Docketful of Poesy (5 page)

And to my surprise, I—for once—didn’t have to think
about it. “I’m staying.” I hesitated. “That is, if you want me
to.”

He had moved to the picture window, staring past the
private balcony to the Los Angeles skyline. Beneath the starry
skies, the myriad city lights twinkled, and a river of headlights
flowed slowly through the gleaming towers; streetlights, office
lights, porch lights, and the lights of several million windows
glittered in the night.

“You’re joking,” he said without turning. “Of course
I want you.”

Oh. All right. That was reassuring. It could have
been said with a little more enthusiasm, granted, but still…

“Do you think they followed you?” I asked his
back.

Peter did turn then. “I don’t think they were
professionals. They came in guns a-blazin’ in the middle of the
afternoon when the shop was full of customers.”

“Do you think it was some kind of a threat? Could it
have been a—a hoax?”

“Not that, no. I think they’d have been happy to top
me. They certainly gave it their full attention. But I don’t think
they were pros.”

He drew the drapes shut. “I think I’ll have a shower.
Break open the mini-bar, will you?”

“Shall I order you some kind of dinner from room
service?”

“Just drinks for me. Order yourself whatever you
like.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like Nora Charles?”

“Whom?”

“Mrs. Thin Man.”

Peter winked at me and disappeared into the gleaming
bathroom. I went into action. I phoned home, leaving a brief
message for my parents who were dining out that evening, then I
flipped through the hotel services booklet and called down to room
service, ordering from their selection of desserts. I took Peter’s
room key, got ice from the machine down the hall, and returned to
ransack the contents of the mini-fridge.

Peter strolled out of the steamy, deliciously-scented
bathroom a little while later, and stopped short. The bed was
turned down, the lamps cozily lit, a tempting selection of desserts
sat on a side table.

“Cheers,” said I, handing him a glass of Chivas
Regal. “And don’t worry, I wiped that tumbler myself.”

“I…wasn’t worried,” he said, looking around
bemusedly. “What’s all this in aid of?”

“Turn about is fair play.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes very
blue, his hair falling over his forehead in damp, gold strands. He
had shaved and he was wearing one of the hotel’s guest robes. He
smelled distractingly of herbal soap and himself.

“I like the sound of it. I just have no idea what
that means.”

“It means…it’s my turn to…take care of you.” I wished
I sounded less defiant and more…seductive. But I wasn’t used to
seducing men. Actually, I wasn’t used to taking care of men,
either.

“Ah. The chocolate mousse is for medicinal purposes?”
His mouth was twitching with that old secret amusement as he
brought the glass of whisky to his lips, and despite myself, my
heart sped up.

“They didn’t have chocolate hazelnut cake.”

“What sort of establishment
is
this?” Peter
demanded, glancing around with great displeasure.

I bit back a laugh. “Do you remember what you served
me the afternoon I arrived at Rogue’s Gallery to tell you I thought
someone was trying to kill you?”

His face changed. Softened. “Tea and cake. What a
sentimental girl you are, Miss Hollister.”

I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “I figured you’d prefer
whisky to tea.”

“You figured correctly.” He tossed off the rest of
his drink, set the glass aside, and took me unhurriedly into his
arms. “You’re glad to see me, then?”

I was not a woman given to rolling my eyes, but I
rolled them then. “Need you ask?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Peter said quite seriously. He
kissed me then, his mouth warm and smoky with the taste of whisky;
and I understood, as much as I liked Brian, as attractive as he
was, what the difference was. And, alas, it had nothing to do with
still wanting Peter for a friend had he been born a woman.

“So what happens next?” I asked, after Peter released
me, and went to find another mini- bottle in the well-stocked
fridge.

“I’m wounded,” Peter said. “I’d hoped you might still
have some faint recollection of those few precious —”

“Not
that
,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Of
course I remember that. I meant, what will you do next? Are you
planning to return to the Lakes?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Sure about that? You haven’t been in a tearing rush
to come back.”

“Things…kept coming up.”

