A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1)

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Authors: Anthea Fraser
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indefinable character as charming and elusive as Hannah herself. There were watercolours on the walls, chairs in apple-green velvet, and the windows were open to the dark garden below. Though she hadn’t noticed his flowers, there were plenty of others, crammed into vases and containers round the room and all managing to look as though they’d been professionally arranged.
    Hannah came back, her hair, towel-dry, about her shoulders.
    ‘Are those flowers for me? How lovely — thank you.’
    They were the first he’d bought her and he was relieved that she treated them so naturally. He watched as she bent to take a vase from a low cupboard, and it wasn’t only the artist in him that appreciated the curve of her body. Who was he fooling? He knew damn well why he was here, and it had precious little to do with apologizing. Despite himself, he said baldly, ‘I use you. You know that, don’t you?’
    She turned from arranging the shaggy heads, momentarily surprised. ‘And I you. It works both ways.’
    ‘I wasn’t at all sure I’d be welcome.’
    ‘Hence the peace offering?’ She smiled in genuine amusement.
    ‘I am sorry, Hannah. About last weekend. It was thoughtless of me—’
    ‘No,’ she interrupted swiftly. ‘It was my fault for keeping the dinner a surprise. It never occurred to me you might have other plans, and that was stupid.’
    ‘I could have changed them.’ He was his own prosecuting counsel.
    ‘But why should you? It was your birthday.’ And she his defence. Dismissing the conversation, she ran her fingers through her thick hair to dry it. ‘I don’t see that drink.’
    ‘I hadn’t got round to pouring it.’
    ‘Do it now, then, and one for me, too.’
    She moved to the windows and closed them. ‘It’s getting cooler in the evenings, have you noticed? Or perhaps it’s just my wet hair. I’ll put the gas fire on to dry it, so take off your jacket if you like.’
    There were no overhead lights and the lamp in the corner shed only a soft, localized gleam. Webb poured out two glasses, went through to the fridge for ice. Even the kitchen blossomed under Hannah’s touch. There were more flowers on the windowsill, in pots this time. A selection of exotic postcards was pinned to a notice board and the air smelled of spices.
    When he returned she was kneeling by the gas fire, her hair reflecting the redness of the element, her neck fragile and exposed. He had an overpowering desire to bend and kiss it. Instead, he said more brusquely than he’d intended, ‘Your drink.’
    ‘Thanks. Put it on the table, will you?’
    He lowered himself into a button-backed chair beside her, his eyes still on her shining hair.
    ‘I presume you’ve had a bad week,’ she went on quietly. ‘I read about the other murder.’
    ‘It’s been tiring, I’ll say that.’
    ‘Any progress?’
    ‘Not that you’d notice.’
    ‘Poor David. I’ve been thinking about you.’
    ‘And what have you been doing? Didn’t school start this week?’
    ‘Yes, Thursday. Back in the old routine.’
    He smiled suddenly. ‘Looking at you now, I can think of no one less like a deputy headmistress!’
    She laughed in her throat and he felt his pulses quicken. ‘Hannah—’ He broke off, not knowing what he wanted to say. She turned her head under the curtain of hair and then, shaking it back, swivelled round to look at him. She was lovely, he thought, with her wide brow and clear grey eyes that met his so steadily. His gaze moved across her face, the high cheekbones, soft, generous mouth and, on either side, the curtain of thick tawny hair, with the gold highlights still lingering from the summer sun. Their eyes locked and she rose slowly to her feet.
    ‘I think, Chief Inspector, that you’d better put that glass down before you spill it.’
    On the way through to the bedroom, she asked suddenly, ‘Suppose they need to contact you?’ and saw that she’d embarrassed him. He met her eyes, smiled slightly, and looked

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