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?”

  “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 insightful and well educated. They create worlds filled with strong, passionate women and honorable, heroic men. You should try reading some of them. Those female romance authors you disdain could definitely teach you a thing or two about being a man.” She stood up and put her purse over her shoulder. “Good night, Dr. Asher.” He started to stand, clearly struggling to say something. “No, please. Don’t get up. I want to remember you just like this—confused and speechless. It’s a good look for you; it certainly beats patronizing and chauvinistic.”

  Grinning wickedly, she turned and sauntered lazily out of the dimly lit room.

  height="1em" width="1em"

  She was still grinning as she strolled down the sidewalk. God, she was glad she’d told him off and walked out! She had never been a wimpy, doormat kind of a woman; she had an extraordinarily low bullshit meter. God, didn’t it just figure! He had seemed interesting and sexy at first. But like most men, he had turned out to be a disappointment.

  Whispering through her subconscious was the thought that no man had been able to get close to her because she had never been able to allow herself to share the secret that pulsed through her blood... but the thought was fleeting, and she quickly stifled the stark honesty of it with a tipsy laugh and a little impromptu twirl in the halo of light under a streetlamp.

  She’d never actually walked out on a date before.

  It was exhilarating!

  Her steps slowed. Lately, she’d been thinking more and more that maybe she wasn’t meant to have a permanent relationship. Maybe tonight had been the final sign she needed. Something like a modern omen. She was different, and it was becoming more and more clear to her that there was no “right” man for her. He didn’t exist. Oddly enough, the thought didn’t make her feel sad or lonely. Instead, it made her feel wise, like she had come to a realization that her friends weren’t mature enough yet to understand. It gave her a sense of release that was almost overwhelming.

  Mikki walked past McGill’s, a popular local pub, and considered ducking in for a quick drink. But the door opened and a current of noise rolled out, changing her mind. She didn’t feel like dealing with shouting above a din of music just to order a drink. Plus, she’d probably had enough—not that that was a bad thing. She wasn’t driving—she was flying! Mikki laughed and walked on, breathing in the cool October air.

  As she left the business district and got closer to Woodward Park and her apartment, the buildings changed from posh shops and restaurants to the stately old oil mansions that surrounded the park. Mikki loved this part of Tulsa. It made her wish she had lived during the 1920s. She would have been a flapper. She would have cut her hair short, worn loose beaded dresses that shimmied when she moved, had too much to drink and danced all night. Between parties she would have crusaded for equal rights for women.

  Kind of like she’d done tonight, she thought happily. Well, minus the dress, the haircut and the dancing. She did a happy little skip step under the next light and laughed at herself. Maybe not minus the dancing. She’d have to go back to the restaurant tomorrow night for dinner and get all the gory after-she-left details from Blair and the gang.

  The sidewalk was interrupted by the road forking in front of her. Mikki was at the juncture of where the mansions gave way to Woodward Park. Here was where she usually crossed the street to her apartment. Hesitating, Mikki looked into the park. She didn’t detect any strange shifts in perception that might signal one of her episodes. Actually, until that moment she’d forgotten about the weirdness that had crept into her life with her recent dreams.

  “Just goes to prove dumping a man is good for what ails me,” she said pleasantly to herself.

  And everything did look utterly normal. To d qy normalhe free-standing antique streetlights scattered throughout Woodward Park speckled it with pools of creamy light. The wind whispered through the well-tended oaks, calling softly the change of seasons and causing a cascade of leaves to scatter like mini-tornados that had been taught to heel. And smack in the middle of it she could see the soft illumination of the stage lights for the Performance in the Park rehearsal. Faintly she could hear the actress speaking her lines...

  “A little love is a joy in the house,

  A little fire is a jewel against frost and darkness...”

  She started to cross the street toward home but hesitated, looking longingly at the park, awash in light and sound. It was so lovely. It looked like a magical oasis in the middle of the night—a special little sub-city of her very own. A teasing breeze whisked from the park and twirled around her body, enticing her forward with the cinnamon scent of autumn leaves.

  Why not?

  Mikki checked the time. It was only nine. The park and the rose gardens didn’t close till eleven. Nelly had specifically told her to go on with her normal life. It was definitely normal for her to walk through the park and visit her roses. She’d make her way around the rehearsing actors and then take a quick stroll through the gardens. She really should check on the roses that surrounded the construction site. She’d been concerned that all the tromping of the workmen’s booted feet with their clumsy comings and goings was overstressing the roses.

  Mikki glanced up at the darkening sky, reminding herself that it was the night of the new moon. If the roses needed help, what better time could she choose to give it to them?

  She’d make one pass through the central tier and be sure the workers had cleaned up their mess and not manhandled the roses. Then she’d go home, pour herself a glass of bedtime wine and curl up with a good book... by a female author!

