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stress in his voice, merely amusement.
    â€œSure you do. More fun than a Saturday-night dogfight. Lots of blood and death at the end.” The words came out in spurts as Marian struggled to breathe. “Here’s something to watch.” There was a crash and the sound of splintering glass. Running steps sounded and Marian burst from behind the patio wall.
    She skidded to a stop inches from Annie and stared at her, eyes glazed. Marian’s chest heaved. Her face twisted in fury. Bright patchesof red stained chalk white cheeks. She hurled out the words, “I wish I’d killed him.” She ducked around Annie and flew down the oyster shell path.
    Annie stood rooted for an instant, then bolted forward and came around the patio wall.
    Alex Griffith stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at the wreckage, a twisted hurricane lamp and a cracked glass patio door.
    â€œYou’re all right.” Annie’s voice was shaky. She was shaky.
    He looked at her with a rueful expression. One cheek was still reddened from Marian’s slap. “Never better. Can’t say the same for the patio door. I’ll tell the inn to send the bill to Marian.” His gaze focused on Annie. There was a flicker of approval and interest. “This seems to be my morning for women to arrive unannounced on my small terrace. I hope you don’t throw things.” His tone was whimsical. He pointed at the shards of red-and-green glass scattered on the patio tiles.
    â€œYou were horrid to Marian.”
    He raised a sandy eyebrow. “Ah, you don’t throw hurricane lamps but you have no objections to insults. Didn’t your mama tell you it isn’t nice to eavesdrop?” But there was no rancor, simply mild inquiry. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Alex Griffith.”
    He spoke with assurance, a man who was accustomed to instant recognition by Four Seasons Hotel clerks—
Mr. Griffith, we have your favorite suite ready . . . Mr. Griffith, the Krug 1990 is cooled and awaiting you . . . Mr. Griffith, we know you prefer fresh papaya with your cereal
. A man who led a charmed life, sucking like a vampire on everyone around him.
    He smoothed back a tangle of reddish-brown hair, his handsome features relaxed. Shirtless and barefoot, he wore gray gym shorts. He was a little over six feet tall, well built and muscular, the kind of man any woman on a beach would note with interest.
    Annie was aware of his appeal. If she hadn’t overheard him and Marian—casual disdain and cruelty on his part, desperation and despair on Marian’s part—she might have responded to his amused confidence, his undeniable good looks.
    Not now. Not ever.
    â€œI’m Annie Darling.” She knew her voice was thin and strained. “Your wife came to my store and asked me to arrange everything for your talk tonight. I didn’t know what you intended. I hadn’t read the
Gazette
. I’ve read the article now. I don’t like bullies. So forget it. I won’t be here tonight. Nor will there be any copies of your book.” With that she turned and moved toward the path.
    She turned at the end of the wing, realized her face was flaming. She felt a whipping anger. What a complete and total jerk. She was still fuming when she reached the lobby. She turned and charged up the stairs to the second floor. She burst into the catering office.
    A plump woman with dark hair looked up with a smile that stopped midway in its formation. “Annie, what’s wrong?” Rita White was a mainstay in Friends of the Library. She handled volatile personalities on the board with the same aplomb she’d gained from years of arranging events at the Seaside Inn.
    Annie took a deep breath. Rita was going to think she was unhinged. There was no good way to announce that the store was no longer involved and that any and all questions about the reception should be directed to Rae