Kiss of the Bees by J. A. Jance Page A

help.”
    As a victim of many hit-and-run federal bureaucrats, the quip made Brandon laugh aloud. “Good,” he said. “I’ll take whatever help I can get.”
    Without saying anything further, he handed her a piece of chopped log, which she obligingly carried to the stack. They worked together in silence for some time before Brandon somewhat warily broached the subject of the university tea. “How was it?” he asked.
    Diana shrugged. “About what you’d expect,” she said. “By holding it at the Arizona Historical Society instead of someplace on campus or at the president’s residence, they managed to make it clear that as far as they’re concerned, I’m still not quite okay.”
    “You can’t really blame them for that,” Brandon said. “Andrew Carlisle isn’t exactly one of the U. of A.’s more stellar ex-professors. You can hardly expect them to be good sports about what they all have to regard as adverse publicity.”
    In writing Shadow of Death, Diana hadn’t glossed over the fact that Andrew Carlisle had used his position as head of the Creative Writing Department at the University of Arizona to lure Diana’s first husband, Garrison Ladd, into playing a part in a brutal torture killing. Members of the local literary community—especially ones in the university’s English Department who had known Andrew Carlisle personally and who still held sway over the university’s creative writing program—were shocked and appalled by his portrayal in the book. They were disgusted that a book one Arizona Daily Sun reviewer had dismissed as nothing more than “a poor-taste exercise in true crime” had gone on to be hailed by national critics and booksellers alike as a masterwork.
    “You were absolutely right not to go,” Diana added, bending over and straightening a pile of branches into a manageable armload. “The vultures were out in spades. Several of the women took great pains to tell me that although they never deign to read that kind of thing themselves, they were sure this must be quite good.”
    “That’s big of them,” Brandon said. “But it is quite good.”
    Diana stopped what she was doing and turned a questioning look on her husband’s tanned, handsome face. “You mean you’ve actually read it?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    “While you were off in New York. I didn’t want to be the only person on the block who hadn’t read the damn thing.”
    When she had been writing other books, Brandon had read the chapters as they came out of the computer printer. With the manuscript for Shadow of Death he had shown less than no interest. When the galleys came back from New York for correction, she had offered to let him read the book then, but he had said no thanks. He had made his position clear from the beginning, and nothing—not even Diana’s considerable six-figure advance payment—had changed his mind.
    Hurt but resigned, Diana had decided he probably never would read it. She hadn’t brought up the subject again.
    Now, though, standing there in the searing afternoon heat, cradling a load of branches in her arms, Diana felt some of the months of unresolved anger melt away. “You read it and you liked it?” she asked.
    “I didn’t say I liked it,” Brandon answered, moving toward her and looking down into her eyes. “In fact, I hated it—every damned word, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t good, because it is. Or should I say, not bad for a girl?” he added with a tentative smile.
    The phrase “not bad for a girl” was an old familiar and private joke between them. And hearing those words of praise from Brandon Walker meant far more to Diana than any Pulitzer ever would.
    With tears in her eyes, she put down her burden of wood and then let herself be pulled close in a sweaty but welcome embrace. Brandon’s shirt was wet and salty against her cheeks. So were her tears.
    “Thank you,” she murmured, smiling up at him. “Thank you so much.”
    By mid-afternoon, Mitch