“Fertility clinics,” Grace informed Peter at breakfast the next morning. “Fertility clinics and designer plus-sizes. That’s all I could find last night on the Internet.”
“Huh?” Peter asked intelligently, his mouth full of Canadian bacon.
He was wearing a dark plaid robe over what appeared to be yellow pajamas. Grace refused to think about the fact that she was having breakfast with a pajama-clad man she barely knew. There was gold bristle on his jaw and his hair was ruffled. It was so…personal.
She pulled her own plaid robe—a different tartan, mind—closer.
“Relating to Astarte,” she clarified. “There’s an online magazine for something called the Goddess Woman. And there’s a place in San Francisco called the Astarte Fertility Center which provides an integrated online list of egg donors and in vitro fertilization and long-distance treatment plans.”
Peter chewed, swallowed, and said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I thought maybe I could help by researching the Astarte connection. I used your computer last night; I hope you don’t mind. The thing is—” She leaned forward on the table. “There is something called the Astarte Lodge in Berlin. Their site says they celebrate the Gnostic Mass and offer classes to initiates on the Qabalah, ritual techniques, yoga—it’s a bit New Agey, but there could be a connection.”
Peter studied her thoughtfully. “Are you like this every morning?”
Grace sat back in her chair. “Like what? Awake? Most people are, who don’t come waltzing in at four o’clock in the morning.”
“Three-thirty. And I was not waltzing. If you were in a noticing mood, you’d have seen my feet dragging.”
“No doubt you were exhausted.” Grace bit into a muffin, all her white teeth showing.
Peter chuckled and refilled her teacup. “What are you insinuating? Believe me, you couldn’t be further from the mark. The woman is a nuisance.”
“You’re all heart.” Grace downed the last bit of muffin. It took her a moment or two to clear her air passage enough to speak. “Anyway, I couldn’t care less about your love life. I just want to solve this thing and save my skin. Not to mention, my vacation.”
“I think the vacation is a scrub,” Peter informed her. “But I’ll see what I can do about your skin. It’s a rather nice hide, I admit.” He winked at her across the breakfast dishes.
Not used to being flirted with over eggs and bacon, Grace momentarily lost her train of thought.
Peter finished his coffee, put the cup down and said curiously, “Were you really thinking you could find the reason for your being kidnapped on the Internet?”
“It’s quite amazing the things you can find on the Internet,” Grace defended. “I found some pictures of statues believed to represent Astarte; they looked a bit like little chicken-headed figures wearing dunce caps. They’re incredibly valuable though. And I found directions on how to perform the Rite of Astarte. You need seven green candles, dried red rose petals and fruit juice, preferably apple.”
“Sounds most uplifting. I don’t believe we are under attack by renegade Gnostics however.”
The phone rang and Peter rose to answer it.
Grace watched his face turn into a mask of elegant bones and hollows. After a moment he replied expressionlessly, “I appreciate your concern, Chief Constable.”
Silence.
Peter’s gaze shifted to Grace. “The young lady is with me now.”
A longer silence.
Peter’s jaw clenched but his voice was smooth and civil as he cut in, “Let me save you the trip, Chief Constable. I planned to drive into—” A pause. “I look forward to it.”
Peter slammed down the receiver. “Bloody hell!”
“What is it?”
“Why the hell did you have to go to the police?”
The unfairness of this attack had Grace spluttering, “What was I supposed to do? I was kidnapped; of course I went to the police. How could I know you have a—a rap sheet!”
“A what?”
“A police record.”
Peter pinched his bottom lip, scowling. Meeting Grace’s concerned gaze he said, “Suit up, Esmeralda. The cops are coming.”