“What are you talking about?” Grace exclaimed. “We’ve got to call the police. This is murder!”
“Yes. Let me think.” Peter’s hand, still covering Grace’s, felt warm and capable. But capable of what? Maybe Grace wasn’t thinking clearly; she had gone nearly forty-eight hours without sleep, and practically that long without food. But she could not come up with any reason an innocent person would not call the police. It was a gut reaction, not reasoned argument, that had her jerking her hand away from Peter’s.
She pushed back in the chair, on her feet in one movement.
“Whoa. Whoa!” Peter’s hands forced Grace back into her seat. “I didn’t kill him, Grace.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.” His long, thin fingers absently massaged her collarbone through the loose-knit sweater.
There was something hypnotic about that soothing touch. Grace felt as though her muscles were melting along with her resistance.
“Then what is going on?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Straight up.” His eyes held hers for a moment, then he moved away, closing the passageway on the thing it held. He pushed the shelf back into place, and glanced at Grace, still motionless with indecision.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs and talk this through.”
“We can’t just leave him there!”
“We don’t want him upstairs.”
The callousness of that held Grace silent. She stared into Peter’s face, trying to read his expression.
“Come.” Count Dracula couldn’t have put it more convincingly, and his hand on the small of Grace’s back seemed to leave her body no choice but to obey. She preceded him out of the office and down the narrow aisle of furniture and statuary.
In the showroom she waited while Peter moved soundlessly through the crowded darkness, relocking the front door, rearming the burglar alarm.
“So that’s how you knew I was here,” she commented, thinking aloud.
His voice carried to her across the aisle. “That’s how I knew someone was here. I was expecting to be charged with a battle-ax though. Little did I think it was my own Miss Bluestocking from the colonies.”
Being a fan of Regency novels, Grace knew that a “bluestocking” was a not particularly flattering term for a female academic. Irritation pricked her weary apathy.
“For a man expecting to be charged by an ax-wielding burglar you seemed pretty cool. You must lead an interesting life.”
“It has its moments.” Peter appeared beside her in that noiseless fashion that sent her nerves snapping like there was a short in her wiring. “After you,” he invited.