The Dickens with Love (4 page)
“How would an ocelot get in here?”
I didn’t know and neither did I care. “I think you should call someone. Now.”
“I think we should call the police.”
“I think we should call security.”
The ocelot’s paw flashed out as he struck at my jean-clad legs. His claws snagged in the denim and
we both yanked speedily free, me nearly toppling off the stool in my fright. The ocelot clearly thought this was all my fault and let me know in no uncertain terms. I got behind the stool, gripping it like a lion tamer, no longer caring if I looked foolish or cowardly. Ridiculous though it was, it was also roughly the
equivalent of being cornered by a rottweiler.
Josh Lanyon
The female bartender retreated, squeaking maidenly alarm, to the other side of the bar. The remaining
bar patrons retreated to the other side of the room. It was only me and the cat in the center ring.
I said weakly, “This is odd. Usually cats like me.”
The problem with a life spent reading is you know too much. I knew for example that an ocelot was
extremely fast, strong and agile. That they could be very aggressive on occasion—and this seemed to be An Occasion. I knew that they were spectacular climbers. Able to leap to impressive heights, like the top of a bookshelf—or some unfortunate person’s head. I knew their bite could be vicious, that they liked to
eviscerate their prey with their back legs, and that they had the uncanny ability to sense pressure points and seek them out during an attack.
Attacked by an ocelot in the Champagne Bar of the Hotel Del Monte? Try topping that for freak-show
value. I’d have to hope he killed me outright because I’d never live it down.
Safely across the elegant room, Professor Crisparkle slipped out of his tweed blazer and started
toward us, holding the jacket out with the clear intent of using it as a kind of net. A couple of people, lined against the wall as though for a firing squad, offered their suggestions and advice. They were ignored.
“Don’t move,” Crisparkle instructed quietly.
“Who are you talking to? Me or it?” I flicked a nervous gaze from Crisparkle to the cat, which was
apparently trying to calculate the best way to get around the flimsy barrier I’d placed between us. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I don’t think there’s much of an option. I believe it’s going to attack you.” He sounded perfectly
calm. That was probably the whole British sang-froid thing. Or perhaps the University of London was a
rougher school than it sounded.
Crisparkle sidestepped a fallen chair, and sensing his approach, the ocelot turned with a sneeze-type
snarl. Maybe he was in a bad mood because he had the flu.
The side entrance door flew open and a chubby woman in a pink and black checked suit rushed into
the bar crying, “Oscar! Oscar! Oh you bad,
bad
kitty.”
The ocelot cringed like a guilty dog and the next minute she had scooped it up in her arms and was
scurrying away. The rest of us gaped and gawked after her and then the remaining customers burst into
conversation.
I dropped the tall stool and slumped against the bar. Crisparkle walked up to me. “Well.” It took me a few seconds to collect myself enough to say, “Thank you.”
Crisparkle nodded, serious as ever. Not that I was ready to laugh about it myself quite yet. “That was most peculiar,” he said, which had to be the understatement of the century. “Even for this city.”
“You can say that again.” Belatedly it occurred to me that I should probably make more of an effort. I asked, fully expecting rejection, “May I buy you a drink?”
I was surprised when he assented.
20
The Dickens with Love
He gave the bartender his order and we moved to his table near the fireplace. I sat down, met his gaze, and looked away feeling weirdly self-conscious. Well, maybe not so weird given the circumstances.
As conversation seemed required and he wasn’t making an effort, I said, “I’ve read that they typically go for your groin or armpit. Ocelots, I mean. It was very hard not to visualize that.”
“You seemed remarkably calm. I wondered if you knew what you were dealing with.”
Oh, I knew. I’d read a lot of boys adventure novels growing up. All small cats have certain target
areas. The ocelot tends to target the armpit, inside of elbows, groin and neck. That makes even a simple bite from an ocelot a big deal. They also tend to repeat strike when deflected. Try blocking an ocelot leaping for your throat, and he’ll hit the ground and rebound straight back at you.
