A Study in Seduction

by Eva Chase

  “Oh, definitely not. After all, finding the right source to test in the first place is such a key factor. There was this one case, while I was still in training…” She paused with a rueful smile. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear me ramble on about my minor victories as a cadet.”

  “Ramble away.” I waved my walking stick at her encouragingly. Sherlock could be rather intimidating, especially when you weren’t used to his attitudes and moods. The last thing I wanted was for Jemma to feel diminished by the time she’d spent around us. “You were already closer to being professional law enforcement back then than I am right now, so I’m hardly anyone to judge.”

  “Oh, well—we were investigating a murder with a few possible suspects but no clear evidence in any of the usual places. I happened to notice one guy had a fresh looking mud stain on the golf shoes he’d tucked away by the back door. It hadn’t rained for days before the night of the murder, and he hadn’t mentioned golfing in his account of where he’d been around the time of the crime. The senior officers thought I was bonkers, but they took the shoes in, and even though he’d tried to wash them, they found traces of the victim’s blood in the cleats.”

  “Well done!” I said, clapping my hands. “There you go. You were running circles around those officers even then.”

  “I just follow what makes sense to me,” Jemma said with a shrug, her cheeks slightly pink from the praise. “It doesn’t seem all that extraordinary when I’m thinking about it.”

  Did she not see how extraordinary she was? My God.

  “You know, I wasn’t exaggerating comparing you to Sherlock,” I said. “I never thought I’d meet anyone who came close to his analytical abilities, but here you are. He sees it too—that’s the whole reason he wanted to approach you.”

  Jemma’s mouth twitched into a smile. “And now I’ve given him a perfectly complicated case to relieve him of his boredom. I hope it won’t be too much of a let-down when he solves it. I get the impression it’s not going to take him long.”

  “You didn’t have that one bit of key information. How could you be expected to have memorized every bit of architecture in London?” I shook my head.

  She had the same crystalline intelligence Sherlock did, sharp as a scalpel, but with a much more charming disposition. I’d never fault my friend his moods—he could hardly help them—but he could be pretty callous without realizing it. Jemma obviously had more sensitivity to her than that.

  In a few moments now and then, when I’d seen her standing apart from our group, I thought I’d caught a bit of sadness in her expression. I’d be willing to bet that she’d had a painful loss in her life, either recently or major or both. The impression resonated with my own various losses, even though most of them were long healed over.

  We drifted down the hall, other conference attendees streaming past us in more of a hurry. I wasn’t sure what sessions were running now, but having Jemma to myself for the first time, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than chat with her at least a little longer.

  She swept her hair back over her shoulder in a careless gesture, and my gaze followed the graze of her fingers across the pale skin at the edge of her shirt’s neckline. Interest stirred in other parts of me. No, it wasn’t just her mind I found appealing. Who could blame me?

  “You and Sherlock are very close, aren’t you?” she said. “You seem rather attached at the hip.”

  “A fair observation.” I rubbed my mouth, the question pricking at me despite the lightness of her tone. “It means a lot to me that he trusts me so much as a friend and colleague. He gave me a new life when I was starved for direction, you know. I was a surgeon, and now I can’t trust my body to stay as steady as it’d need to be for that kind of work… This way I can still save lives by applying my knowledge from a different angle.”

  It would have been hard to put into words my gloomy state fresh off of my tour of duty—my body even weaker than it was now, the work I loved torn from me—or how collaborating with Sherlock had shone a light through that darkness. I wasn’t sure I’d have wanted to express all that to Jemma anyway. I wasn’t exactly proud of my first few useless months in London.

  “I can see how he’d inspire devotion,” she said.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d call it that, but—loyalty, certainly.” I hesitated and decided I might as well mention this little fact and see what she made of it. I could determine in an instant whether there was any point in indulging the sparks I’d felt. “Not everyone understands our partnership. I had to break it off with a girlfriend I quite liked a few months ago. The longer we were together, the more critical Mary got of the time I spent with Sherlock. I don’t think she’d have been happy unless I’d ended my collaboration with him completely.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jemma said without any thought at all. “The work you do with him makes you happy—I’ve only known you a few days, and I can see that. How much could she have cared about you if she’d ask you to give that up?”

  Her answer sent a sharper rush of relief through me than I’d expected. “Exactly what I thought,” I said.

  We’d almost reached the dining room, but there was an hour left to go before lunch. Jemma looked around and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a nice hotel, but I have to admit I’m starting to find it a bit stuffy.”

  “Why don’t we get some fresh air?” I motioned her toward the lobby. “I could use some of that myself.”

  It was difficult to call any of the air in central London exactly fresh. The cool spring breeze we stepped out into carried a whiff of car exhaust and a waft of hot buttery grease from the Indian restaurant down the road. I did find it a little easier to breathe out there all the same. Restricting one’s self to a hotel for days on end couldn’t be good for the spirit.

  “Should we take a turn around the corner and see where that leads us?” I said.

  “Sounds good to me.” Jemma tucked her hand around my elbow the way she had when we’d been putting on a show of being lovers, as if it were perfectly natural. Heat flowed through me from that point of contact.

