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In the psychic? I don’t remember Nelly saying anything about that.”

His smile stayed warm. “I like to call it being intuitive and willing to be open to new possibilities.”

Feeling her face flush with the obvious interest he was showing in her, Mikki’s eyes dropped to the book he

had been reading. The title was My Losing Season . . .

Mikki gasped, reaching for the hardback. “Pat Conroy! You like Pat Conroy?”

“He’s one of my top ten favorite writers,” Arnold said.

“Mine, too. I love him! The Prince of Tides; The Great Santini, The Water Is Wide . . . ”

“Beach Music, The Lords of Discipline,” he continued for her.

“I adored Beach Music.”

“So did I. Almost as much as The Prince of Tides. I hated that it got some bad reviews,” he said quickly.

“I couldn’t agree more! Pat Conroy’s prose is magic. I cannot understand how anyone could give him a bad

review.”

They sat and smiled in happy surprise at each other, and Mikki felt a rush of something she hadn’t felt for a

long time on a date—hope.

Blair’s romantic and totally exaggerated sigh changed into a contrived cough when Mikki glared at him.

“Oh-mi-god, excuse me,” Blair said. “Something tickled my throat.”

“Blair, honey, you can bring me a glass of my usual chianti.” She glanced back at the still-smiling Arnold.

“Are you hungry? I skipped lunch and would love an hors d’oeuvre.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Fantastic. How about the olive bread? It always makes me think of Italy.”

Arnold nodded and Blair hurried away.

“So you’re a Conroy fan,” he said. “Which is your favorite?”

“Probably The Prince of Tides, but I love them all.” Mikki stroked the cover of the book before passing it

back across the table. “I haven’t read that one yet.”

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“You have to! He gives amazing insight into his life.”

“I’ll be sure to get it.” They shared a look of complete understanding, and Mikki felt another lovely flutter of

hope. “You said he was one of your top ten favorite authors. Who are some of the others?”

Arnold leaned forward, obviously warming to the subject as only a true booklover could. Mikki studied him as

he talked. No, he was not traditionally handsome, and she did tend to prefer her men taller—and younger. But

there was definitely something about him, something intelligent and experienced and sexy.

“It’s hard to narrow them down to ten. I suppose with Conroy I’d have to add Herman Wouk.”

“The Winds of War. What a fabulous book!” Mikki said.

“And don’t forget War and Remembrance.”

“Couldn’t do that.”

“Then I’d have to go from there to James Clavell,” he said.

“King Rat, Tai-Pan and the best, Shogun,” she said, barely nodding at Blair as he brought her wine and their

olive bread.

“I didn’t like the miniseries, though.”

“Richard Chamberlain as Blackthorne? Please. No, no, no. I really hate it when a great book is turned into a

cheesy miniseries.”

“Unlike one of my other top ten picks—Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove.”

Mikki paused mid-bite of her olive bread. “I loved the book and adored the miniseries.”

And from there they launched into a lively discussion of the settings depicted by their most beloved authors,

from McMurtry’s West to Wilbur Smith’s Africa and Egypt. Somewhere in the middle of their conversation

they managed to order and eat dinner. Mikki felt like she wanted to pinch herself. She couldn’t remember the

last time she’d had such great dinner conversation with a man. With girlfriends it was the norm to have easy,

interesting discussions. With men it seemed—at least to Mikki—almost impossible. Yet before she knew it,

she’d killed three glasses of chianti, eaten an excellent meal and was just ordering an Irish coffee for dessert

instead of the Death by Chocolate Cake that had been tempting her. She was nicely buzzed and having a great

time—and was completely surprised when she glanced at her watch and saw that almost two hours had

passed.

She sipped her coffee and felt his eyes studying her. The question on his face was so clear she smiled and

said, “What?”

“It’s just so amazing.”

“Actually, I was thinking the same thing,” she said a little shyly.

“I can’t believe I found a woman who has actually read, and can appreciate, more than a trashy romance

novel.”