“Yes, I’d noticed that.” His gaze held mine.

“I always intended to come back.”

I was surprised when—abruptly—he let it go. “Lovely.
Now we’ve got that settled…”

He had another drink. We sampled the desserts,
chatted, and Peter brought me up to speed—although he would have
loathed that term—on how everyone was back in Innisdale. I filled
Peter in on my impressions of the
Dangerous to Know
production
.

“
You’re sure you won’t regret
passing up your chance to make movies?”

“Maybe a little, but to tell you the truth there’s a
weird vibe on that set. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just
not used to Hollywood types.”

“Perhaps.” He surprised me then. “You’ve got good
instincts, though. How’s the book coming?”

“I think I’m narrowing down my list. Have you ever
heard of Laetitia Elizabeth Landon? She was sometimes called the
‘female Byron.’”

“‘
While lingers in the heart one
line, the nameless poet has a shrine,’” Peter quoted, surprising
me.

“That’s her, yes. Letty Landon. Anyway, it suddenly
occurred to me that in many ways
she
embodies the poets I
want to write about. The ones who really are forgotten, nameless
now.”

“I don’t think L.E.L. has been utterly forgotten. The
mystery surrounding her death guarantees her a certain amount of
immortality.”

“For all the wrong reasons. Think about it: at one
point she was one of the most popular writers in England, male or
female, but I don’t feel I’ve read anything that begins to capture
who she really was. It doesn’t help that all the information on her
is so contradictory and confusing.”

I didn’t want to admit that part of what fascinated
me was the idea of this brilliant young poetess giving up
everything and everyone familiar, journeying across the ocean to a
distant and foreign land—all for love of a man she barely knew. He
was liable to find the parallels a bit…much.

Peter’s mouth tugged into a reluctant curve. “So
what’s your theory? Was it murder, suicide, or accident?”

“I don’t have a theory. The real tragedy to me is
that the drama of her death overshadows her literary legacy. It’s a
shame, because I find her a compelling figure. Maybe because she
was so ordinary, so…everywoman.”

“Every woman is not an influential critic, poet, and
celebrated literary figure by the age of twenty.”

“True. Anyway, I can’t wait to get home and really
get to work.”

He smiled; I listened to the echo of my words, and
smiled, too.

It was well after one in the morning when we finished
nibbling and drinking. Peter shrugged off the hotel robe and
dropped onto the bed with a small groan of relief. Much more
self-consciously, I undressed to my panties and bra and slipped in
beside him.

His arms closed about me, drawing me close, and it
was like coming home. The geography of the heart, I thought. Home
was not Los Angeles; it was not even the Lake District. It was here
with this enigmatic, but still dear, man.

I wrinkled my nose at the sheer sentimentality of
that thought, but there was no point in lying to myself. This was
what I had wanted, what I had been waiting for, longing for. It
didn’t make sense, but I felt that all was right with my world
again.

I could feel his body relaxing as he slipped into
slumber. His breath was light and cool against my face. I listened
to the steady, reassuring thump of his heart beneath my ear, the
even tenor of his breathing.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Did they say
anything?” I asked, and I felt him start into wakefulness.

“Who?” He sounded half-drugged.

“The men who attacked you.”

“As I recall...bang, bang,” he murmured. A few
moments later I could tell by his breathing that he slept.

Chapter Four

“G
uess who’s coming to
dinner?” I said, speaking softly into the phone receiver. The
shower was still running in the hotel bathroom, but I lowered my
voice anyway.

“The mysterious Peter Fox?” my sister-in-law Laurel
inquired gleefully. “I heard. I can’t wait to meet him!”

“How are they taking it?” By “they” I meant my
mother. My dad was the epitome of the relaxed and occasionally
absentminded professor of literature—an excellent foil for his
highly strung spouse. Not that Dad was a pushover; there was never
any doubt who wore the pants in our family.