  I made an effort to walk as steadily as possible and lean on my walking stick as little as possible, not that Jemma had ever appeared bothered by my irregular gait. She peered through the window of the restaurant, sniffing the tang of curry that colored the air there, and commented that we should skip the hotel buffet to grab a bite there some evening. I was about to suggest that we do it tonight when we came around the corner to a clang and a muttered string of curses.

  We jerked to a halt. A big guy, taller than me and with muscles flexing beneath his stained Henley, smacked the side of the newspaper box he was scuffling with farther down the road. His ragged blond hair shadowed his dark eyes.

  He jammed a metal tool into the coin slot, trying to break it open. Here, in broad daylight—well, clouded dim daylight—without seeming to care who saw him. Figuring no one would dare challenge a guy who looked as tough as he did? I’d been around enough soldiers during my tour to know you couldn’t judge fighting strength solely by appearances. A fact that applied to me as much as the man in front of me.

  A tingle of adrenaline shot through my veins. I took a step toward him, and Jemma’s grip on my arm tightened.

  “We’ll call the cops,” she said. “He doesn’t look like he’s going to respond to a little friendly conversation. For all we know, he’s armed.”

  Calling the police would be the wise thing to do. My pistol was back in my hotel room. Even if I’d had it on me, engaging with an already violent criminal could quickly cross the line from brave to brainless.

  The guy glanced up and saw us watching him. He wrenched at the box, slammed it with his fist, and leered at Jemma. “Why don’t you gawk a little closer, sweet stuff? Donate those tits to the cause.”

  Jemma’s jaw clenched, but she turned away. “It’s not worth it.”

  The fire that had flared up inside me said it was, though. No one should be allowed to talk to this
woman like that.

  I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be fine,” I said, and strode forward.

  The guy straightened up as I approached. He took me in, and his leer turned into a sneer. He cracked his knuckles. “Think today is the day to prove yourself, huh?” he said.

  “I think you’d better step away from that newspaper box and get going,” I replied. The words tumbled out of my mouth automatically, propelled by the rush of adrenaline.

  The guy guffawed. “That would be a no. Maybe I can break it open with that thick skull of yours.”

  I shifted my weight onto my good leg and adjusted my grip on my walking stick. When the guy swung a meaty fist at me, exactly as I’d expected him too, I dodged and jabbed my stick into the middle of his gut.

  I knew how to deliver a good blow. The guy winced and stumbled, doubling over for a second before he lunged at me again, with a snarl this time. I couldn’t yank myself out of the way fast enough.

  His knuckles clipped the side of my head, sending my thoughts spinning. I gritted my teeth with a fresh flare of determination and whacked my stick across the guy’s throat.

  He sputtered and reeled back. The angry flush that had darkened his face faded. He spat out some incoherent insult, turned tail, and ran.

  “John!” Jemma came to a stop beside me. She glanced me over as if checking for wounds. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know,” I said with a grin I couldn’t restrain, my heart still thumping from the scuffle. It nearly drowned out the ache where the hooligan’s fist had met my temple. “But so many of those guys are cowards. Show you can give them a proper fight, and they decide it’s not worth the trouble.”

  From the look she gave me, she wasn’t sure whether to thank me or keep berating me. I might have been fine with both. My pulse kicked up another notch as I gazed down into her cloud-gray eyes. A hint of her scent reached me, sweetly floral with a temptingly dark undertone. The impulse shot through me to trace my fingers along her delicate jaw and kiss her.

  I balked, giving my passions a moment to cool. We were colleagues. She hadn’t shown any definite signs of interest. She’d probably think I was taking advantage of the opportunity to play hero.

  Before I could completely collect myself, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I fished it out, raising it faster when I saw the name on the text.

  “Is that Sherlock?” Jemma asked.

  I could give her news that I expected would be much more welcome than a kiss. “He’s tracked down Richter’s collection manager,” I said with a nod. “We can talk to him this afternoon.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jemma

  My favorite kind of con hit two birds with one stone. Conveniently, John Watson had a complimentary pair of weaknesses.

  As the four of us headed across the hotel’s underground parking garage to John’s car, I positioned myself at his side. Then I pressed my right heel into the concrete with slightly more pressure than before.

  The heel snapped loose. I stumbled, and John caught my arm with his free hand. Savior impulse engaged.

  “Whoa there,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Damned shoe.” I examined the low heel dangling from the back of my practical black pump and sighed. “This brand usually holds up.”

  “We’ll match,” John said with his easy grin. “It’s not so bad being a bit lopsided. On the other hand, I’m sure we’ve got time for you to run back to your room if you have another pair.”

  Sherlock made a disgruntled sound at the suggestion, already shifting his weight impatiently as if the interview he’d planned were a chemical reaction that would explode if the timing changed by a matter of seconds.

  I patted my purse. “I always carry a little shoe glue just in case. I’ll be lopsided the rest of the way to the car, and then I’ll fix it up well enough to get through the day.”

  “Prepared for everything, hmm?” John said, with the admiring glint in his hazel eyes that I’d wanted to inspire. He liked saving me, but I got the impression he enjoyed watching my unwavering competence even more. Might as well appeal to both inclinations.

