“Don’t use that laugh much, do you? I bet it’s all of those dead bodies and master criminals you investigate, right?” I started back up the stairs, adding a little hip action just to see if he was watching. He was.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he accused me.
I tossed a flip smile over my shoulder. “You take your pleasures where you can,” I said archly, and rounded the next flight, pausing so he could come alongside me. “Hey, can you get me into that Black Museum I heard about? I’d love to see all of that Jack the Ripper stuff, and the death masks, and the Dr. Crippen memorabilia.”
Detective Grumpy gave me a weary look and shook his head. “The Crime Museum is not open to the public.”
“I know, that’s why I want you to get me in.”
“Miss…Mrs…what is your name?”
“Alix.”
“Yes, and your name?”
“Alix. What’s yours?”
I stopped in mid-flight when he grabbed my elbow. “Why are you asking me if you already know it?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
The frown was back. “I asked you what your name was.”
“And I told you—it’s Alix. Short for Alexandra, if you hadn’t guessed.”
The frown deepened for a minute, then smoothed out, and a smile flirted with the corners of his mouth again.
“You better watch out for that, it’ll become a habit soon.” I marched up the rest of the stairs and stood fumbling for my keys in front of my door.
“My name is Alex as well,” he said in a monotone voice as he plucked the plant and bread from my hands so I could unlock the door. He held the door open for me and watched as I unceremoniously dumped the carrier bag, books, and my purse on the distressed table next to the entrance. I took the proffered bread and added it to the stack.
“You’re kidding! You probably thought I was an idiot just then.” I grimaced, wondering what was behind that emerald gaze. It was amazing how much heat it suddenly seemed to carry. “Imagine that, we’ve both got the same name. Well, Bob’s your uncle!”
One eyebrow went up infinitesimally.
“What?” I asked.
“Bob’s your uncle?”
“I didn’t say it right? I heard someone use it on the telly. I thought it meant there you are.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “It does.”
“Then why did you give me that funny look?”
He reached toward my cheek and tucked a strand of hair that had come out of my ponytail behind my ear. A rush of blood swept up my chest, tightening my nipples and making my breath catch low in my throat.
“It sounds a little ridiculous when Americans say it.”
“Oh.” It occurred to me that I had just been insulted. I ignored my nipples’ pleas to throw themselves on him, thinning my lips and frowning at him instead. “Bollocks! That’s a stonking great lie! You’re trying to cheese me off, aren’t you? What a load of cobblers! That’s total pants! Why, I can speak—”
He held up his hand in defeat and a real, honest-to-goodness smile danced across his face. “I concede the point. Bob’s your uncle it is.”
I smiled back at him for a few moments, watching his eyes darken as the smile faded from his lips. I had an almost overwhelming urge to taste him, just run the tip of my tongue on that spot where his jaw met his neck. I ignored the sensible voice in my head when it pointed out that I had just met him and he wouldn’t be interested in the likes of me, and humored the other voice, the fun voice, the voice urging a little flirtation just to see where it would get me. I leaned in toward him and breathed in his scent. It was cologne and man and…something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “Have you been there, Alex?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he didn’t step back. He didn’t grab me and lay his lips on me either, but we can’t have everything. “Have I been where?”
I leaned a little closer and gave him my best sleepy bedroom eyes. “The Black Museum.”
I could see the pulse beating strongly in his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed up above the knot in his tie. “Yes, I have.”
“Take me?” I whispered.
His pupils flared in those lovely green eyes. “What?”
I tipped my head slightly and blew a little line of breath at his ear. “I lied to you, Alex. That Alan Rickman voice does do something to me. Will you take me to the Black Museum?”
“Do you always seduce someone when you want a favor?”
I grinned when he took a step closer. I could feel his breath fanning around my face, mingling with the spicy cologne I swore was made up of pure pheromones. “Not always. Only when threats of assault with bread don’t work.”
“I see,” he said in that sexy voice, turning his head slightly.