Mikki felt the beginning of cold water being dashed on her warm, happy buzz. Had he actually said “trashy

romance novel”? As in the wonderful Nora Roberts, and the ever-delightful MaryJanice Davidson, Susan

Grant, Gena Showalter, Sharon Sala, Merline Lovelace, and a host of other fabulous women authors who had

kept her company on long nights and made her laugh and cry and sigh happily?

“What do you mean by that?”

Oblivious to her change in tone, he went on enthusiastically. “I mean that it’s unusual that an attractive,

available woman has read and comprehended some interesting books.”

“I’ve made it a point to read a wide range of authors and genres. I think it gives an important added

perspective to what might be an otherwise narrow view of life,” she said carefully, trying to keep her tone

neutral. “I was wondering, Arnold, have you ever read any of Anne Tyler’s work?”

“Tyler? No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“She won a Pulitzer for Breathing Lessons, you know.”

“Did she?” He flashed his smile again. “Good for her.”

Mikki cringed internally at his patronizing tone. “How about The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova?”

“No.”

“I thought you liked historicals,” she said.

“I do.”

“Hmm. Then how about The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley?”

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“The Arthurian myth told from a woman’s point of view?” His laugh was sarcastic and condescending. “I

wouldn’t consider that historical.”

“Did you read it?”

“No, of course not. I choose to stick with Tennyson or T. H. White.” His hand rubbed his forehead as if she

was causing his head to hurt. “I like things that are tried and true.”

“Okay, then what about any of Nora Roberts’s books? I read a statistic once that said that every sixty

seconds someone buys a Nora Roberts novel. Sounds as if she is definitely tried and true. And statistically, at

least, you might have read her—maybe even on accident.”

“Nora Roberts? Doesn’t she write those bodice rippers?”

Blair fluttered up to the table. “I’ll just leave the check here.” He put it next to Arnold’s arm. “But there’s no

rush for you two, take . . .” Blair’s words trailed off as he recognized the look of narrow-eyed annoyance

Mikki had trained on her date. He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is that I’ll be happy to take this for

yiew q this foou whenever you’re ready.” With a worried glance at Mikki, he retreated to watch from the

waiter’s station.

Blair’s abrupt departure made Mikki realize that she needed to fix the expression on her face, but when she

glanced at Arnold she saw she needn’t have worried. He wasn’t looking at her. He was frowning over the bill.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

He looked up at her and then slid the bill over so she could see it. “No. No problem at all. I was just figuring

up my part of the bill.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were the one who ordered the appetizer. You had one more glass of wine than I did, and that Irish

coffee certainly wasn’t cheap.”

Disbelieving, Mikki blinked and tried to find her voice.

He reached into his wallet and got out a twenty and two tens. “That should take care of my part, plus a tip.”

Then he looked expectantly at her. “Are you paying with cash or a credit card?”

Mikki burst into laughter. “You want me to pay for my half of dinner?”

“Of course,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “Times have changed. Today’s women want to be treated

equally and with respect. I’m just showing you the respect you want.”

“Perfect,” Mikki said, still laughing. She could feel the lovely redheaded fit brewing just under her

breastbone. This was going to be truly delicious.

“This is just perfect. Okay, here’s the deal Dr. Asher—that is how one formally addresses you, isn’t it?”

He nodded, looking vaguely confused.

“Good. I want to be sure I get this right. Here’s the deal, Dr. Asher. It’s not showing me respect to use

rhetoric about what today’s women want as an excuse to be cheap. It’s actually showing me the opposite. I

don’t care what year it is. If this is a date—and I was under the impression that it was—then it should be a

point of pride and good manners for a gentleman to pay for a lady’s dinner. That’s being respectful. But you

wouldn’t understand that because you clearly do not respect women. Your attitude about what you believe

women read is as patronizing as your obvious disdain for female authors.” Mikki reached into her purse,

pulled out three twenty-dollar bills and plopped them on top of the check. “And here’s a newsflash for

you—those so-called trashy romance novels outsell all other genres of writing. Many of the authors are

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