Married One Night. Amber Williams Leigh

working together for years on the Rex Flynn series, along with a few spin-off titles. He’d come to know Dwight as a friend as well as a professional. “I wasn’t dodging. Just waiting for the right moment.”

      “To tell me what—that the book isn’t finished? Tell me something I don’t know.”

      “How do you know the book isn’t already done?” Gerald ventured.

      “Because this is the first book in eight years you haven’t turned in two months ahead of schedule,” Dwight told him. “And when the writing’s going well, you’re not afraid to call and chat about it. Usually, I can’t get you to shut up. You haven’t so much as shot me an email in a month’s time in this case, which tells me you’re cowering in a hole somewhere hoping I’ve forgotten about you.”

      Gerald pursed his lips and scuffed the bottom of his shoe against a dry patch of earth. “You know I was in Las Vegas dealing with film negotiations.”

      “Yeah, and before that you visited your family in Yorkshire. Before that, you were, what, betting on the ponies in Jersey?”

      “Are you spying on me now, Dwight?” Gerald asked.

      “When you’re a well-known author, people notice when you go places you shouldn’t. Like Belmont.”

      “For the record,” Gerald explained, “I was not betting on the ponies. A friend of mine breeds horses. He named one of the Thoroughbreds after Rex. I was simply making an appearance. And that could technically be lumped into the working category, you know...”

      “Fine, but then your sister wrote to tell me what a good time you’d had together and thanked me for letting you fly off to England when you had a book due. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I knew nothing about the trip.”

      “It was my niece’s birthday,” Gerald reasoned.

      “Vegas might be forgivable at least,” Dwight went on. “But let me ask you this, my friend, where are you now?”

      Gerald gazed across the water toward Mobile. “I can’t claim to be at the writing desk....”

      “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Gerald—”

      “Hear me out, mate,” Gerald said. “I won’t deny I’ve been blocked. I won’t lie to you and say I’ve not struggled with this one. In truth, piecing this story together has been like trying to carve a diamond. But that’s all about to change.”

      “Oh, yeah? Enlighten me.”

      “I’ve found inspiration,” Gerald said. “The characters are talking to me again, and I’m starting to see the pictures, the easy flow of scenes. I’ve also found a quiet place, one where the rush and bustle of business and city life is far enough away that I’m no longer bound to it. The words will come. And when they do, they’ll come fast and hard. You’ll have the book on schedule, Dwight. You can count on it.”

      “You’re giving me your word?” Dwight asked, surprised. He knew as well as anyone that when Gerald pledged something, he meant it wholeheartedly and would rather see his soul shattered than his word broken.

      “Consider it a promise,” Gerald said, glancing back toward the tavern and the woman he knew dwelled within. “You won’t be disappointed, my friend.”

      “I rarely am.” Dwight sighed. “All right. If you’re so sure...I’ll expect the completed manuscript in three weeks.”

      Gerald grinned. “Give it two. Goodbye, Dwight.”

CHAPTER FIVE

      THE EAGLES’ “WITCHY WOMAN” rumbled through Tavern of the Graces as Gerald entered it later in the evening. The establishment was packed with men mostly, he noticed. Glancing around, he admired the remarkable woodwork highlighted by tray lights on the walls. The carvings seemed to follow the history of Mobile Bay. The room was warm, battling the chill that had settled over the shoreline as the afternoon wore thin.

      Appreciating the vintage rock music and more than willing to sit back, relax and enjoy the atmosphere, Gerald spied an empty table and veered toward it.

      It wasn’t long before the waitress manning the tables with a flirtatious smile and a finesse only experience could teach spotted him and made her way over. “What can I get you, hot stuff?”

      He returned her smile of greeting. “What would you suggest?”

      She raised a dark, impossibly thin brow. “Well, if you haven’t already heard, we’ve got the finest margaritas east of The Big Easy.”

      “How fine is that?”

      She smirked, red lips bowing and chocolate-hued eyes drinking him in. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

      “No.” Gerald laughed. “London originally, but I’m afraid that might be a bit obvious.”

      “Love the accent,” she purred and set a basket of tortilla chips on the table in front of him. “If you’re not brave enough to try the margarita, I’d suggest something on tap.”

      “The house margarita is fine,” he told her. “But tell your bartender to go easy on the tequila, if she knows what’s good for her. And if I could, I’d like a moment of her time.”

      The waitress smiled warmly. “Oh, Liv’s always got time for a good-lookin’ guy like you. Right now you’ll find her over at the pool tables. Clint Harbuck challenged her to a game.”

      Gerald turned in interest toward the billiards. When he saw his wife leaning over a cue stick, about to sink the black eight ball into a corner pocket, he beamed. “Who’s winning?”

      “Oh, Liv—by a mile.”

      “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He chuckled, then gave the waitress a warm smile, lifting a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “Keep the change, love. And bring us all a round of draft beer.” Shrugging off his sports jacket, he hooked it over the back of the chair and walked across the room to better entertain himself with the game and its two opponents.

      Clint, the giant of a man who had challenged Olivia to a game, had a ruddy face, watery blue eyes and a rough, red beard that was days past the point of trimming. He stood with the back of his extralarge flannel shirt pressed against the wood-paneled wall. Sipping from a bottle of Budweiser, he lifted it to gesture toward Olivia. “You’re never gonna make that shot, sweetheart. Not at that angle.”

      Olivia, focused, didn’t budge as she eyed the round, white cue ball with fierce intensity. “You just shut your trap and watch how it’s done, Harbuck.” Pulling the stick back slightly, she tapped it hard enough against the cue ball to send it skidding into the eight ball. The eight ball spun drunkenly toward the corner pocket and sank in with a resounding clack.

      A cheer went up through the tavern. As Olivia stood and turned to Clint, victorious, there was a smirk painted on her lips. “That’s an even thirty you owe me this time. You’ll pay up now, not like the last time when you snuck out on me and claimed to have forgotten about it next time I saw you.”

      “Aw, hell,” Clint muttered, tossing his cue stick onto the table in frustration. In jerky movements that lent themselves toward impatience, he dug his wallet out of the saggy back pocket of his faded blue jeans and peeled three wrinkled ten-dollar bills from the fold. “Woman’s a regular pool hustler,” he growled, handing them over.

      “Thank you,” Olivia said cheerily, making a point of counting the bills before standing on the toes of her high heels to give the man a deprecating pat on the cheek. “Until next time.” She spun toward the bar, then came up short when she saw Gerald in her path. Her smile fled...and wasn’t that a shame?

      Olivia’s direct gaze was like a punch to his sternum. She’d put on enough smoky eye shadow to make the effect twice as overwhelming. He towered over her by a foot at least even after