Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [33]
“Getting closer,” I whispered, even as I marveled over how little the original builder of this place had paid for a thousand square feet of marble tile, which was still in evidence in the foyer downstairs.
I got so wrapped up in the minutiae of life in the early 1900s that I barely noticed the passing of time. It wasn’t until I was squinting and holding an old letter up to my nose to make out the elegant, neat script-handwriting that I realized how dark it had become. Whatever outside light had lent itself to my efforts was now gone and I was left only with the bare, yellowed bulbs overhead.
Okay. That was enough for the day. I’d found some interesting information—though not what I’d been looking for—but at least I felt sure I was in the right place now. Plus, I’d stayed out of Simon’s sight all afternoon, so he had hopefully decided I would not be in his way and could therefore stick around. At least long enough to finish my job, and, hopefully to help him in some way.
And maybe have some fabulous sex, too.
With that pleasant thought in mind, I repacked the box, then tiptoed out of the maze toward the door. I held tightly onto the rail as I made my way down the stairs, realizing that the light from above made absolutely no headway down here. I hadn’t noticed it earlier when I’d arrived, but the fixture at the base of the steps was missing a bulb. I could just make out the empty socket the near darkness.
Glad to be getting out of here, I reached for the doorknob and twisted it. But it remained completely immobile.
“Oh, great,” I muttered, “the damn door sticks.”
I started to wriggle and jiggle it, putting my weight against the door as I did so. It didn’t give an inch.
“This can’t be happening.” I stopped what I was doing and thought about it. When I’d come up here a couple of hours ago, the door had opened smoothly enough, not even creaking on its old hinges. And the knob had twisted easily under my hand.
If the door is stuck…wouldn’t the knob still move? a voice in my head asked.
Yeah. I was pretty sure it would. Which meant only one thing.
This door wasn’t stuck. Somebody had locked it.
6
Simon
STAYING SHUT AWAY in his office throughout the afternoon, Simon forced himself to focus on his work, on the book he was contracted to write, which was already three months late.
Not on the woman in his basement. The woman whose mouth he’d sampled again earlier this afternoon.
The woman he was dying for.
“Hell,” he mumbled that evening, realizing he’d just typed the same sentence twice.
Knowing it was useless—that his brain was tapped out and whatever bit of creative imagination he had left was going to be busy picturing Lottie Santori standing in his kitchen naked—he gave up. And gave in, at least a little, to the mental images that had tried to crowd into his head all afternoon.
He couldn’t stop picturing the look on her face, the way her pink lip had grown red and swollen when he’d tasted her. The way she’d parted those lips, practically begging him to lick the inside of her beautiful mouth.
With one hard shake of his head, he forced the thoughts away again, knowing he could never face her tonight if he didn’t. It was going to be hard enough looking her in the eye, knowing he probably ought to apologize for what he’d done.
It would be worse trying to hide the fact that he wanted to do it again.
Glancing at his watch and realizing it was seven-thirty, he frowned. He’d completely lost track of time while reading over the notes he’d taken during his two weeks in Charleston and putting them into his work in progress. Fortunately, he hadn’t been wounded until his very last night, so he had a lot of information to use. More recently, he’d conducted some final interviews and gotten statistics from city officials by e-mail, which should provide him with everything he needed.
Because God knew he’d never go back. At least, not until the trial. And he was still hoping a plea deal would