I tilted my head and opened my mouth just enough to steam his lips. “So will you?”
“Take you?” His lips brushed mine as he spoke, feather light and very warm. I gave a little gasp and wondered what happened to all of the air in the room. “Yes, Alix, I suspect I will take you.”
I let my lips curve a smile against his, enjoying the frisson of heat which that contact started in my belly. I hadn’t felt anything like this before—not even when I was dating my ex-husband. “Good,” I breathed. “When?”
“Soon. I’d like to know you a little better first, but…soon.”
“Good,” I repeated, wishing I had the nerve to just wrap my arms around him and plant my lips on him, but I am nothing if not circumspect. I clutched my hands behind my back instead.
He made a little hum of agreement and slowly stepped backwards until he was outside the doorway.
“Let me know when you want to go,” I said with a rueful smile, a little worried about the sense of loss I felt with his withdrawal. I’d just met the man, for heaven’s sake; surely even my starved libido couldn’t set its cap at the first gorgeous Englishman it clapped eyes on. “My schedule is pretty easy, and all I need is a day or so warning in advance.”
His lips weren’t smiling, but his eyes were. Ve-e-ery interesting. He nodded his head and turned to take the stairs up to the top floor.
“My sister is going to be terribly jealous, you know,” I called after him.
“Is she?” He stopped and gazed at me over his shoulder, an inscrutable look on his face.
“Yep. She’s a really big mystery fan, and she’s always wanted to see the Black Museum. She’ll be spittin’ kittens when I tell her you’re going to take me there.”
Both chestnut eyebrows rose. “I believe I mentioned the Crime Museum was closed to the public, Alix.”
I watched him step onto the landing, then snapped my mouth shut. “Wait a minute, you just said you would take me, and now you’re saying you won’t?”
He had one foot on the bottom step of the last flight of stairs. The stairwell was too dark to see the expression on his face until he leaned to the side, into the light from a window behind him. He looked just like the Cheshire cat—my jaw dropped at the sight of his grin. The little frisson of fire that had started with our flirtation burst into a full-fledged roaring volcano, threatening to consume me where I stood. I grasped the door frame to steady my suddenly weak knees.
“You asked me to take you, Alix, and I fully intend to honor that request. Unfortunately, it’s not possible for me to take you to visit the Crime Museum.”
I felt as if every bone in my body had melted to pudding under the influence of that wolfish grin. “But…but…you said…you’d take me…”A light bulb lit up over my head. I stared at him, unable to believe what I was thinking. Surely he hadn’t meant…he couldn’t, he was English, and everyone knew Englishmen were cold and reserved and didn’t flirt like that, certainly not suit-wearing detective inspectors. “Uh…”
“Close your mouth, Alix,” he said softly, and with a graceful tip of his head, he disappeared up the stairs.
“Well, stone the crows,” I said to no one, looking after him at the dark pa
ssageway. “I’ll be…hoooo!”
I closed the door quietly behind me and leaned against it, reviewing what he had said, what I’d said, wishing I hadn’t been such an idiot, then allowing myself to bask for a moment in the warm promise that was heavy in his voice. I had just gotten to the point where I was imagining him stark naked on the chaise when I remembered what I had said to Isabella about her perfect man. Although Fourth Floor Alex was my type, I was sure he wouldn’t be interested in the sort of relationship I wanted. He didn’t look like the quickie type. Besides, there were other drawbacks.
I mentally ticked off all of his bad points as I picked up the bag of groceries, my books, and the bread. He clearly had little to no sense of humor, was arrogant, prickly, serious-minded, wore a wool suit even in the middle of summer, and probably wouldn’t know fun if it came up and dropped its drawers in front of him.
I looked down at the books and groceries, then frowned and added another sin to the list. “That little rat! He took my pot plant!”