  Or, her errant thoughts whispered enticingly, she could just go to sleep. Wouldn’t she rather revisit her dream lover than do anything else?

  With a supreme effort of will, she steered her mind away from that line of thinking. She couldn’t start living life around her fantasies. Then she really would be crazy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MIKKI stepped into the crossroads between the park and the street and then onto the sidewalk that twisted past the lovely waterfall-fed ponds that framed the north edge of Woodward Park. At the next fork in the walkway she headed up and away from the northern street side, walking toward the central area of the park, which was currently abuzz with activity around the raised stage that had only just been erected the night before. Bits and pieces of poetic lines drifted around her, teasing her with snippets of the play.

  “The holy fountains flow up from the earth,

  the smoke of sacrifice flows up from the earth,

  the eagle aicith,†nd the wild swan fly up from the earth, righteousness also

  has flown up from the earth to the feet of the goddess...”

  Intrigued, she searched her memory for details of Medea’s story. She vaguely remembered that the play was an ancient Greek tragedy and that the plot centered around Medea, who had been jilted by her husband, Jason, for... Mikki scrunched up her face as she tried to sift through the dregs of long-forgotten high school English.

  ... But women will never hate their own children.

  Floating to her on the soft wind, the line jogged her cobwebby memory. Medea had been pissed at Jason because he had dumped her for a younger woman, the daughter of the king of wherever it was they had fled to after she’d betrayed her homeland to save Jason.

  “Figures,” she muttered to herself. “Just like a man...” She slowed as she approached the busy group of people who were rearranging lights and hauling pieces of freshly painted plywood setting here and there. Several actresses were onstage, but they had fallen silent. Three grouped nervously together on stage left. Another woman was standing by herself opposite them stage right. They were wearing drapey toga-like outfits, and their hair flowed long and loose down their backs. All of them were looking around as if they expected someone to materialize from the shadows at the edge of the stage. Mikki stopped to watch, wondering why they seemed so uncomfortable.

  “Where in the hell is Medea?”

  The voice boomed from a little open-ended tent not far from her, causing Mikki to jump.

  “She... she said she had to take a break,” the lone woman said sheepishly.

  “That was half an hour ago!” the shadowed voice yelled, clearly annoyed. “How are we supposed to finish the sound check without Medea?”

  Mikki’s eyes slid to where the voice was coming from. All she could make out from the interior of the tent was an illuminated soundboard that had lights and switches blinking away on it, in front of which the dark figure of a man stood.

  “I could wear two mikes and read her lines as well as mine,” one of the three women said, shielding her eyes from the spotlights trained on the stage as she peered toward the man who Mikki decided must be the director.

  “That won’t work. We can’t get an accurate check that way. God-damnit! I’m tired of Catie’s theatrics. The little twit thinks she is Medea.” The man paused, and Mikki could hear him pacing irritably back and forth over the leafy ground. Then, as if her gaze had drawn it, his head turned in her direction. “Hey you! Would you mind giving us a hand?”

  Mikki looked around. No one was near her. The guy was actually talking to her.

  “Me?” She laughed nervously.

  “Yeah, it’ll just take a few minutes. Could you go up onstage, let them key a mike to you and say a few lines?”

  ina"1em">“I don’t know the lines,” Mikki said inanely.

  “Doesn’t matter.” The man gestured at a worker who was standing near the stage. “Get the lady a script, and tell Cio to mike her.” Then he turned back to Mikki. “How ’bout I give you a couple tickets to opening night for helping us out?”

  “O-okay,” Mikki stammered. What the heck? Nelly loved this kind of stuff—she’d take her.

  Feeling only a little foolish, she let two men lead her to the stage. One thrust an open script into her hand, and the other guy, the one the director had called Cio, pushed back her hair, fitting a neat little mini-mike into her hairline.

  “Hey,” Cio yelled back at the director. “Her hair’s as thick as that wig Catie wears.”

  “Good, it’ll give us an accurate test.”

  “There’s your mark,” Cio told her, pointing to a line duct taped on the floor of the stage. “All you have to do is stand there and after the Corinthian women say their lines, I’ll point to you and you read Medea’s invocation of Hecate.” He paused, took a pen from his shirt pocket and circled a paragraph in the script. “That stanza right there. Face the audience and try to speak as slowly and clearly as possible. Got it?”

  Mikki nodded.

  “Great.” He patted her shoulder absently before exiting the stage.

  “You’ll be fine,” one of the three ladies said, smiling at her. “This is easy-peasy.”

  “I don’t know,” Mikki whispered back at her. “I’ve never invoked a goddess before.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. You won’t invoke one tonight unless you really are Medea,” the friendly looking woman said, still grinning.