"Roberts, Nora - A Matter of Choice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

it that. The library... Look, I'm sorry to rush off the minute you get
here, but my assistant's ill and my buyer's in France." Tilting her
wrist, she grimaced at her watch. "I have a client coming to the shop
ten minutes ago."

"Don't worry about it." If this frazzled lady can run a business, I'll
volunteer to walk a beat, he decided, but gave her an easy smile. "It'll
give me a chance to get settled in."

"Fine. I'll see you at dinner then." Glancing around, she muttered again
about keys.

"In your hand," Slade told her.

"Stupid." With a sigh, Jessica uncurled her fingers and stared at the
keys in her palm. "The more I have to rush, the worse it gets." Lifting
amused eyes to his, she brushed her hair from her shoulders. "Please
don't bother with the library today. It may shock you so much that
you'll run away before I can smooth things over. Betsy..." As she dashed
for the door Jessica looked over her shoulder. "Tell David he's fired if
he gets out of bed. 'Bye."

The door slammed behind her. Betsy clucked her tongue.

Ten minutes later Slade inspected his suite of rooms. They were nearly
as large as the apartment he had grown up in. There was a faded carpet
on the bedroom floor that he recognized was not old but antique. In a
small, black marble fireplace, wood was neatly laid for burning.
Crossing to the sitting room, he saw a sturdy desk topped with a vase of
the chrysanthemums, a brass paperweight, and a feather quill. Without
hesitation, he cleared it off to make room for his typewriter.

If he had his way, his writing would be more than a cover. When he
wasn't baby-sitting, he'd get some work done. Of course, there was the
library to fool with. On an exasperated sigh, Slade turned his back on
his typewriter and went back downstairs. He roamed, filing the position
and layout of rooms in the cop's part of his mind, their descriptions in
the writer's.

In his tour of the first floor, Slade could find no fault with Jessica's
taste. It was only the nouveau riche who went in for ostentation. The
Winslow woman preferred muted colors and clean lines. In her clothes,
too, he mused, remembering how she had looked in the dun-colored blazer
and skirt. Still, the blouse she'd worn had been a deep, almost violent
green. That just might indicate something else.

Slade stopped to run his fingers over the surface of a rosewood piano.
Compared to this, he mused, the battered upright his mother treasured
was so much kindling. With a shrug, he wandered to the next door.