“The house is now in session. Nora called for a
quorum—which unfortunately took place behind closed doors. I’d have
loved to have been the fly on
that
wall. Your dad seems to
be taking it all in stride, but you know Frank. When will you be
here?” Laurel was married to my older brother Clark. The mother of
two active twin girls, not much threw Laurel off her stride. In
fact, most things amused the heck out of her, including,
apparently, my love life.

“Not till this evening. I’ve got a slew of things to
do today.”

“Chicken. Oh, your movie producer friend called.
Apparently you’re having lunch with the guy writing the screenplay
of your life. And here I thought you were just making it up as you
went along.”

“You couldn’t make this stuff up,” I told her. “Did
Roberta leave a number?”

Laurel recited the number and I jotted it down. “Not
that I mind,” I said, “but how is it you’re answering my parents’
phone?”

“We had a date to go jogging, remember?”

“No. I’m happy to say I totally forgot about it.”

Although I had learned to love walking during my stay
in the Lake District, I was never going to be a fitness nut, and as
far as I was concerned, jogging was an activity mostly popular in
one of those inner rings of hell.

Laurel made tsking sounds.

I asked, “Where’s Mother?”

“She’s busy grinding the glass for tonight’s dinner.
Is there anything your Mr. Fox is allergic to? I’m sure she’d be
happy to add it to the menu.”

I laughed nervously. “You’re going to be there
tonight, right? Just for moral support?”

“Gracie, we’re
all
going to be there. I’m
surprised Callie isn’t filming it for one of her sociology
courses.” Calliope was the college girlfriend of my younger
brother, Colin. “Does that poor man have any idea of what he’s
getting into?”

“
He’s very brave,” I
said.

“He must be. Turkish prison will seem like a picnic
compared to interrogation by Nora.”

I was not a woman giving to squeaking, but I couldn’t
help the sound of distress that escaped me. My heartless
sister-in-law only laughed.

*****

If one more sales associate told Peter he had “such a
cute accent” I was going to commit murder.

After the first hour I had decided that clothes
shopping with the great love of one’s life should be an exercise
required of any and all couples intending…coupling. Given Peter’s
care and attention to details great and small, it shouldn’t have
come as a surprise to me that he was not willing to just grab any
old thing off the shelves of such fine establishments as Brooks
Brothers and Bloomingdale’s.

Actually he rather reminded me of me—and is there
anything more annoying in one’s Significant Other?

It was not that he didn’t know his mind or fretted
over prices; he knew exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t even
look at price tags. But he seemed to be on a kind of quest for the
Holy Grail of men’s wear. In fact, the only quick and painless
purchases of that morning were a couple of pairs of Levis.

On the other hand, he was pleasant and polite with
sales staff, and left a legion of charmed salesgirls—and boys—in
his wake.

To distract myself I did a little shopping as well,
justifying it by the fact that I could hardly go to my lunch
meeting in yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt. When I reappeared in Ann
Taylor skirt, blouse, and heels I got a slow, approving smile from
Peter. I told myself firmly that I was not dressing to please a
man; pleasing the man was a mere happy coincidence.

Peter reached over and untucked the tag I’d
overlooked in my collar. Just that brush of his hand against my
neck reminded me of that morning, of the sleepy pleasure of waking
up together for the first time in many—too many—months. He snapped
the plastic tie between his fingers; because he was so lean, so
graceful, it was easy to forget how strong he was.

“Thank you.”

He smiled briefly and turned away, selecting a khaki
cotton shirt from a crisp stack.

“Do you think you should contact Chief Constable
Heron?” I asked. He was frowning. How much could there be to object
to in a simple khaki shirt?

Finally Peter transferred his intent gaze from the
hem of the shirt to me. “To what purpose?”

“Well, to let the police know you’re alive.”

“They know I’m alive. Even that lot can hardly fail
to have noticed they didn’t find my body.”

This seemed a very un-public-spirited attitude to
take—and not terribly logical. “They probably want to question you.
In fact, I
know
they want to question you.”

“That will wait,” Peter said coolly, and seemed to
make his mind up about the khaki shirt and—miraculously—an olive
pinstripe, too.