LITMIR.BIZ

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and I don’t care,” Vanessa answered. She was almost to the parking lot where she’d left her car; in a few minutes she could get behind the steering wheel and drive away.

      With sudden harshness, Parker stopped her again, grasping her shoulders with his hands and pressing her backward against a department store display window. “You’re not going to ruin this deal for me, Vanessa!” he shouted.

      Vanessa stared at him, appalled and breathless. God knew Parker had hurt her often enough, but he’d never been physically rough.

      Parker’s effort to control his temper was visible. “I’m sorry,” he ground out, and because he seldom apologized for anything, Vanessa believed him. “I didn’t mean to manhandle you like that. Vanessa, please. Sit down with me somewhere private and listen to what I have to say. That’s all I’m asking.”

      “There’s no point, Parker,” Vanessa replied. “I know what you want to tell me, and my answer won’t be any different. The way you portrayed me in that book is libelous—I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up in public.”

      “And I thought you’d be proud when I sent you a copy of that manuscript.” He paused to shake his head, as if still amazed at her negative reaction. “Van, people will know I made most of that stuff up,” Parker went on presently with a weak smile. “They’re not going to take it seriously.”

      Vanessa arched one eyebrow. “Oh, really? Well, I’d rather not take the chance, if you don’t mind. I have dreams of my own, you know.”

      Passersby were beginning to make whispers that indicated they recognized Parker. He took Vanessa’s arm and squired her into a nearby coffee shop. “Two minutes,” he said. “That’s all I want.”

      She smiled acidly. “That’s you, Parker—the two-minute man.”

      He favored her with a scorching look and dropped into the booth’s seat across from her. “I’d forgotten what a little witch you can be, Van.” He paused to square his shoulders. “Darla hasn’t complained.”

      Darla, of course, was the girlfriend. “People with IQ’s under twenty rarely do,” Vanessa answered sweetly. Then she added, “Your two minutes are ticking away.”

      A waitress came, and Parker ordered two cups of coffee without even consulting Vanessa. It was so typical that she nearly laughed out loud.

      “The advance on this book,” Parker began in a low and reluctant voice, “is in the high six figures. I can’t play baseball forever, Van; I need some security.”

      Vanessa rolled her eyes. Most oil sheiks didn’t live as well as Parker; he certainly wasn’t facing penury. “I’ll drop you off at the food bank if you’d like,” she offered.

      A muscle bunched in his jaw. Vanessa could have lived for years on the money that Parker’s face brought in for beer commercials alone. “You know,” he said, “I really didn’t expect you to be so bitter and frustrated.”

      The coffee arrived, and the waitress walked away again.

      “Watch it,” Vanessa warned. “You’re trying to get on my good side, remember?”

      Parker spread his hands in a gesture of baffled annoyance. “Van, I know the divorce was hard on you, but you have a job now and a life of your own. There’s no reason to torture me like this.”

      He sounded so damnably rational that Vanessa wanted to throw her coffee in his face. “Is that what you think I’m doing? I want nothing from you, Parker—no money, no minks, no sports cars—and no lies written up in a book and presented as the truth.”

      “So I was a little creative? What’s wrong with that?”

      “Nothing, if you’re writing a novel.” Vanessa could see that the conversation was progressing exactly as she’d expected. “I don’t know why I even came down here,” she said, glancing at her watch and sliding out of the booth.

      “Hot date?” Parker asked, giving the words an unsavory inflection.

      “Very hot,” Vanessa lied, looking down at Parker. She was meeting her cousin Rodney for dinner and a movie, but what Parker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She made a sssssssss sound, meant to indicate a sizzle, and walked away.

      Much to her relief, Parker didn’t follow.

      Rodney was waiting in the agreed place when she reached the mall, his hands wedged into his jacket pockets, his white teeth showing in a grin.

      “Hi, Van,” he said. “Bad day?”

      Vanessa kissed his cheek and linked her arm through his. “I just came from a meeting with Parker,” she replied. “Does that answer your question?”

      Rodney frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m afraid it does.”

      Vanessa smiled up at the handsome young man with the thick, longish chestnut brown hair and Omar Sharif eyes. Her first cousin—and at twenty-one, five years her junior—Rodney was the only family she had in Seattle, and she loved him. She changed the subject. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the apartment?”

      Rodney laughed as they walked into the mall together and approached their favorite fast-food restaurant, a place that sold Chinese cuisine to go. The apartment over Vanessa’s garage was empty since her last tenant had moved out, and Rodney wanted the rooms in the worst way.

      “You know I do, Van,” he scolded her good-naturedly. “Living over a funeral home has its drawbacks. For one thing, it gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘things that go bump in the night.”’

      Van laughed and shook her head. “Okay, okay—you can move in in a few weeks. I want to have the place painted first.”

      Rodney’s face lighted up. He was a good kid working his way through chiropractic school by means of a very demanding and unconventional job, and Vanessa genuinely enjoyed his company. In fact, they’d always been close. “I’ll do the painting,” he said.

      It was late when Vanessa arrived at the large colonial house on Queen Anne Hill and let herself in the front door. She crossed the sparsely furnished living room, kicking off her high heels and rifling through the day’s mail as she moved.

      In the kitchen, she flipped on the light and put a cup of water in the microwave to heat for tea. When the brew was steaming on the table, she steeled herself and pressed the button on her answering machine.

      The first message was from her boss, Paul Harmon. “Janet and I want you to have dinner with us a week from Friday at DeAngelo’s. Don’t bring a date.”

      Vanessa frowned. The Harmons were friends of hers and they were forever trying to fix her up with one of their multitude of unattached male acquaintances. The fact that Paul had specified she shouldn’t bring a date was unsettling.

      She missed the next two messages, both of which were from Parker, because the name of the restaurant had rung a distant bell. What was it about DeAngelo’s that made her uncomfortable?

      She stirred sweetener into her tea, frowning. Then it came to her—the proprietor of the place was Nick DeAngelo, a former pro football player with a reputation for womanizing exceeded only by Parker’s. Vanessa shuddered. The man was Paul’s best friend. What if he turned out to be the mysterious fourth at dinner?

      Vanessa shut off the answering machine and dialed the Harmons’ home number. Janet answered the phone.

      “About dinner at DeAngelo’s,” Vanessa said, after saying hi. “Am I being set up to meet Mr. Macho, or what?”

      Janet laughed. “I take it you’re referring to Nick?”

      “And you’re hedging,” Vanessa accused.

      “Okay, yes—we want you to meet Nick. He’s a darling, Vanessa. You’ll love him.”

      “That’s what you said about that guy who

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