Docketful of Poesy (4 page)

Why should she be under the impression of anything
concerning me? It was my turn to study the other woman. Roberta did
not fit my idea of a movie producer: she wore jeans and a leather
jacket and those funky little rhinestone glasses. She looked like
someone who should be in an
In Style
photo spread. I
pictured movie producers—when I thought of them at all—as
fast-talking, ulcer-riddled, wheeler-dealer types—usually male.

“I’m here to visit my family and tie up a few loose
ends,” I said. “My decision to stay in England was
spontaneous—well, you know that from my book. I still plan on
returning to Innisdale.”

“When?”

Why in the world did it matter? But apparently it
did. Roberta was staring at me intently.

“Actually, I was hoping to book my flight this
evening. I’d like to fly out within the next few days.” I closed my
ears to the inner voice that questioned what I would do if Peter
did not contact me soon—that perhaps there was no point in flying
anywhere.

“Damn.”

“I’m sorry?”

Roberta smiled ingratiatingly. “It’s just that Miles
and I had discussed asking you to take active part in the project.
Specifically, we were thinking about asking you to hire on as a
consultant.”

To my own surprise, my first thought was,
How
fun!
Then I remembered the last time I had hired on as
consultant to a theatrical production. I said, “Well, that’s very
flattering, but —”

“The money’s pretty good,” Roberta told me quickly.
“Very good compared to a teacher’s salary. Let alone what a writer
earns. But then what isn’t, right? You know how it is in this
industry. We throw money away. And I don’t guess you’re exactly
rolling in dough these days.”

“Still…”

“And I’m sure you want this film to be right. All
those little details. No one knows them better than you.”

That was almost funny. Never mind the little details,
the challenge here would be getting the major plot points
straight.

“It’s just that I’ve stayed quite a bit longer than I
planned as it is.” I was tempted, there was no denying it. After
all, it was my book—my
life
—they were filming. Of course I
felt a little possessive of it; and of course I wanted to see it
done right. But…what about Peter?

Then again, I didn’t even know where Peter was at the
moment. He might not be in England. Wasn’t the next move his? And
wouldn’t it be easier for him to make that move if he knew where to
find me?

“Think about it,” Roberta urged.

Chapter Three

B
rian crammed the last of the
nachos in his mouth, washed them down with the final mouthful of
Corona, glanced at his watch and said regretfully of the tortilla
chips and cheese, “I shall miss those.”

“And all the Mexican restaurants in the West Valley
and vicinity will miss you,” I returned. “I hope our local economy
can withstand the hit.”

He smiled, but distractedly. “I suppose I should be
making my way to the gate.”

“I suppose so,” I agreed reluctantly. It was
Wednesday evening. We were sitting in the crowded El Paseo café in
the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX waiting for Brian’s
ten o’clock flight. I was sorry to see Brian go. Not because I was
falling for him, although I did find him awfully attractive, but
because he was a living, breathing link to my life in Innisdale.
Brian took it for granted that I would be coming home, that for me
“home” was now the English Lake District.

Rising, he gathered his Mac and his briefcase, and
laid the tip on the table. We moved together from the restaurant,
Brian taking my arm—which reminded me of Peter, of all those little
Old World gestures, the tiny courtesies that had initially grated
on my independence but which I had come to think of as separating
the men from the boys.

“What are you going to do about this film?” Brian
asked. “Have you decided?”

I shook my head. “I could use the money of course,
but the filming could go on for months—likely will. I don’t want to
delay my return too long.”

“No,” he agreed, and the glint in his blue-gray eyes
was warming, although I didn’t want to encourage him unfairly. If
it weren’t for Peter—but there was no point even acknowledging that
thought because Peter was a fact, and I wouldn’t have it any other
way. That much I was sure of, although as certainties went, it
wasn’t much to base a future on.

I said, “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear
anything?”

“Of course I will. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve
arrived.”

That was well beyond the call of duty—and more than I
wanted, really.