  “Says the guy who carries multiple fake moustaches in his jacket pocket,” I returned, and he chuckled.

  He had another one on today, bushier than the one he’d used for the gentlemen’s club, and a hat that hid his sandy blond hair. Sherlock had applied a full beard and dappled his messy waves with believable flecks of gray. They’d both dressed in scruffier clothes than usual too.

  Only Garrett looked like his usual boyish self, but he was going to hang back in the car, both to stay out of any potentially illegal maneuvering we had to do and to be ready to call for back-up if Sherlock’s plan went wrong.

  I took the offending shoe off and walked with that foot on tiptoe, the pavement cold and unpleasantly damp through my sock. John kept his hand on my arm, more a touch than a hold, ready if I teetered. It was rather odd, really, to find a human being who both got off on coming to the rescue and applauded self-sufficiency. Most White Knight types preferred that their wounded birds stayed wounded.

  You’d almost think the man was really as kind-hearted as he presented himself. But I’d seen how eagerly he’d leapt at the newspaper box guy this morning. Throw a reckless hankering for danger into the mix, and you got quite the stew.

  At the silver Ford, John had to let go of me to head to the driver’s seat. Garrett’s glower followed him, one he wasn’t making much effort to hide. Hmm. I should probably temper that jealousy before it sparked more of a fire. They did need to work together.

  With his long legs, Sherlock naturally took the other front seat. I slid into the back next to Garrett. His expression stayed gloomy as he did up his seatbelt, but he didn’t look at me.

  John revved the Ford’s engine and backed out of the spot with a smooth turn of the wheel and a burst of speed. I was glad for my own seatbelt as we zipped toward the exit. Apparently the good doctor enjoyed tempting danger on the road as well.

  He and Sherlock fell into a conversation about another recent case a client had brought them. I dabbed the gummy glue onto my shoe, pressed the heel on tight, and turned toward Garrett. He wasn’t so stoic that he could ignore my direct gaze. After a second, he glanced over at me, his mouth set at an angle that was tense but not hostile.

  I brushed my fingers lightly over his forearm. “Hey,” I said, softly enough to speak under the front seat chatter. “We’re all right, aren’t we? If things went farther than you’d have wanted— I know I can get carried away.”

  My touch brought a glimmer of hunger into Garrett’s eyes. He appeared to gather himself. “We’re fine. It was—ah, it was very nice. But you and John have something going now…?” His voice stayed carefully terse.

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “But I can’t say it won’t happen. I’m only here until the end of the week. It’s not as if I could be looking to make any kind of commitment.”

  “Of course not. It isn’t even my business.”

  “I do like you,” I said. Sure, I could summon some appreciation for the man’s dogged ambition. And for the competitive passion he’d unleashed last night. “If things were different, I wouldn’t see any need to play the field.”

  A bit of light came into his face under the grimness. You won, I was telling him. I’d want you more. Which was exactly what he wanted to hear. From now through to the end, I needed all three of these men both invested and away from each other’s throats. We had bigger villains to tackle—bigger than any of them knew.

  Richter was just the gateway to a horde of monsters that ate children’s souls.

  When we parked a couple of blocks from the warehouse where Sherlock was sure we’d find Richter’s manager, Garrett leaned back in his seat, setting his police radio on his knee and taking out his ever-present notepad. He looked far more relaxed than he had when we’d gotten in. Good. My work here was done.

  “I’ll be watching for your signal,” he said.

&
nbsp; “I don’t expect I’ll need to give it,” Sherlock said. “But in a case this volatile, it’s worth taking the precaution.” Both he and John were carrying pistols, just in case.

  We set off past the dingy buildings toward the warehouse in question. This wasn’t the sort of area where you’d expect a wealthy gent to have his lackeys working, but Richter had plenty of activities he’d rather keep far from curious eyes. My shoes tapped against the sidewalk. I dug my hands into the pockets of the worn jacket Sherlock had procured for my own “costume.”

  It was fascinating watching how the detective transformed. John had left his walking stick behind to move with a more definite hitch, and he slumped his shoulders a bit to change his posture, but I’d still have recognized him with a close glance. Sherlock, on the other hand, became an utterly different person.

  Somehow with the bend of his legs, he affected a bowlegged gait and shaved a few inches off his considerable height. The swagger of his movements and the puff of his chest gave the impression of a much broader frame than he actually possessed. As we drove, he’d slicked back his hair with oil. Between all that and the beard, I had to peer to make out any hint of the man underneath.

  Was that level of subterfuge really necessary for this lackey? I couldn’t have said I was convinced, but Sherlock took pride in his disguise, and I enjoyed watching it, so I wasn’t going to badger him about it.

  At the warehouse, he shoved open the door, and we all marched in as if we belonged there. That was the core of his plan. Richter’s manager wasn’t likely to say much to strangers with detective airs. He’d be less on his guard with people he took to be colleagues.

  As Sherlock had assured us, the slight man with a hawkish nose was puttering around by stacks of boxes at the far end of the main warehouse room. His ponytail, as much gray as it was dun brown, hissed against his shoulders when he spun around. His eyes narrowed.