She began to rub one finger slowly up and down her right temple. “And you know that was one of the reasons I wanted to get out.”

“Where you live isn’t going to change that.”

She sighed. “Apparently not.”

“Besides, that doesn’t have anything to do with what’s happened now,” C.J. argued. He pressed a hand to his nervous stomach and wondered if a glass of Perrier would calm him. Maybe scotch would be a better idea.

“I haven’t seen the paper,” Maggie began in an even tone, “but I’m sure the whole thing was blown out of proportion.”

“Blown out of proportion?” Again, she had to move the receiver back from her ear. A few steps away, Cliff heard C.J.’s voice clearly. “Did you or did you not stumble over a pile of—of bones?”

She grimaced at the image. “Not exactly.” She had to concentrate harder on keeping her voice calm. “Actually, it was the dog that found them. The police came right out and took over. I really haven’t been involved.” She saw Cliff lift a brow at her final statement but made no comment.

“Maggie, it said that man had been murdered and buried right there, only yards from your house.”

“Ten years ago.” She pressed her fingers more firmly against her temple.

“Maggie, come home.”

She closed her eyes, because his voice held the kind of plea that was hard to resist. “C.J., I am home.”

“Damn it, how am I supposed to sleep at night thinking of you alone out in the middle of nowhere? For God’s sake, you’re one of the most successful, wealthiest, most celebrated women in the world, and you’re living in Dogpatch.”

“If I’m successful, wealthy and celebrated, I can live wherever I want.” She struggled against temper again. However he phrased it, whatever his tone, the concern was real. It was better to concentrate on that. “Besides, C.J., I have the vicious guard dog you sent me.” She looked down to where Killer was sleeping peacefully at Cliff’s feet. When she lifted her gaze, she found herself smiling into Cliff’s face. “I couldn’t be safer.”

“If you hired a bodyguard—”

Now she laughed. “You’re being an old woman again. The last thing I need’s a bodyguard. I’m fine,” she went on quickly before he could comment. “I’ve finished the score, I’ve a dozen ideas for new songs running around in my head, and I’m even considering another musical. Why don’t you tell me how brilliant the score was?”

“You know it’s brilliant,” he mumbled. “It’s probably the best thing you’ve done.”

“More,” she insisted. “Tell me more. My ego’s starving.”

He sighed, recognizing defeat. “When I played it for the producers, they were ecstatic. It was suggested that you come out and supervise the recording.”