to smooth Al’s feathers. That was two hours longer than he wanted to spend. The peace talks had been followed by the even more disagreeable task of shifting the mortal remains of Danny Delon.
For a moment there in the passage the old panic had swept over him, the sensation of walls closing in, of suffocation, of being buried alive. The cold, crisp night air had helped to clear his head.
Surprise stopped him midway through a jaw-breaking yawn as Peter took in the clutter of tea tray with its empty cake plate and teacup on the table. Stacks of books towered like Grecian ruins, and Esmerelda lay draped over the couch like somebody’s virgin sacrifice. Peter’s thin mouth quirked as he studied the sleeping Ms. Hollister. Chestnut hair framed her flushed face in a silky cloud. She was wearing a pair of round spectacles and some kind of white, ruffly night thing. She clutched a gold-tooled volume to her breast.
She looked rather like a scholarly angel—except that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was not suitably cherubic reading. Not that there was anything particularly ethereal about the long, slender leg resting outside the tangle of afghan and nightshirt she had cocooned herself in. Nor in the swell of breasts gently rising and falling. Earthly delights these.
Peter had an uncomfortably vivid memory of resting his face against those firm breasts. He recalled the warm scent of her skin and the silken feel of her hair against his lips.
Her gentle limbs she did undress and lie down in her loveliness .
He approached the couch, all his defenses intact. Grace never stirred. Peter studied her without expression. Then he dropped down on his haunches and with light fingers removed her spectacles, laying them aside on the table. Her skin was soft to his fingertips. Baby skin. She didn’t really look old enough to teach teenage girls anything, although he had to admit she did possess an unexpectedly sharp mind. And tongue to match.
Peter continued to study Grace, feeling the light warmth of her breath on his face. Her mouth was pink and moist, slightly parted.
This was a complication he did not need. Peter rose and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him.
“Fertility clinics,” Grace informed Peter at breakfast the next morning. “Fertility clinics and designer plus-sizes. That’s all I could find last night on the Internet.”
“Huh?” Peter asked intelligently, his mouth full of Canadian bacon.
He was wearing a dark plaid robe over what appeared to be yellow pajamas. Grace refused to think about the fact that she was having breakfast with a pajama-clad man she barely knew. There was gold bristle on his jaw and his hair was ruffled. It was so … personal.
She pulled her own plaid robe—a different tartan, mind—closer.
“Relating to Astarte,” she clarified. “There’s an online magazine for something called the Goddess Woman. And there’s a place in San Francisco called the Astarte Fertility Center which provides an integrated online list of egg donors and invitro fertilization and long-distance treatment plans.”
Peter chewed, swallowed, and said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I thought maybe I could help by researching the Astarte connection. I used your computer last night; I hope you don’t mind. The thing is—” She leaned forward on the table. “There is something called the Astarte Lodge in Berlin. Their site says they celebrate the Gnostic Mass and offer classes to initiates on the Qabalah, ritual techniques, yoga—it’s a bit New Agey, but there could be a connection.”
Peter studied her thoughtfully. “Are you like this every morning?”
Grace sat back in her chair. “Like what? Awake? Most people are, who don’t come waltzing in at four o’clock in the morning.”
“Three-thirty. And I was not waltzing. If you were in a noticing mood, you’d have seen my feet dragging.”
“No doubt you were exhausted.” Grace bit into a
For a moment there in the passage the old panic had swept over him, the sensation of walls closing in, of suffocation, of being buried alive. The cold, crisp night air had helped to clear his head.
Surprise stopped him midway through a jaw-breaking yawn as Peter took in the clutter of tea tray with its empty cake plate and teacup on the table. Stacks of books towered like Grecian ruins, and Esmerelda lay draped over the couch like somebody’s virgin sacrifice. Peter’s thin mouth quirked as he studied the sleeping Ms. Hollister. Chestnut hair framed her flushed face in a silky cloud. She was wearing a pair of round spectacles and some kind of white, ruffly night thing. She clutched a gold-tooled volume to her breast.
She looked rather like a scholarly angel—except that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was not suitably cherubic reading. Not that there was anything particularly ethereal about the long, slender leg resting outside the tangle of afghan and nightshirt she had cocooned herself in. Nor in the swell of breasts gently rising and falling. Earthly delights these.
Peter had an uncomfortably vivid memory of resting his face against those firm breasts. He recalled the warm scent of her skin and the silken feel of her hair against his lips.
Her gentle limbs she did undress and lie down in her loveliness .
He approached the couch, all his defenses intact. Grace never stirred. Peter studied her without expression. Then he dropped down on his haunches and with light fingers removed her spectacles, laying them aside on the table. Her skin was soft to his fingertips. Baby skin. She didn’t really look old enough to teach teenage girls anything, although he had to admit she did possess an unexpectedly sharp mind. And tongue to match.
Peter continued to study Grace, feeling the light warmth of her breath on his face. Her mouth was pink and moist, slightly parted.
This was a complication he did not need. Peter rose and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him.
“Fertility clinics,” Grace informed Peter at breakfast the next morning. “Fertility clinics and designer plus-sizes. That’s all I could find last night on the Internet.”
“Huh?” Peter asked intelligently, his mouth full of Canadian bacon.
He was wearing a dark plaid robe over what appeared to be yellow pajamas. Grace refused to think about the fact that she was having breakfast with a pajama-clad man she barely knew. There was gold bristle on his jaw and his hair was ruffled. It was so … personal.
She pulled her own plaid robe—a different tartan, mind—closer.
“Relating to Astarte,” she clarified. “There’s an online magazine for something called the Goddess Woman. And there’s a place in San Francisco called the Astarte Fertility Center which provides an integrated online list of egg donors and invitro fertilization and long-distance treatment plans.”
Peter chewed, swallowed, and said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I thought maybe I could help by researching the Astarte connection. I used your computer last night; I hope you don’t mind. The thing is—” She leaned forward on the table. “There is something called the Astarte Lodge in Berlin. Their site says they celebrate the Gnostic Mass and offer classes to initiates on the Qabalah, ritual techniques, yoga—it’s a bit New Agey, but there could be a connection.”
Peter studied her thoughtfully. “Are you like this every morning?”
Grace sat back in her chair. “Like what? Awake? Most people are, who don’t come waltzing in at four o’clock in the morning.”
“Three-thirty. And I was not waltzing. If you were in a noticing mood, you’d have seen my feet dragging.”
“No doubt you were exhausted.” Grace bit into a
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