Chapter Three
The Lady Rowena was on her knees in supplication before her lord, tears streaming down her ivory cheeks, over her chin, down her neck, up over the neckline of her gown, splattering and streaking the thin muslin of her gown, making that fabric nigh on translucent, baring her breasts and her pert little pink nipples to Raoul’s heated gaze. She hiccupped, then dabbed at her running nose with the hem of her gown. “Oh, please, my dearest darlingest beloved! You cannot abandon me and marry the bastard daughter of a duke!”
Lord Raoul turned his back to the sight of the damp woman and looked out upon the velvety green lawns at Firthstone. He was saddened he had to give up the bit o’ fun that was Rowena, but after all, she didn’t have nearly the dowry that Pruenella, the natural daughter of the Duke of Colinwood, had, and dammit! one didn’t pay for the cow when one had the milk for free!
“Why should I not marry her?” he asked carelessly.
Rowena looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Er…well…for one thing, she’s a bastard, Raoul. Not legitimate. Her parents weren’t wed. You do understand that concept, don’t you?”
“So, what do you think? Is it too harsh? Do you think Lady Rowena would speak in such an insolent manner to her beloved Lord Raoul? Is he too unsympathetic?”
Kamil the grocer had that look peculiar to deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck, but he gamely rallied a smile and smoothed a hand over the stack of evening tabloids next to the cash register. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You talk to someone else, a woman maybe, someone who reads books. I can’t help you. You want to buy something else, maybe?”
I scooted over so a customer could plop down his packet of shrimp-flavored crisps and a six-pack of shandies in the tiny clear space on the counter. It wasn’t much of a space, about a foot across, the rest of the counter being taken up with racks of candy, newspapers, snack foods, postcards, and miscellaneous odds and bobs. Kamil’s store was one of a dying breed, a tiny oasis of fascinating British and Pakistani foodstuffs crammed together so tightly on the shelves, it was impossible to extract an item without a positive cascade of tins, packets, and jars falling upon the unwary shopper. I peered through the stacks of items on the counter to wave a friendly goodbye to Kamil, and gathering up my manuscript pages and groceries, headed out the door toward home.
I like walking around London. It has a nice feel to it for one of the world’s major cities—neighborhoods have a distinct feel to them, some warm and homey, others hip and exciting, and still others dusty and dry with history. I lived within walking distance of the British Museum in a very pleasant area that had several green squares, aggressive squirrels who panhandled anyone incautious enough to bring food to the square, and lots of dark, mysterious little shops filled with intriguing antiques, books, and artifacts guaranteed to delight even the most sophisticated of hearts.
Heat shimmered up through the thin soles of my sandals as I strolled down the pavement, swinging my bag of groceries and breathing in deeply.
“Ah, the smell of diesel on a warm summer’s eve,” I said happily to an elderly lady who stood at the zebra crossing with an armload of shopping.
“It’s terrible, innit?” she nodded, shuffling forward at the traffic break. “You’d think with the price of petrol these days, fewer people would drive, but it seems like more and more are.” She sniffed and gave me a curt nod, then marched off toward a block of flats.
I turned and started down the street toward Beale Square, content to listen to the sounds of life around me—music drifting out from open windows and shop doors, the dull roar and whine of traffic as it started and stopped up and down the street, and the wonderful ebb and flow of conversation. It’s amazing how many variations there are on an English accent, everything from the guttural and harsh Cockney and its variants, to rounded words of the western counties, the occasional swoop and sway of an Irish accent, the warm burr of the Scots, and the plummy, silky smooth BBC-type accent that sounds just too, too teddibly top drawer. I loved them all, even the ones I couldn’t for the life of me understand, and secretly lay in bed at night and worked on perfecting my own English accent.
I hummed a bit of “Moondance” to myself as I strolled along, wondering what Mr. Dishy Detective Inspector Alex would be doing that evening while I was up visiting his neighbor. Isabella had invited me to meet her friend, the friend, her perfect lover friend who was even more perfect for me. I had agreed to meet him only after I spent two days thinking nonstop about the man upstairs, telling myself with more than a hint of desperation that maybe Isabella was wrong, and Mr. Perfect would be interested in a little summer fling. Mr. Alex certainly wasn’t—I had seen neither hide nor hair of him since he ran off with my cute little spiky (alleged pot) plant.
