Jackson arrived in a shower of pebbles and dust, his white Jaguar screeching to a halt where my drive ended and the tall bracken began.

“I couldn’t wait to get here,” he enthused after leaping from his car to lean his head back, drink in the wine of my lake-washed air, then throw his arms wide and walk toward me.

With his dark hair, long slim body, that superior air, those warm arms—he had me. He always had me; the reason I moved two hundred and fifty miles away after the divorce. I didn’t want to become one of those sad, pathetic cast-off wives who hung around, waiting to pick up the leavings—should he care to drop by from time to time.

I guess I’d always been a sucker for a good-looking man with an affected laugh and an absolute belief in his own transcendence over ordinary mortals. Jackson could make my heart do stupid things and make me smile when I didn’t want to smile. He could even make me feel better about myself just by putting a hand on either of my shoulders and kissing me in the middle of my forehead. There is something about warm male lips on dry, longing, female skin.

“You’re late,” I grumbled because he always made me grumble to protect my self-respect.

“I know, but when you hear why …” He folded his arms slowly around me then smiled down as he hugged me gently to him, pulling me very close so I could feel his legs against mine. He turned me back toward my own house then followed, pushing. I let myself be pushed, though I pushed back a little.

“It was for the cause, Emily. I got so much work done this morning. An amazingly prodigious amount. No sense coming over here and then having to come right back again. So, I’ve brought you ten chapters. Can you imagine it? Ten chapters. The book is flying.”

He stopped at the door, gave me a little shove inside, then ran back to his car to retrieve the manuscript pages, all waiting for me to decipher his handwriting, type them into a file, print out a final edit, and then burn onto a CD for his publisher. He held the stack of white paper high and riffled through them. His worn, if still good-looking, face took on the triumphant look he’d once had after sex. Probably still had. Something to do with getting a woman to satisfy a need. Right now his need was for a typist.

The sun on the deck was warm, the clouds gone—as Harry had predicted. Jackson liked eating this way—alfresco. It reminded him of our days in Italy, he said, leaning back in the deck chair, hands behind his head.

“Remember Tuscany, Emily?”

I nodded, remembering Tuscany only too well. The days I’d spent trying to keep him out of the clutches of overheated Italian women who admired the scarf tossed casually around his throat and his pale wool cap, tipped at a jaunty angle. Professori they called him and virtually swooned.

He’d forgotten the bread so I produced mine, puffing with pride at my efficiency. As we ate, Jackson stopped from time to time to lift his hand from the manuscript pages on the table beside him, pick them up, and flip them at me. “Won’t take too much of your time,” he smiled, his dark eyes crinkling. “And think of the contribution to literary studies. I will, of course, acknowledge your help.”

“I’ve started a new novel,” I said, trying for a little of this bright glare of spotlight.

He set his pages down slowly and gave me a doubting smile. “Not like the last, I hope? What was that one? A new rendition of Fatal Attraction?”

“Mistake,” I mumbled, stuffing salad into my mouth.

He leaned back, large hands pushing his soup bowl away, and watched as white puffy clouds sailed over the lake. “I’ll be glad to take a look at whatever you have. Just to make certain … well … you don’t want to make another mistake.”

He yawned and reached for a piece of bread, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then added, “What about that mystery, the one about your adventures with Deputy Dolly? Anything back on it yet?”

“Yes. Very favorable,” I lied. “An agent asked to see the whole manuscript.”

“Ah,” was all he said.

“In fact, there was more than one.” I hoped my nose wasn’t growing. “Three, to be exact. I should be hearing any day now.”

He lifted an eyebrow and made a noise. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing,” was all he said.

The phone rang and Sorrow, who’d been asleep at our feet, leaped up to answer. I followed him back into the house.

It was Dolly, wanting to know if I’d come up with anything on Chet. I had to disappoint her.

“I found his mother’s address, on that old Christmas list,” she said. “We can start there.”

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

She ignored me. “I talked to the mushroomers from Ohio. Nice old couple. Very shaken by all of this. They didn’t have anything else to add, just that they found the bones by accident. And they did call the Odawa, who don’t look kindly on anyone disturbing an old burial site. Brent said they’ve been in touch with him so maybe it was one of them out there. I still don’t think he saw anything, but I’d better get moving on finding Chet. We’ve got to have information fast. They’ll be demanding answers.”

I looked out at Jackson and the sheaf of papers settled securely beside him. His eyebrows went up in expectation of me getting off the phone quickly so as not to miss a single bon mot of his. I weighed things in my mind: Chaucer? Dolly? Hmm …

“OK, look, I’ll go with you,” I said into the phone while smiling and nodding through the open French doors at Jackson.

“Er … thanks, Emily. I really mean it. Tomorrow morning. I’m going to Gertie’s salon this afternoon. Wait’ll you see my new hair color. If I’m going to see Chet Wakowski, I want him to regret the day he left me. I’ll be there about nine. If that’s OK. And Emily, get Jackson out of there. I know you, Emily. No character at all. Don’t even think about going to bed with him.”

“Why … I … you …”

She hung up laughing as I sputtered.

I lied to Jackson—that I had to get into town, that Dolly and I were working on another case. I gathered his papers, went back into the living room, and set them on the big desk in the corner.

“Well, if you have to go … And my work? When do you think … ?”

“Soon. As soon as I can get to it.” I hurried him along.

“Oh … then, well, dinner at my place next time. I want to cook for you, the way I used to. Something simple, but wonderful. And Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio.”

That alone would have done it.

He came closer. I stood with my arms down. Were we going to shake hands? Perhaps pat each other on the back? Jackson put a hand on each of my shoulders and pulled me toward him. He bent just a little while my breath first held, then shook. It had been a long, long time.

He kissed first my forehead, then kissed me full and hard on the mouth. He was so good at this stuff. Why had I forgotten? I wanted to curse my weak knees when he let go. I’d forgotten the power he had over me. Like turning on a switch somewhere inside, I not only got turned on but lit up and more than a bit needy.

“See you in a few days,” he whispered down at me, smiling a too-knowing smile. He stepped away fast, leaving me with a silent, aw shit … rolling around in my pathetic brain.

All I could do was nod. Nothing much really changed between us. I was so easy, I told myself, as I watched him back his Jaguar out of my drive. Dolly was right about me. A person of no character at all.