It was nearly dawn when Peter unlocked the door to his flat. He was vaguely surprised to find the lights still on. It had taken two hours and twenty minutes to smooth Al’s feathers. That was two hours longer than he wanted to spend. The peace talks had been followed by the even more disagreeable task of shifting the mortal remains of Danny Delon.
For a moment there in the passage the old panic had swept over him, the sensation of walls closing in, of suffocation, of being buried alive. The cold, crisp night air had helped to clear his head.
Surprise stopped him midway through a jaw-breaking yawn as Peter took in the clutter of tea tray with its empty cake plate and teacup on the table. Stacks of books towered like Grecian ruins, and Esmeralda lay draped over the couch like somebody’s virgin sacrifice. Peter’s thin mouth quirked as he studied the sleeping Ms. Hollister. Chestnut hair framed her flushed face in a silky cloud. She was wearing a pair of round spectacles and some kind of white, ruffly night thing. She clutched a gold-tooled volume to her breast.
She looked rather like a scholarly angel—except that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was not suitably cherubic reading. Not that there was anything particularly ethereal about the long, slender leg resting outside the tangle of afghan and nightshirt she had cocooned herself in. Nor in the swell of breasts gently rising and falling. Earthly delights these.
Peter had an uncomfortably vivid memory of resting his face against those firm breasts. He recalled the warm scent of her skin and the silken feel of her hair against his lips.
Her gentle limbs she did undress and lie down in her loveliness.
He approached the couch, all his defenses intact. Grace never stirred. Peter studied her without expression. Then he dropped down on his haunches and with light fingers removed her spectacles, laying them aside on the table. Her skin was soft to his fingertips. Baby skin. She didn’t really look old enough to teach teenage girls anything, although he had to admit she did possess an unexpectedly sharp mind. And tongue to match.
Peter continued to study Grace, feeling the light warmth of her breath on his face. Her mouth was pink and moist, slightly parted.
This was a complication he did not need. Peter rose and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 12
