Free High Rhymes and Misdemeanors by Diana Killian Page B

‘Astarte’ in blood on the wall, and you’re concerned with beverages? ” Grace’s voice shot up an octave.
    Peter’s brows rose with it. “Definitely something stronger for you.”
    He brought Grace a brandy. “Drink up, there’s a good girl,” he ordered. “My nerves can’t take another bout of hysterics.”
    His nerves? The man didn’t have a nerve in his body.
    Grace snatched the snifter and drank the brandy in two gulps that left her gasping beneath Peter’s gaze. “I’m not hysterical,” she informed him. “And even if I am, I have every right to be.”
    “Certainly. We’ll hear about that in a minute.” Peter pressed replay on his answering machine. While he listened to the messages he prepared a tray for tea. Watching him Grace felt as though she had wandered through the Looking Glass. Not even the Queen Mother’s snarl of a voice caused him to turn a hair as he calmly filled a bowl with lemon wedges, placing fragile porcelain cups and cake plates on a tray.
    Exasperated beyond belief, Grace hobbled after him into the living room, sinking wearily into a deep, leather chair. He set the tea tray on the curio table.
    “Cream and sugar?”
    Maybe I am dreaming, she thought foggily. Perhaps it was the brandy kicking in, but she decided to go with the flow. “Please.”
    There was something fascinating about such a virile man performing so civilized an act as pouring tea. Grace observed his long brown hands deftly moving the delicate cups. She found herself wondering what those hands would feel like on her body. She tore her thoughts away, shocked.
    Distractedly, Grace drank the tea. It was hot and strong and refreshing. She ate some chocolate hazelnut cake, and remembered that she was starving. The last real meal she’d had was now but a fond memory. She had been running on adrenaline and caffeine for the last few hours, and now she was running on empty: physically, mentally and emotionally. She had believed she was too stressed to eat. She served herself another delicious piece of cake.
    Peter watched her tuck it away without comment. He served her a second cup of tea, and waited till Grace leaned back in the chair with a heartfelt sigh, before commenting, “Suppose you start at the beginning.”
    As coherently as possible, Grace related her adventures. After the brandy, tea and cake, she felt better. Much better. Stronger. Calmer. She did not trust Peter Fox, but oddly enough, she felt safe with him.
    He heard her out from beginning to end with only a couple of questions. There is something very flattering about being given a handsome man’s undivided attention. Grace experienced the same tug of attraction she had felt at the Tinker’s Dam.
    “ Were we supposed to meet that next morning?” she asked as an afterthought, as she wound up her story.
    Peter’s lashes lowered, veiling his eyes. He said evasively, “I thought I might do well to check out a couple of things first.”
    So all that charm of the night before had simply been to pry information out of her. Grace recalled the feminine voices on his tape machine, the waitresses at the Tinker’s Dam vying for his attention. Whatever happens, she warned herself as though advising one of her girls, you must not fall for this man.
    “And what did you learn?”
    Peter shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs. He wore denims that hugged every move his lithe body made, and a moleskin shirt of palest baby blue, which played up the color of his eyes and the gold glints in his thick hair. He was not classically handsome, but there was definitely something about him.
    Grace, on the other hand, knew she looked like she felt. She needed a shower and sleep. She was still wearing the clothes she had made her cross-country run in, and if her hair did not actually have leaves and twigs in it, her braid was as frayed and tattered as her nerves.
    “Tell me this,” he said offhandedly. “Did your constable happen to mention who