He pulled my sleeve back again and touched the scar tissue. A third-degree burn, it had left me with no sensation. A shame. I would’ve enjoyed feeling his gentle caress.
“Nobody burnsThe Grapes of Wrathon my watch,” I said, trying to sound bold and brassy. “Or the Duke of Chicago.”
He kissed the back of my hand and whispered, “My hero.”
That was, of course, when Koshka bit my ankle.
“Ow!” I shouted. Duke started. I looked down at Koshka at my feet. “You were supposed to bitehimwhen he got flirty, not me.”
He didn’t apologize, but that’s no surprise. InThe Last Unicorn,the legendary fantasy author Peter S. Beagle writes, “No cat anywhere ever gave anyone a straight answer.” Well, no cat anywhere ever gave anyone an apology either.
Duke only laughed softly and released my hand.
“Have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?” he asked.
Most noir detectives had drinking problems. It comes with the territory. Duke was a rare exception. He drank but not heavily and rarely on the job.
“It’s Prohibition,” I teased, as I sat in the chair facing his desk.
“Your point?” He dropped into his office chair and threw his feet on top of his desk, crossed at the ankles.
“The truth is, I can’t drink.” I petted Koshka, who was handling this shift of scene far better than I was. “Or eat. Or sleep. I could be stuck here if I did.”
“Oh no,” he said, feigning shock and horror. “Anything but that.”
“You’re flirting again.”
“You’re hardly one to talk after that speech you gave about being in love with me.”
“No, no, I didn’t say that. I said I was in love with yourbooks.That’s different.”
He nodded. “So you weren’t in love with me?”
“Well, I didn’t say that either.”
He laughed softly. “I knew it.”
“I had a teenage crush on you a long, long, long time ago.”
“Did you ever…” Duke wiggled his fingers again, as if performing a magic spell.
“Did I ever what?”
“Visit me before?” he asked. “Lurk in the shadows, blow kisses at my back?”
“Oh, no, never,” I said. “That’s completely against the rules. We can’t go into a book unless we’re on a mission.”
“But you were tempted, yes?”
“Every single day.”
He laughed his warm, delectable male laugh, a laugh that could make a nun break her habits.
“So tell me how this works, darling,” he said. “Your magic. Are you Book Witches born or did you sell your soul to someone? Do you cast spells? Own a cauldron? Can I see your wand or should I buy you dinner first?”
“You really want to know?” I asked.
He took his feet off the desk and faced me.
