Shield's Lady

talent.”
    Jones’s head came up and his eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Verity looked at him as she rolled out the pastry. “I called Vincent College after I checked with a few of your previous employers. You really did teach Renaissance history there. What’s more, you were damn good at it. Lots of impressive publications and one book on ancient armory to your credit. And then you gave up teaching for no apparent reason. Have you been drifting around the world ever since?”
    “What does all this have to do with your father?” Jonas asked coolly.
    “He’s a professional drifter, too. Does the name Emerson Ames mean anything to you?” Verity realized she was wielding the rolling pin with too much force. Deliberately she made herself relax.
    Jonas flicked off the end of an onion with a negligent slash of the knife. “Yeah, it does, as a matter of fact. Are we talking about the same Emerson Ames who wrote Juxtaposition a few years back?”
    “One and the same.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned. I seem to remember that book caused a certain, small sensation when it was published. Anybody who had any academic pretensions at Vincent College had it on his coffee table. What ever happened to him? Has he written anything since Juxtaposition? ”
    “Unfortunately,” Verity said tightly, “Dad decided Juxtaposition wasn’t his kind of book. He vowed not to waste his time doing another one like it and went back to writing what he claims he likes writing best.”
    Jonas glanced at her. “What’s that?”
    Verity wrinkled her nose. “Paperback westerns. Can you believe it? The man who was once heralded by The New York Times as the author of the year. A writer who had ‘boldly and decisively examined and illuminated contemporary uncertainties and paradoxes,’ they said. And this bold genius ups and decides he would rather write westerns.”
    Jonas stared at her for a moment longer and then began to laugh. It was a deep, masculine roar that filled the kitchen. His golden eyes gleamed with it. “I think,” Jonas finally said through his laughter, “that I would like your father.” He lopped off the end of another onion. “I hope I get a chance to meet him while I’m here.”
    “Something tells me the two of you have a lot in common,” Verity grumbled.
    Jonas laughed again and flipped the knife into the air. Verity sucked in her breath as the blade spun end over end. Visions of blood and sliced fingers made her clutch at the counter top. But an instant later Jonas neatly caught the knife by its handle and went back to slicing onions. Verity repressed a shudder.
    “I have a hunch that what your father and I have in common is a mutual decision to live in the real world instead of pretending we actually enjoy the academic and literary establishments.”
    “It looks to me as if you both got lazy and took the easy way out,” Verity retorted in an upbraiding tone.
    All traces of humor vanished from Jonas’s face. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously edged, just like the knife in his hand. “Lady, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Not all talent is a blessing. Sometimes a thing like talent can kill you. Or it can drive you crazy. Maybe in your father’s case, it simply bored him to death. You’ve got no right to sit in judgment.”
    Verity shivered. She didn’t doubt that Jonas knew what he was talking about. Instinctively she sought refuge in a change of subject. “This is a stupid argument. You’d better get busy on those onions,” she said briskly. “When you’re finished with those, you can start chopping the carrots. I want them done julienne style. Do you know what that is?”
    “Sure, boss lady. Whatever you say. I’ve got a question, though.”
    Verity eyed him warily. “What’s that?”
    “I’ve never worked in a gourmet vegetarian kitchen.” He smiled a little too innocently. “What do you use the extra virgin olive oil for?”
    “Salad dressings, among other things,” she explained tartly. “And please spare me your sophomoric jokes. Extra virgin refers to the fact that the oil is of very high quality from the first pressing of the olives.”
    “Oh. I thought maybe it meant oil that had been aging on the shelf for a long time. Like some poor spinster who has never had a lover.”
    Verity could not halt the fierce rush of blood into her cheeks. He was just making a crude joke. He could not possibly be aware of her sexual status.
    “That’s a