I reached for the bar menu as Crisparkle added disapprovingly, “Someone was remarkably, criminally
careless in allowing that animal to roam free.”
I agreed, but then the whole day had an unreal, almost fantasy quality to it. Sort of like that Steve
Martin movie,
L.A. Story
.
I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the selections on the bar menu had suddenly wavered and morphed into secret messages meant only for my eyes. “This is how the other half
lives.” I shrugged. “I suppose it’s how you live too, since you’re staying in the hotel.”
He frowned—his normal expression with me—but was distracted by the female bartender delivering
his drink.
It was the loveliest cocktail I’d ever seen. Real flecks of apparently edible gold sparkled and floated in the sleek martini glass.
“What is that?” I could hardly look away from the glittering concoction.
“A Stardust.” He said it rather repressively, and I felt a flicker of amusement.
“I’ll have one of those,” I told the bartender.
“Did you want to run a tab?”
I shook my head. While Crisparkle sipped his martini, I watched the bartender combine four parts
vodka with one part of crème de cacao. I watched with all the attention of a man having to pass his
bartender’s exam. It was easier than trying to make conversation with my companion. I wasn’t even sure why I’d thought sitting down with him was a good idea.
Crisparkle seemed to have equal disinterest in conversing with me. He drank his cocktail and stared at the painting on the far wall, and I watched the bartender slowly empty the cocktail shaker into a martini glass. She slowly, ever so gently, added the sparkling Goldschlager, a cinnamon-flavored liqueur, so that gold flakes drifted slowly through the drink.
She brought the magical-looking brew over to the table along with a small plate of gougères.
“Compliments of the house,” she said. At my surprise, she joked, “The ocelot is paying.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you.” I put my wallet away.
21
Josh Lanyon
Crisparkle observed me silently throughout this transaction. The bartender retreated and I took a sip of my drink. A bit sweeter than I liked, but interesting.
He said abruptly, “It’s only fair to tell you that no one suggested you were involved in murder. In fact, no one actually said you were even suspected of knowingly participating in forgery.”
“You didn’t have time to talk to many people.”
“Enough. You’re not liked, but you’re respected. At least…”
I grinned a crooked grin and selected one of the cheese savories. “I know what you mean,” I assured
him. “It’s generally accepted that I have an instinct for the real thing.”
“Why did you pretend, then, that you didn’t know my book is the genuine article?”
“Because I don’t go by instinct anymore.”
He waited for me to continue, but I had no intention of spilling my guts to the disapproving Professor Crisparkle. I raised my glass in a mock toast and finished off my drink.
The frown grew more pronounced.
“Are you driving?”
“Eventually.”
He was silent, then said shortly, “I probably owe you an apology.”
“Don’t bother if it hurts that much.” His face tightened. I said, “Anyway, saving me from being
mauled was apology enough.”
Some internal struggle seemed to take place. “Evan Amherst of Amherst Rare Books said that you
voluntarily cooperated with the police. That had you not helped them, Strauss would probably have got
away with murder.”
I curled my lip. “Yes? Well, the fact of the matter is that nobody likes a snitch.”
He studied me for a long moment and then said slowly, quite gently, “You were hurt very badly,
weren’t you?”
I felt myself turn scarlet. Men do not say that kind of thing to each other. They just…don’t. I returned harshly, “I was very stupid. I deserved everything that happened to me.”
“You’re very cynical.”
“I have good reason to be.” This was my cue to exit. I pushed my empty glass away, shoved my chair
back, opened my mouth to say goodnight.
Crisparkle astonished me by getting up first. “My round, I think.” He went to the bar leaving me
blinking after him.
I relaxed in my chair and listened to the Christmas carols and the quiet murmur of voices from other
tables. It occurred to me that I was already over the legal limit. That meant calling a taxi or sleeping in my car. Neither idea appealed—especially as I might be sleeping in my car full-time soon enough.