We had reached the security checkpoint. Brian began
the inevitable removal of watch, pocket change, shoes, tossing them
into the gray plastic bins and setting them on the conveyer
belt.

Even in his socks, Brian had dignity as he turned one
last time to me.

“I’ll say good-bye then.”

“Good-bye,” I said. “Safe trip.”

Brian’s hands closed on my arms, bringing me forward
and kissing me gently but definitely on my mouth. As kisses went,
it was rather nice, Corona and nachos notwithstanding. He’d
obviously had a fair bit of practice. As he released me, he seemed
to be waiting for some reaction.

But I found myself at a loss for words.

“Take care, Grace.” He smiled. “See you soon, will
I?”

I nodded, surprised to find myself unexpectedly
choked up.

Brian let me go, turning away and taking his place in
line. I stepped back behind the roped-off dividers, watching until
he was through the security checkpoint. Shoes on, he picked up his
briefcase, and Mac, and turned to wave a brief final good-bye.

I waved back, watching ’til Brian vanished in the
press of people. Feeling strangely adrift I started back for the
arrival hall, avoiding the usual obstacle course of suitcases on
wheels, potted palm trees, and Starbucks-sloshing travelers. I went
down the elevators, wriggled my way through the serpentine lines of
check-in, and walked out through the glass double doors into the
smoggy night.

Even at this time of night the sidewalk was crowded
with people and their luggage. The noise of voices and car engines
bounced off the concrete. The air was thick with exhaust as cars,
taxis, shuttles screeched up to the curb.

My attention was caught by a recognizable set of
shoulders on a tall, lean man moving a few yards ahead of me
through the crush of people. I stared.

Surely not?

Apologizing, I pushed and twisted my way forward,
gaze pinned on the back of a well-shaped head that seemed as
familiar as my own—more familiar, truth be told.

If he would just turn so that I could see his
profile…

For a moment I lost track of him behind what appeared
to be a just-arrived Zulu dance troop. Mountains of luggage and
many exotically garbed tall and willowy people called to each other
in a foreign tongue, managing to block my way. I began to fear that
this was going to turn into one of those scenarios from my favorite
suspense writers—a Mary Stewart moment, perhaps—and that the man
with Peter’s haircut would vanish into the teeming mass of
humanity, leaving me uncertain as to whether I’d really seen what I
thought I had.

It would have to be an awfully amazing coincidence.
Not that coincidences didn’t happen, but—

The blond man moved swiftly, purposefully through the
crowd. Stepping to the curb, he raised his hand to hail a taxi, and
I caught a clear glimpse of his features.

“Peter!”
I shrieked.

He didn’t seem to hear me as a cab squealed to the
curb.

I abandoned courtesy, shoving through the crowd,
yelling, “Peter!
Peter!
”

And to my relief, he paused, turned, and spotted me.
Just for a moment I thought his expression lightened, but it was
hard to tell in the artificial glare.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, reaching him.
Almost tentatively I reached out to touch his sleeve. He didn’t
disappear and I didn’t wake up.

There was something funny about his smile.
“Grace.”

It was unbelievable. It really
was
Peter. In
the flesh—and a very nice bronze-green Burberry mac. Peter in Los
Angeles. It seemed…fantastical. Like finding a unicorn galloping
down the 101 Freeway.

He looked tired, little lines of weariness radiating
from his so-blue eyes, the glint of golden bristle on his unshaven
cheek—but he looked so
good.
I’d forgotten—and how could
that be?—how sharp-edged and vital the reality of him was: those
intense eyes beneath the dark V of his eyebrows, the contrast of
gilt-fair hair—looking unusually ruffled this evening—the thin,
sensual mouth that was curling into a smile that was half pleasure,
half…something else.

“Thought I’d see for myself what was keeping you,” he
said, and he sounded perfectly casual, as though picking up the
thread of a previous conversation.

I looked past him to the taxi driver who was leaning
on the hood of his cab, waiting for us to get the reunion over
with. “I’ve got my car,” I said. It occurred to me that he was not
taking me in his arms, not kissing me hello; in fact, there seemed
to be an invisible force field between us—and I was pretty sure I
was not the source.

