muffin, all her white teeth showing.
Peter chuckled and refilled her teacup. “What are you insinuating? Believe me, you couldn’t be further from the mark. The woman is a nuisance.”
“You’re all heart.” Grace downed the last bit of muffin. It took her a moment or two to clear her air passage enough to speak. “Anyway, I couldn’t care less about your love life. I just want to solve this thing and save my skin. Not to mention, my vacation.”
“I think the vacation is a scrub,” Peter informed her. “But I’ll see what I can do about your skin. It’s a rather nice hide, I admit.” He winked at her across the breakfast dishes.
Not used to being flirted with over eggs and bacon, Grace momentarily lost her train of thought.
Peter finished his coffee, put the cup down and said curiously, “Were you really thinking you could find the reason for your being kidnapped on the Internet?”
“It’s quite amazing the things you can find on the Internet,” Grace defended. “I found some pictures of statues believed to represent Astarte; they looked a bit like little chicken-headed figures wearing dunce caps. They’re incredibly valuable though. And I found directions on how to perform the Rite of Astarte. You need seven green candles, dried red rose petals and fruit juice, preferably apple.”
“Sounds most uplifting. I don’t believe we are under attack by renegade Gnostics however.”
The phone rang and Peter rose to answer it.
Grace watched his face turn into a mask of elegant bones and hollows. After a moment he replied expressionlessly, “I appreciate your concern, Chief Constable.”
Silence.
Peter’s gaze shifted to Grace. “The young lady is with me now.”
A longer silence.
Peter’s jaw clenched but his voice was smooth and civil as he cut in, “Let me save you the trip, Chief Constable. I planned to drive into—” A pause. “I look forward to it.”
Peter slammed down the receiver. “Bloody hell! ”
“What is it?”
“Why the hell did you have to go to the police?”
The unfairness of this attack had Grace spluttering, “What was I supposed to do? I was kidnapped; of course I went to the police. How could I know you have a—a rap sheet!”
“A what?”
“A police record.”
Peter pinched his bottom lip, scowling. Meeting Grace’s concerned gaze he said, “Suit up, Esmerelda. The cops are coming.”
Grace was coiling her hair in a French chignon when Peter tapped on her door.
“Let me do the talking, right?”
“What do I do if the constable asks me a direct question? Pretend to be mute?”
“There’s a thought.” He studied Grace critically, from the pristine white linen blouse to the Laura Ashley print skirt. It was the kind of ensemble Grace typically chose for parent-teacher conferences. She knew she looked feminine and sensible. The kind of woman who did not get involved in police investigations. Frankly, she thought Peter could do better than jeans and a lapis lazuli-colored shirt. Chaz would never wear such a shirt, she reflected. It almost looked like silk .
Peter had punctuated her dressing by calling bits of information to her: Chief Constable Heron had received a call from P.C. Kenton relating Grace’s misadventures and her concern for Peter’s safety. When Grace Hollister had promptly disappeared, the forces of law and order were perturbed in their phlegmatic British way.
“We simply need to let them see that you’re all right and everything’s under control.” It was the third time Peter had said this and Grace wondered whom he was trying to convince?
“Everything is not under control,” Grace had to point out.
Peter stalked away from her bedroom door.
Though everything was not under control, against her better judgment Grace was going along with Peter. She knew what she would say to one of her girls running around with a strange man (strange in more ways than one) conspiring to deceive the police force of a foreign country. No one
Peter chuckled and refilled her teacup. “What are you insinuating? Believe me, you couldn’t be further from the mark. The woman is a nuisance.”
“You’re all heart.” Grace downed the last bit of muffin. It took her a moment or two to clear her air passage enough to speak. “Anyway, I couldn’t care less about your love life. I just want to solve this thing and save my skin. Not to mention, my vacation.”
“I think the vacation is a scrub,” Peter informed her. “But I’ll see what I can do about your skin. It’s a rather nice hide, I admit.” He winked at her across the breakfast dishes.
Not used to being flirted with over eggs and bacon, Grace momentarily lost her train of thought.
Peter finished his coffee, put the cup down and said curiously, “Were you really thinking you could find the reason for your being kidnapped on the Internet?”
“It’s quite amazing the things you can find on the Internet,” Grace defended. “I found some pictures of statues believed to represent Astarte; they looked a bit like little chicken-headed figures wearing dunce caps. They’re incredibly valuable though. And I found directions on how to perform the Rite of Astarte. You need seven green candles, dried red rose petals and fruit juice, preferably apple.”
“Sounds most uplifting. I don’t believe we are under attack by renegade Gnostics however.”
The phone rang and Peter rose to answer it.
Grace watched his face turn into a mask of elegant bones and hollows. After a moment he replied expressionlessly, “I appreciate your concern, Chief Constable.”
Silence.
Peter’s gaze shifted to Grace. “The young lady is with me now.”
A longer silence.
Peter’s jaw clenched but his voice was smooth and civil as he cut in, “Let me save you the trip, Chief Constable. I planned to drive into—” A pause. “I look forward to it.”
Peter slammed down the receiver. “Bloody hell! ”
“What is it?”
“Why the hell did you have to go to the police?”
The unfairness of this attack had Grace spluttering, “What was I supposed to do? I was kidnapped; of course I went to the police. How could I know you have a—a rap sheet!”
“A what?”
“A police record.”
Peter pinched his bottom lip, scowling. Meeting Grace’s concerned gaze he said, “Suit up, Esmerelda. The cops are coming.”
Grace was coiling her hair in a French chignon when Peter tapped on her door.
“Let me do the talking, right?”
“What do I do if the constable asks me a direct question? Pretend to be mute?”
“There’s a thought.” He studied Grace critically, from the pristine white linen blouse to the Laura Ashley print skirt. It was the kind of ensemble Grace typically chose for parent-teacher conferences. She knew she looked feminine and sensible. The kind of woman who did not get involved in police investigations. Frankly, she thought Peter could do better than jeans and a lapis lazuli-colored shirt. Chaz would never wear such a shirt, she reflected. It almost looked like silk .
Peter had punctuated her dressing by calling bits of information to her: Chief Constable Heron had received a call from P.C. Kenton relating Grace’s misadventures and her concern for Peter’s safety. When Grace Hollister had promptly disappeared, the forces of law and order were perturbed in their phlegmatic British way.
“We simply need to let them see that you’re all right and everything’s under control.” It was the third time Peter had said this and Grace wondered whom he was trying to convince?
“Everything is not under control,” Grace had to point out.
Peter stalked away from her bedroom door.
Though everything was not under control, against her better judgment Grace was going along with Peter. She knew what she would say to one of her girls running around with a strange man (strange in more ways than one) conspiring to deceive the police force of a foreign country. No one
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