Nevertheless, Peter knew he’d be wise to consider how he chose to answer. He decided to give her the truth. “Jackson dragged me from my bed at two a.m. I decided not to disturb you since doing so would have woken the rest of your household. Your parents included.”
The fact that questions would have been asked was a point so obvious he chose not to mention it.
She pursed her lips, appeared to consider his reasoning. He used the brief reprieve to take a sip of his coffee, managing to swallow the warm drink before she asked, “Had this not been an issue, would you have let me come with you?”
Careful.
Her phrasing could easily land him in trouble.
Another sip of coffee kept her waiting for his response. He set the cup aside and took a seat in one of the chairs intended for guests. “I don’t believe any person is in a position to let you do anything. Had you desired to come, you’d have done so, whether or not I approved.”
“Then let me rephrase.” She dipped her chin and peered over the top of her spectacles at him. “Would you have invited me to join you?”
For a second he considered lying, only to hear himself say, “No.”
Her hazel eyes held his with unrelenting determination. Peter’s muscles strained. His heart beat with increased force. Something simmered within her gaze.
And then she asked, “Why not?”
It was a damning question, brutal in its simplicity, a dangerous move in their battle of wits. Again, he considered his options and chose the truthful path. “Because once this sort of thing is seen, it cannot be unseen. Because your father agreed to my stipulation when you and I started working together — that you would not be exposed to such horrors. Because I want to protect you from bearing witness to monstrous acts of violence as much as I can.”
“I do not require protecting,” she answered, her tone stubborn.
He snorted his disagreement and earned a quelling look of disapproval. “Everyone needs protecting from this sort of thing. Were I able to protect myself from it, I would. Unfortunately, I’m forced to absorb every detail in order to do my job.” He leaned forward, one elbow braced on the edge of the desk. “Don’t think for one second that’s easy to do, simply because I’ve seen death before. Because I can assure you, Gabriella, there’s death and then there’s the stuff of nightmares.”
A couple of creases appeared on the bridge of her nose. “You probably think me unreasonable. I just don’t want to be treated as though I’m too weak to stand shoulder to shoulder with you. Especially not after what happened last time.”
He could only assume that she was referring to the panic she had succumbed to when they’d descended into the subterranean levels beneath St. George’s Hospital. However, it was the doubt with which she spoke — doubt in him — that made him feel like she’d reached inside his chest to crush his heart.
“Never in a million years would I think you weak.” His words were but a breath of air drifting between them. “My regard for you as a person, as a woman, is far too great.”
She swallowed and he watched her throat work with the movement. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk, digging in hard to keep himself steady. To not round the desk and pull her into his arms — to not press his mouth against hers — to not make her whimper with need as he pushed up against her.
His breath was hoarse in his throat. More so when his treacherous gaze dipped lower, to the soft swell of her breasts. Croft’s words from earlier returned in that moment, increasing his desire for her tenfold.
With a muttered curse, he forced his gaze back to her face and found her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted as though she knew precisely where his mind had gone.
Aware of the work he had to get on with, he determined to clear his head of all impassioned thoughts for the moment. No simple feat, but a necessary one if he were to get the results Hastings expected.
“There’s more than the murder investigation for us to deal with,” he told her. “Mr. Croft’s wife has also been taken, supposedly by the same man who killed Callahan.”
All hints of potential interest in seeking pleasure drained from her face. A firm, business-like manner took over. “The man left in the corner of The Mad Bull tavern?”
“Precisely.” Peter relayed the details while she listened closely. He then moved on to the murder committed at Moorland House. “Here’s what I have.” He retrieved his notebook along with Lewis’s sketches from his jacket pocket. “If you’d like to transcribe the notes and create a file, it should provide you with all the details.”
She pulled the notebook toward her. “I can probably use the witness testimonies to create a time-line of events, if you think that would help?”
“I’m sure it would in terms of figuring out where everyone was at certain times. Remember, when it comes to killing a person, a motive is far from enough.”
“Opportunity is also required.”
“Precisely.”
She nodded and prepared to rise, but then her gaze went to the papers she had been reading when Peter arrived. She worried her lips between her teeth as though waring with a decision, and finally told him, “I prepared this for you.”
He craned his neck but couldn’t discern the contents from this distance. “What is it?”
“An, um…agreement. Between you and I.” A slight cough accompanied the flurry of movements she produced as she picked up his notebook along with Lewis’s sketches, and stood.