“This fascination with him is not a good thing, Alix,” I had told myself sternly the day before when I caught myself staring out the window and picturing Alex lying starkers in the patch of sun that warmed the chaise. “Keep your mind on business. Work, work, work, that’s what you need.”
I grimaced at my own words—I’d had experience with workaholics and had no desire to become one of those obsessed perfectionists. Life was too short and too uncertain to do nothing but work, especially when there were green-eyed Englishmen reposing seductively on the chaise, offering up their sleek, muscled bodies to be kissed and caressed and licked and nibbled…
“Sweet Fanny Adams, I’m doing it again! Right, that’s it, I clearly need help.” I scribbled a brief note, marched upstairs, and wedged the paper between Isabella’s door and the frame. I will admit to glaring briefly at the door opposite hers, but went back downstairs feeling much better, convinced that if I met this perfect man of Isabella’s, the less than perfect Plant Thief would be washed from my mind.
It didn’t strike me until the next day when I was dressing for Isabella’s dinner that the two men might be one and the same. I stood naked, balancing on one foot while the other hovered in the air as I paused in the act of pulling on a pair of underwear, blinking at nothing as the thought swam around in my mind. Alex? My perfect man?
I finished donning the appropriate underthings while I mused over the pertinent facts, but could find no validity in the idea. All Isabella had said was that the guy was perfect for me, and Detective Inspector Starched Shorts was anything but that. Besides, if she had meant him, she would have surely said so, since he was so handy for introductions. As for him being her lover…I pushed away a vague sense of unhappiness over that idea and shrugged at my image in the mirror on the wardrobe door.
“So they’re doin’ the nasty—big fat hairy deal. Means nothing to me, nothing at all, and you can just stop shaking your head at me, because that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!”
I gave my reflection a good glare just to let it know it wasn’t going to goad me into admitting anything, and sat down to apply rarely used cosmetics. I couldn’t remember the last time I wore makeup. Probably one of the few times Matt drag
ged me out to a corporate dinner.
“This one’s for you,” I said, saluting the mental image of my ex-husband with a five-year-old container of mascara. It was a bit stiff and clumpy, and I managed to get mascara damn near everywhere, including the bridge of my nose and my left earlobe, but at long last I had several coats on, enough to turn my brown lashes the same shade of inky black they wore in the 1960s. It was really, really black, and not a little sticky-feeling. I peered at the small hand mirror I was using and decided it looked better than it felt. I tried to remember if I was supposed to put blush above, on, or under the cheekbones for maximum effect, and decided a bit everywhere would give me a healthy glow. A small dusting of gold glittery powder turned into an unexpected avalanche when the container spilled down my cleavage, but I got most of it out without too much trouble. A dashing bit of crimson lipstick, a splash of my favorite perfume, and the face staring back at me from the tiny mirror was ready to dazzle the pants off of my prospective perfect man.
It was just too bad that Alex wouldn’t be there to view my triumph. I was conscious of a deflated sort of feeling around my midsection when I thought of how disappointing the evening would be without him.
“Stop it,” I told myself sternly as I pulled on the nicest of my dresses. “Stop it right now. This is the perfect man we’re talking about here—let’s not screw this up with foolishness over a guy who thinks you’re an idiot.”
I was about to pull my hair back, but I decided it was sexier hanging down my back, so I fwoofed a little gel in the front to keep it out of my eyes, and blow-dried it into submission. The final step was to debate the pantyhose issue—I hate wearing the things, I really do, but there are times when bare legs just look too informal. Since my dress ended a few inches above my knees, there was a lot of leg showing. I eyed them critically. The fact that I had gone European and hadn’t shaved them in a while decided me—I dug out my sole pair of pantyhose and pulled them on, praying I wouldn’t run them before the night was over.