At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(68)

“Right,” said Maclean.

She straightened up. Verraday thought he saw something, a microexpression, some flicker of disappointment cross her face. He suddenly felt afraid of losing her.

“But if you’re free on the weekend, there’s a new Thai restaurant on East Madison that’s supposed to be great. I want to hear about the rest of your week. Unless you’ll be too big of a celebrity by then to be hanging out with lowly academics.”

“Sure,” said Maclean, laughing slightly. “It’s a date.”

He leaned across, held her, and pressed his lips against hers one last time, lingering for a long moment before he withdrew. He hoped it was enough to signal genuine interest and not leave her wondering if he was just beating a polite retreat.

Then he opened the door slowly and stepped out. Verraday stood on the sidewalk, still watching her. He couldn’t read her expression. He felt wistful and was momentarily frozen, unsure how to extract himself. She was returning his gaze.

She lowered the passenger’s side window, smiled, then said, “You know how this works, right? I hope it hasn’t been that long. One of us has to look away.”

“Okay. You first,” said Verraday.

“No. You’re forgetting that I have those protective instincts I mentioned. I need to see you enter your domicile and lock the door safely behind you, sir. And really, you should get a security alarm. I wasn’t kidding about that.”

He laughed. “All right, Officer. I’ll go straight home and I won’t talk to any strangers. I’ll call you later in the week to sort out a time for dinner.”

Verraday grinned like a teenager, knew he was doing it, and for once didn’t care. He reached for the gate handle and noted that it was closed and latched, which pleased him. For all Bosko’s bluster and protests of innocence, Verraday had called it right. Confronting the meat-headed patrolman had worked. He’d put Bosko in his place and sent him packing. Maybe this would be the end of it all now.

When he arrived at the front steps, he reached into his jacket for his keys. He fumbled for just a moment then mercifully, felt them in the bottom of his pocket. He knew Maclean was still watching him and was relieved that for once he had remembered where he’d left his keys, enabling him to make something resembling a smooth and suave exit.

He put the key in the lock, opened it, then turned and stood in the doorway. He could see Maclean now only in shadows, silhouetted by the streetlights. He waved to her, and she returned the gesture. Only when he backed into the house and slowly began to close the door did he see her put the vehicle in gear and pull away from the curb.

He locked the door then kicked off his boots and hung his jacket up on the hall tree. He turned on the gas fireplace and poured a brandy for himself, plunking down happily on the sofa. He took a sip of the amber liquor and savored the warmth of it spreading through his body as he felt the welcome glow of the gas fireplace on his skin.

He was filled with a sense of well-being he hadn’t experienced since . . . well, he couldn’t think of when. He smiled inwardly, thinking of how good Maclean’s body had felt against his when they kissed. Her breath was gentle and warm, her skin pleasingly soft, though he could feel that her arms were lithe and athletic beneath the sleeves of her Burberry trench coat. As he raised his brandy to his lips, he caught the scent of her perfume on his sleeve, something exotically floral with an almost imperceptible musky note.

He debated calling her, finally gave in, and picked up his cell phone. He was about to speed dial her, but suddenly felt awkward at the prospect of exactly what he’d say. If he invited her to come back, it would force a response, and if that response was “no,” it would introduce an awkward note into what had been a heady, if brief, start to their romance. He decided to text her instead. A text would give them both a bit more leeway. There would be no awkward pauses while she was forced to say yes or no. If she didn’t want to come back, she could even pretend she’d had her phone turned off, and they’d both save face.

He flip-flopped a few times and finally settled on writing, “I should’ve invited you in. If you’re awake and not up to anything, come on over.” Simple yet functional.

He hit send before he could change his mind. An instant later, he castigated himself for sending such an inarticulate note. But the matter was now out of his hands. He began reading again, but had only gotten through three more pages before a wave of fatigue hit him. The adrenaline and exhaustion of the last week, he suspected, had finally caught up with him.

He felt a craving for sleep so powerful that he went upstairs without even turning off the gas fireplace. He’d nap for a few minutes, he told himself, and then if Maclean did come back, he wouldn’t be a narcoleptic dud.

*

Verraday awakened in the dark. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He thought he’d heard a thump. Or had he? He couldn’t tell if it was a real sound, or just a muscle spasm from him relaxing, something from the subbasement of his unconscious mind. The thud, if it was real at all, was over by the time he’d awakened, and for a moment, with the house so quiet, he wondered if it had just been something he’d dreamed. He lay there on the bed for a moment. It could have been raccoons knocking over the garbage can outside. Or a gate, his or someone else’s, banging in the wind. But he saw that the shadows of the tree branches on his bedroom wall were motionless. The air outside was still. And the sound, it seemed to him, had been closer. He had an urge to fall back asleep, but then realized how bad it would look if Maclean had returned and knocked on his door, and he hadn’t answered.