Inspector Patrick Clock at the scene of London's latest crime...
Still crouching, Patrick turned to survey the crowd. Looks of horror. Looks of interest. Looks of twisted delight. None of these held his attention. He searched each face for one expression – relief.
Not present.
He did, however, encounter one that kept his gaze locked firmly in place.
Clinical.
Analytical.
Angelic.
It belonged to a woman so beautiful that his breath caught in his throat. Could it be her?
An upturned nose scrunched as she glanced from the boy to sheets of paper. The woman’s pencil moved furiously, like algae eaters scrambling along the outer walls. She was, in fact, the sole woman not fainting, recovering from a faint, or pretending to faint.
He didn’t bother to hide his stare. She didn’t notice him. She couldn’t. The woman’s eyes went to two places, the child and her papers. Her interest made no sense. She wore a black and blue traveling dress, lightly bustled and draped – one built for walking and yet prim and absolutely proper. A matching series of genuine feathers dotted hair pulled into a loose coil at her nape. A rich woman in a lower-class tunnel taking notes on a dead boy sent too many wrong signals.
He inched closer, studying features that grew more familiar by the second.
Umber skin, dimpled cheeks and lips pinched as she worked. "Is that you, Moira Gear?"
And then she turned...and ran.
Not present.
He did, however, encounter one that kept his gaze locked firmly in place.
Clinical.
Analytical.
Angelic.
It belonged to a woman so beautiful that his breath caught in his throat. Could it be her?
An upturned nose scrunched as she glanced from the boy to sheets of paper. The woman’s pencil moved furiously, like algae eaters scrambling along the outer walls. She was, in fact, the sole woman not fainting, recovering from a faint, or pretending to faint.
He didn’t bother to hide his stare. She didn’t notice him. She couldn’t. The woman’s eyes went to two places, the child and her papers. Her interest made no sense. She wore a black and blue traveling dress, lightly bustled and draped – one built for walking and yet prim and absolutely proper. A matching series of genuine feathers dotted hair pulled into a loose coil at her nape. A rich woman in a lower-class tunnel taking notes on a dead boy sent too many wrong signals.
He inched closer, studying features that grew more familiar by the second.
Umber skin, dimpled cheeks and lips pinched as she worked. "Is that you, Moira Gear?"
And then she turned...and ran.
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Print: *|*Amazon*|*Barnes and Noble*|
eBook: *|* Kindle *|* Kobo *|* Nook *|* iBooks *|*Google Play*|* All Romance eBooks