The Maze
Page 35
"Sherlock? You there? Come on, I see the lights. Open the damned door!"
She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.
He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She'd seen male models in magazines dressed like that-with the knotted sweater-and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn't on him. He was frowning at her.
He stepped inside, still frowning. "That's quite a display of gadgets you've got on that door. A strong guy, though, could just kick it in."
She hadn't thought of that. She lowered the gun to her side, still saying nothing. She would have to reinforce the door. No, she was being absurd.
He closed the door behind him. "I wanted to see if you were furnished yet," he said, and walked into the living room. He looked around at the very expensive furnishings, then whistled. "The FBI must pay you too much. When did you get all this stuff, Sherlock?"
He was acting as though nothing was wrong. He was acting as though she was normal. She was normal. She gently laid her Lady Colt on the lamp table beside the sofa. "I'm not much of a shopper, and Sally Quinlan had to cancel out on me. I just called an interior designer in Georgetown and told him what I wanted and needed in place before my boss found out. He took care of it. Really fast."
He turned slowly to look at her. "As I said, we must pay you too much."
"No, I have a trust fund. Normally I don't ever dip into it. I don't need to, but I wanted this place furnished and I didn't want to take the time to do the shopping myself. I knew you'd keep after me until I at least got a sofa."
"The trust is from your grandmother, right? If I remember correctly, she died four years ago and left you a bundle."
"Yes." She wasn't at all surprised. "Please tell me you have better things to do with your time than memorize my personal history."
"Yeah, I'll tell you about my better things if you tell me why you've been crying."
Her hands went to her face. She'd forgotten. She stared at him, straight in the eye, and said, "I have an allergy."
"Yeah, right. Just look at all the pollen floating around in the air in here. Come on, who upset you?"
"It's nothing, sir, nothing at all. Now, would you like a cup of coffee? Some tea?"
"Tea would be great."
"Equal in it?"
"Nah, only women use Equal. Make mine plain."
"No chemicals for you?"
He just grinned at her as he followed her to the kitchen. A whole row of shiny new appliances, from a blender to a Cuis-inart, were lined up on the pale yellow tiles. "No," he said, more to himself than to her, "not all of them are unused. I see you've pushed buttons on the microwave, but nothing else."
"That's right," she said coolly, as she put the teapot spout beneath the water spigot. "However, I've always believed that woman can indeed live by microwave alone," she added, trying to smile at him, which really wasn't all that difficult. She turned on the electric burner. "As for the toaster, that needs bread and I haven't bought any yet."
She said over her shoulder as she set the kettle on the stove, "I'm not packed yet, sir, but I will be ready in time. I will meet you at the airport tomorrow morning."
"I know," he said, staring at the bread maker that looked like a lonely white block at the end of the counter. "You know how to use that thing?"
"No, but a recipe book came with it. The designer said that every modern kitchen needs one."
"Why were you crying, Sherlock?"
She just shook her head, went to the cabinet, and got down two teacups and saucers.
"You got any cheap mugs? I don't want to get my pinky fingers near those. They look like they cost more than I make in a week."
"I guess they do. The guy went overboard on some of the things."
"I thought women liked to pick out their own dishes."
"Actually, I thought everyone did, guys included. But I just didn't want to take the time. There's too much happening that's so much more important. I told you."
"Come to think of it, I did pick out my own dishes. They're microwavable."
So are mine. That was the only criterion on my list, that and not too much fancy stuff."
"Why were you crying?"
"I would appreciate it if you would leave that alone, sir."
She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.
He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She'd seen male models in magazines dressed like that-with the knotted sweater-and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn't on him. He was frowning at her.
He stepped inside, still frowning. "That's quite a display of gadgets you've got on that door. A strong guy, though, could just kick it in."
She hadn't thought of that. She lowered the gun to her side, still saying nothing. She would have to reinforce the door. No, she was being absurd.
He closed the door behind him. "I wanted to see if you were furnished yet," he said, and walked into the living room. He looked around at the very expensive furnishings, then whistled. "The FBI must pay you too much. When did you get all this stuff, Sherlock?"
He was acting as though nothing was wrong. He was acting as though she was normal. She was normal. She gently laid her Lady Colt on the lamp table beside the sofa. "I'm not much of a shopper, and Sally Quinlan had to cancel out on me. I just called an interior designer in Georgetown and told him what I wanted and needed in place before my boss found out. He took care of it. Really fast."
He turned slowly to look at her. "As I said, we must pay you too much."
"No, I have a trust fund. Normally I don't ever dip into it. I don't need to, but I wanted this place furnished and I didn't want to take the time to do the shopping myself. I knew you'd keep after me until I at least got a sofa."
"The trust is from your grandmother, right? If I remember correctly, she died four years ago and left you a bundle."
"Yes." She wasn't at all surprised. "Please tell me you have better things to do with your time than memorize my personal history."
"Yeah, I'll tell you about my better things if you tell me why you've been crying."
Her hands went to her face. She'd forgotten. She stared at him, straight in the eye, and said, "I have an allergy."
"Yeah, right. Just look at all the pollen floating around in the air in here. Come on, who upset you?"
"It's nothing, sir, nothing at all. Now, would you like a cup of coffee? Some tea?"
"Tea would be great."
"Equal in it?"
"Nah, only women use Equal. Make mine plain."
"No chemicals for you?"
He just grinned at her as he followed her to the kitchen. A whole row of shiny new appliances, from a blender to a Cuis-inart, were lined up on the pale yellow tiles. "No," he said, more to himself than to her, "not all of them are unused. I see you've pushed buttons on the microwave, but nothing else."
"That's right," she said coolly, as she put the teapot spout beneath the water spigot. "However, I've always believed that woman can indeed live by microwave alone," she added, trying to smile at him, which really wasn't all that difficult. She turned on the electric burner. "As for the toaster, that needs bread and I haven't bought any yet."
She said over her shoulder as she set the kettle on the stove, "I'm not packed yet, sir, but I will be ready in time. I will meet you at the airport tomorrow morning."
"I know," he said, staring at the bread maker that looked like a lonely white block at the end of the counter. "You know how to use that thing?"
"No, but a recipe book came with it. The designer said that every modern kitchen needs one."
"Why were you crying, Sherlock?"
She just shook her head, went to the cabinet, and got down two teacups and saucers.
"You got any cheap mugs? I don't want to get my pinky fingers near those. They look like they cost more than I make in a week."
"I guess they do. The guy went overboard on some of the things."
"I thought women liked to pick out their own dishes."
"Actually, I thought everyone did, guys included. But I just didn't want to take the time. There's too much happening that's so much more important. I told you."
"Come to think of it, I did pick out my own dishes. They're microwavable."
So are mine. That was the only criterion on my list, that and not too much fancy stuff."
"Why were you crying?"
"I would appreciate it if you would leave that alone, sir."