“Right,” he said, and nodded to the driver who raised
his shoulders and got back into his cab.

I glanced around for his luggage, and he said, “I
didn’t stop to pack a bag.”

And there it was, right out in the open. “What
happened
?” I asked. “Brian told me —”

“I imagine he would,” Peter said, and his hand cupped
my elbow, guiding me towards the crosswalk. I looked up, trying to
read his face, but it had never been an easy face to read.

“I’m in parking lot three,” I said, pointing the way.
“And, anyway, it’s not like it’s the kind of thing you could hide:
armed men bursting into the shop and opening fire on you.” I wanted
to stop and put my arms around him, reassure myself that he was all
right, that he was still in one piece, that he was still…mine. But
he hustled me along, hurrying me through the cars that barely
slowed down to permit pedestrians safe passage.

And then we were in the chill, sickly artificial
light of the concrete parking structure—and I was still talking—and
still not getting any answers.

“I can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you tell me
you were coming? Why didn’t you let me know you were all right? I
was so worried!”

“Were you?” His smile was a little wry.

“Of course I was. What does
that
mean?”

He shook his head. “Where are you parked?”

I led the way to my Honda Accord and unlocked the
door. Peter folded his lean length into the passenger seat with a
sigh of relief.

“How did you get out of the country without your
passport? Or do I want to know?”

“I have my passport. I keep a copy in a safe place
for emergencies.”

“Of course you do,” I said grimly. He gave me a cool
look.

“I’ve a reservation at the Hyatt Regency,” he said as
I pulled out onto Century Boulevard.

I opened my mouth to object, and then closed it
again. Even if I were convinced that Peter or my family would be
comfortable rubbing shoulders, I couldn’t invite a man who might
have some kind of team of international assassins after him to stay
at my parents’ house.

“Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?”

“No, I don’t.” He met my eyes. “I’m as startled as
you, believe me.”

I wouldn’t exactly have described myself as
“startled.” Horrified maybe. Worried, definitely.

I asked delicately, “Had
anything…happened…recently?”

“Happened? Not that I recall. And I should think I’d
recall my doing something liable to result in someone actively
pursuing my removal from the bloody planet.”

Unsurprisingly, Brian believed that the attack was
the result of Peter resuming his former criminal activities—and
perhaps attempting to double-cross his newest confederates. I
didn’t believe it. Not only because I didn’t want to believe it;
after two years I felt I knew Peter well enough to be certain he
had no interest in returning to a life of crime. For one thing he
worked far too hard at Rogue’s Gallery.

It seemed more likely that yet another of Peter’s
former criminal associates had resurfaced with a grudge—real or
fancied. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to suggest that,
however, and the thought was bound to have occurred to him in any
case.

It took only about ten minutes to reach the Hyatt
Regency on the Avenue of the Stars. Peter’s reservation was
confirmed, he checked in without complication—did he keep spare
copies of his credit cards as well? That couldn’t be a good sign,
could it? Surely there was such a thing as being
too
prepared?

“I can’t believe you actually made a hotel
reservation,” I remarked, as we got into the elevator.

“Don’t you make hotel reservations when you travel? A
woman as well organized as yourself?”

“I’m usually not fleeing one step ahead of a hit
squad.”

“You underestimate yourself. Besides, two goons with
shotguns don’t make a hit squad.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge. What are they
supposed to be? Unhappy customers?”

“Possibly.” He yawned, and then smiled
apologetically. It was the smile that undid me; it was so
unguarded, so genuine. He was dead on his feet, that much was
clear.

Reaching his room, Peter unlocked the door, felt
inside for a light switch.

I stared about the spacious, well-appointed room
furnished in soothing cream and earth tones. Peter’s eyes went
straight to the enormous king-size bed.

“Are you staying?” he asked simply, and it was clear
he was thinking in terms of sharing precious sheet space and
nothing more.