22
The Dickens with Love
Crisparkle was back in a very short while with two more of those sparkling chocolate-cinnamon
cocktails.
“What are you planning to spend all that money on?” I inquired, taking my glass and trying hard not
to spill a precious drop.
He raised his eyebrows.
“When the Dickens sells,” I clarified.
“So you admit that the book is genuine?”
“Off the record? Yes. I believe it’s genuine. I’m not putting my name to an appraisal without fully
examining the book, though.”
“The appraisal destined for this mysterious client of yours?”
Instead of responding to that, I tilted my head, studied him, asked, “Is Crisparkle your real name?”
“Yes.”
“You do know Crisparkle is the name of a Dickens character?”
“Mm. Canon Crisparkle. My great-great-great-grandfather.”
“Your…”
He smiled. It was breathtaking. Literally. He had dimples.
“Who
are
you?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Quite right. We should do this over again.” He reached across the table and offered his hand.
“Sedgwick Crisparkle.”
And I had thought the ocelot incident was odd. I shook hands automatically. “James Winter.”
He released my hand, I picked up my glass, and he inquired smoothly, “Would you like to come up to
my hotel room and look at my etchings, James?”
23
Chapter Four
On the glossy surface of the table, tiny gold flecks, like microscopic gold fish, floated in the pool of my spilled drink. I tore my fascinated gaze away from the puddle and stared at Professor Crisparkle’s
serious expression.
“Sorry?”
“Would you like to come back to my hotel room?”
I tried very hard to read his face. “To take another look at the book?” I asked cautiously. Very
cautiously, because I couldn’t believe that he was suggesting what he apparently—possibly—was.
“The book has been returned to the hotel safe.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you might like to come to my room anyway.”
“This is…sudden.”
“Yes, it is. But I had the impression when we met that you would not be adverse to the idea.” He
sounded so precise, almost…mathematical.
“I had the impression when we met that you disliked me. A lot.”
“I should know better than to form preconceived notions.” It was the serious, half-smile again. “Shall I tell you what two things convinced me I was wrong about you?”
I wondered if I’d gotten in a car accident on my way to the Hotel Del Monte and was, in fact, happily
hallucinating in a coma somewhere. “Sure.” I sipped what was left of my drink, waiting to hear this
revelation.
“Your hands were shaking when you saw
The Christmas Cake
.”
I had absolutely no answer to that.
“And you were brave when you thought you were going to be mauled by that cat.”
“Brave? I wasn’t brave at all. I was scared shitless.”
“Yes, but you made yourself stay calm. Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, it’s how you deal with being afraid. When you asked the ocelot what it wanted to drink, I realized I had probably been wrong about
you.”
“You are a very weird guy and this is a very weird night.”
“Also,” Crisparkle said, as though needing to keep the record absolutely straight, “you blush. I find
that very endearing in a man of your age.”
The Dickens with Love
I opened my mouth and then closed it.
“Would you like to come back to my hotel room?”
“Uh…yes,” I replied.
~ * ~
The night smelled of rain and lemon and wood smoke as we made our way back across the arched
bridge. The moon’s red reflection in the still water of the lake was absurdly magnified, the tall reeds appeared gilded, the face in the clock tower shone benignly.
As we walked through the dripping trees I was trying to remember the last time I’d got laid. After
Corey and I split up I’d pretty much slept with everything that would lie down with me—or merely hold
still—but I’d tired of that before long. Now that I thought about it, I really couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sex with something besides my right hand—maybe because none of it had been worth
remembering. Not that sex for its own sake wasn’t a good and useful thing, but it was a pleasant novelty to be preparing for sex with someone I was actually interested in.
Because whatever else Sedgwick Crisparkle was, he was certainly interesting.
We reached his room and he let us inside the warm darkness. Moonlight shone through the French
