Up in Smoke - Katie MacAlister [117]
“I hate being right,” I said under my breath. Denise stood at the table, the café nearly empty now as more and more people headed to the park. She made shooing gestures toward me.
I edged my way past a tiny clothing shop and pretended interest in racks of dusty books that sat outside an even dustier bookseller. This must be the spider-filled shop Denise had mentioned. I glanced toward her. She had her back to me as one of the men on the tour stopped to talk, gesturing in the direction of the park. Excellent! She was distracted! Now was my chance.
I ducked into the spider-filled bookshop, scurrying to the back, grabbing a couple of books to pretend interest. “She’s not likely to come looking in here for me if the spiders are as bad as she said. I’ll just hide out for a little bit. There’s no shame in hiding. She’ll figure I skipped out, and go look elsewhere for me, right? Right.”
My relief lasted about two minutes, after which shame got the better of me. Being a coward wasn’t my style. A careful and covert survey of the square from inside the bookshop confirmed my thoughts. Denise was disappearing down a street opposite, clearly on the hunt for me. “Yay for insight into human nature.”
I paid for the books and strolled out of the bookshop, adopting a casual, not in the least bit stalkerlike air as I meandered toward the two men. “Maybe I could bribe them. Maybe I could offer them a few bucks if one of them would walk back to the hotel with me . . . ugh. Is this what it’s coming to? Bribing men to pretend an interest in you? For shame, Pia. For sha—oof!”
A woman whumped into me with enough force that it sent us both reeling, my books and her large bag falling to the ground.
“I am so sorry; I am very late for an appointment and wasn’t watching where I was going,” the woman said in a delightful French accent. “Did I step on you? No? Excellent. I am very distressed, you see. I’ve lost the address where I’m supposed to go, and none of the bookshops seem to be the right one. Ah, there is another one. I will try there.”
“Beware of spiders,” I warned as she tucked the books away in her bag. The smile she flashed me faded.
“Spiders?”
“Yeah, evidently some big hairy ones.”
She shuddered. “I detest spiders! Perhaps that shop is not the one . . .” She eyed it with obvious distaste.
“If you’re looking for a current book, they probably aren’t going to have it. There seemed to be mostly antique books.”
“Antique,” she said thoughtfully. “That does not sound correct. The Zenith was most specific it was an English book with the man and woman on the cover dancing . . . oh, la-la! The time!” She had glanced at her watch, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. “I will try another one; that does not look like a shop to have the dancing books, does it?”
“Naw, the only thing I found there was an old Agatha Christie and some Regency romance,” I said, gesturing toward my books.
“Bien. It is good I run into you, I think!”
“No problem,” I called after her as she started off. “Always happy to save a fellow tourist from death by dusty spiders.”
I turned back to face my horrible task. The two men were still standing in close conversation.
“Boy, I give you guys a chance to go away and cut me a little slack, and you refuse. Fine. Be that way. I might as well get this over with, not that Denise is here to witness it.”
I clutched my books and took a deep breath, then, without any further dillydallying, marched myself toward the two men, determined to . . . I didn’t know exactly what I was determined to do. Maybe smile at them as I passed, and hope one of them smiled back? If I did that, at least I could face Denise with a clear conscience over the breakfast table.
“Well, hell,” I said out loud, stopping abruptly as the two men, evidently having finished their conversation, split up, heading in two different directions, neither of which encouraged them to so much as glance in my direction.
Denise’s crow of laughter rolled over the square. She had arrived at the perfect moment to see the two men walk away