Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [47]
Caesar trailed me downstairs, whuffling appreciatively and licking my heels. By the time the coffee was ready, he had finished his breakfast—two gulps and a single comprehensive lick. I shoved him out the back door, fixed a tray, and carried it upstairs.
John was sitting up in bed, hands behind his head. He greeted me with a sweet smile. “Excellent service. I must come here more often.”
“And no hotel bill,” I said, putting the tray on the table. “Not that you ever pay them anyway.”
“Didn’t I ever reimburse you for that time in Paris?”
“No, you did not.”
“A slight oversight.” He stretched sideways, reaching for a cup.
The movement sent muscles sliding smoothly under his tanned skin; I wondered whether the tan had been acquired in a health spa or under a tropical sun. I didn’t bother asking.
John would have considered Freddy’s protuberant pectorals not only vulgar in the extreme, but also inefficient. His own body was above all else efficient-looking, as if he had deliberately designed it to do what he expected of it with the minimum of effort. It had a certain aesthetic appeal, however, at least to someone who prefers the lean grace of early classical Greek sculptures such as the Discobolus to the muscle-bound athletes of the later Hellenistic period. I had never mentioned my aesthetic tastes to John, since he was vain enough already.
Catching my eye, he pulled the blanket up to his chin. I laughed. “Surely modesty, at this stage in our relationship…”
“Cold, not modesty. Are you going to stand there like a statue of virtue all morning? ‘’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me?’”
I sat down on the edge of the bed. That was a mistake. Or, to look at it another way, that was exactly the right move.
Caesar was howling plaintively in the garden and the patches of sunlight had moved farther when I stirred. “I’ve got to let that damned dog in. The neighbors will complain.”
“Never mind the neighbors. Or the dog.” “He remembered you.”
“Of course. I’m unforgettable.”
“In some ways,” I agreed. “We have to talk about the gold, John. Are you in?”
“Not at the moment, but if you’ll give me a little time—”
“I despise crude sexual double-entendres,” I said crossly. “You used to quote Shakespeare. Last night all I got was Humphrey Bogart.”
“There were occasional bits of Shakespeare. Even a smidgen of John Donne.”
“Oh, really? ‘License my roving hands, and let them go’?”
“I’ve always considered that one of Donne’s less-inspired passages. No, I believe, among other things, I remarked that ‘Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.’”
“That’s nice. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“I expect your attention was on something else,” John said, demonstrating.
“I thought you considered that one of Donne’s less-inspired—”
“I was referring to the poetic spark—the divine afflatus. Insofar as practical advice is concerned…”
“John, if you don’t stop that—”
“I thought you enjoyed it. Oh, very well. Lie still. I can’t concentrate on crime when you squirm around like that.”
“Is this better?” I curled up against him, my head on his shoulder.
“Not a great deal,” John murmured. “But I will endeavor to rise above lesser distractions. What were we talking about?”
“Crime. If that’s what it is.”
“Taking pot shots at you is a crime in my book.”
“Ah, so that’s what convinced you I wasn’t inventing wild stories in order to lure you back to my arms.” John made a small sound, a mixture of protest and laughter, and I insisted, “You did think that.”
“No, honestly.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I had enough confidence in your veracity to follow you to Garmisch. Damned lucky for you I did.”
“Yes, I deeply appreciate it, but I can’t help wondering why, if you had all that confidence in my veracity, you didn’t say so in the first place.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about crime.”
“I am. I do. I just don’t understand—”
John gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “My dear girl, your initial scenario was pure fantasy. Attempted murder is a solid fact. People don’t try to kill you unless you have done something