappy over your motives, Maggie. You do have worth as a person, you have roots, as you say. And, if we're looking at facts, you already own the condo, Maggie."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't confuse me with facts. I want this house. I mean, I really, really want it. The moment the page came up on the computer, I knew this would be the place. Kismet, fate. Something."

He relaxed somewhat, and teased, "No matter the price?"

Maggie opened her mouth, undoubtedly to say yes, no matter the price, but then the frugal part of her rendered a figurative slap to the side of her head and she coughed, probably choking on her admirable financial restraint, before bleating—oh, yes, the girl was bleating—"You'll talk to her? I can't talk price, Alex. I'd fold like an umbrella the first time she said the price is firm."

"Because, as you're so fond of saying, you're a wimp when it comes to confrontation?"

"And people with boobs the size of the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area, yes," Maggie admitted, flushing. "Confident people make me nervous. They're always so damn sure of themselves."

"I'm a confident person, Maggie," Saint Just pointed out, slipping his arms around her waist. "Do I make you nervous?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

He moved his hands higher.

"Okay, that's making me nervous. But only because of where we are ... the way you're looking at me—stop looking at me that way. Those baby blues might do it for Lady Prestwick, but they cut no mustard with me."

"I beg your pardon. Lady Prestwick?"

"Your next love interest. I was picking out names for the new book this morning, before I called you to come look at the house with me. Lady Jane Prestwick. You're going to clear her name even though she was discovered standing over her husband's body, a bloody letter opener in her hand."

"How heroic of me, and how wonderfully predictable, although I'm confident you'll handle the entire situation in a way unique to my tremendous powers of deduction."

"Bite me," Maggie told him, then shook her head. "One of these days I'm going to write a scene where you lose, if only for the moment. It would probably be good for you, build your character."

"And anger our readers. Saint Just never loses, you know that. So, what does Lady Jane look like, hmm? I believe my last amorous encounter was with a particularly fiery redhead."

Maggie pushed his hands back down to her waist. "I don't know. I didn't get that far yet. Why?"

"Well, if I might be so bold," Saint Just said, his mission one of hardening Maggie's resolve when it came to their confident Realtor. "I believe I might suggest a tallish, confident young woman. Blonde. Slim, but with a remarkably extraordinary bosom."

"Kiki," Maggie ground out, pushing herself free of him. "You want Kiki? You want that plastic, bleached former Miss Kudzu queen? Right. That's going to happen. Now come on, let's go lowball the woman and see how she comes back at us. Well, at you. I'm planning on just standing there, looking bored."

Saint Just retrieved his cane, which he'd leaned against the wall. "Lowball? I'm not familiar with the term."

"Neither am I, but it sounds good," Maggie said, climbing the stairs ahead of him. She didn't hesitate when mounting stairs, but only when descending them. "We'll ask her to take us through the whole house again, and you point out all that's wrong with it, okay? Then we'll hit her with a figure. What do you think of five and a half? I think that's reasonable."

"Five and a half what, my dear?" Saint Just asked, following her up and into the main kitchen.

"Million dollars," Maggie whispered, although they were alone in the kitchen, Kiki and Sterling obviously having moved on to another part of the house. "I could go to six, but I want to start lower."

"So you'll pitch her a low ball and hope she swings at it? Yes, I begin to understand the concept, perhaps. We'll think of this in terms of baseball. What flaws, in particular, do you suggest I point out to the woman?"

"Hell, Alex, I don't know. I love every inch of this house. Just make it work, okay? It's vacant, it's ready to go. We could probably move here right after the first of the year. If ... if you want to, of course. Things are moving so fast, aren't they? Maybe you'd rather stay where you are?"

"I thought we were settled on that point. I am where I want to be, Maggie. I'm with you."

She rolled her eyes. "The Case of the Pilfered Pearls. Chapter Six, I think. You're feeding me the come-on line I fed you to feed to whatever-the-hell the woman's name was that I put you to bed with in that book. That's disgusting."

"Ah, but a good line is a good line, yes?" Saint Just teased as Maggie turned on her heels and headed out of the kitchen.

Saint Just tarried for a few moments at the immense, granite-topped island, considering all that had happened since Maggie had summoned him to her condo shortly before luncheon and shown him the Internet listing of this house.

He'd admired the way she'd convinced Miss Rodgers to meet with them that same afternoon although, of course, that was before Maggie had seen the confident young woman's imposing bosom. He admired her taste in having chosen a building such as this in the first place. The tall, white-stuccoed structure would look quite at home in Brighton.

And he was amazed to think that Maggie was finally coming out of her shell enough to realize that there was more to life than sitting at her computer tucked into a corner of her living room, creating a fantasy world that in no way resembled her own rather circumspect lifestyle.

He'd like to think that he had played a part, a rather large part, in this metamorphosis, this digging Maggie out of the figurative cave she'd resided in much too long. Alone, not realizing she was lonely. Needing some life in her life ... needing him in her life.

After all, she'd created him; her perfect hero. And now he would go out and slay a dragon for her. It was what he did.

He swung his sword cane up and onto his shoulder as he prepared to follow Maggie at his leisure. "I am, by and large, quite a remarkable fellow," he congratulated himself, smiling at his own smugness ... and then quickly broke into a run when he heard a crash some distance away, followed by a pithy, feminine curse.