Read Online Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne R. Allen
Tags: humerous mystery
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glowered.
“Oh, Duchess, you didn’t…Peter, you’re an ass.”
He slammed the door and was gone.
Chapter 16—Rubber Gregory
Davey’s intrusion didn’t seem to have the alarming effect on Peter that it did on me. He laughed. I fought grogginess and tried to tell myself I’d mis-heard.
But a familiar panic seized my gut. I seemed to have come halfway around the world to work with somebody in as dire financial straits as me. Somebody who seemed to be as much of a slimeball with women as my ex-husband
“Vera must have been slow making the deposits again.” The futon bounced as Peter jumped off. “It’s disappointing we won’t have Henry’s book for the delivery date, but the pervs will survive without their new dose of smut for a few days. I’ll sort out things with Vera in the morning.”
I opened one eye as he flipped the light switch. In the bright fluorescent glow, his pale body looked skinny and child-like, except for a few blond chest hairs. His sweet vulnerability rekindled my warmth.
“Do you have to go? Is it morning?” I held my arms out to him.
But he barely gave me a glance as he grabbed his jeans and sweater from the back of his office chair and scrambled into them.
“No lass, it’s still Sunday.” He put on his watch—a showy blue and gold Rolex Yachtmaster II. “But we’ve slept half the evening away. It’s high time we went down the pub.” He gave my shoulder another pat. “Don’t worry, lass. Davey will be fine once I’ve poured a few pints in him. Besides, it’s quiz night. With you on our team, we’ll beat them all to hell on the bloody American geography questions.”
“It’s nighttime? You’re going out?” I didn’t bother to cover a yawn. I hadn’t the slightest desire to go “down the pub.” All I wanted was sleep—for days, weeks—however long it took for all the crazy panic to go away for good.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” Peter gave me a quick kiss. “Don’t mind Davey. Bloody Northumbrian. Those Geordie bastards are in a temper from the day they’re born. Any normal bloke would be happy to have an excuse not to work on a Sunday night. Besides—the lads need him for quiz night. The locals keep beating us. Bloody embarrassing. Please come?” He handed me the clothes I’d left draped on the desk.
I pushed sleep from my brain as Peter sat next to me on the futon and put on his shoes—Bruno Maglis, from the look of them. Six hundred dollar shoes and a ten thousand dollar watch. Even in the heyday of his TV talk show, Jonathan wouldn’t have made such purchases lightly. Peter must be used to money. Every new business had cash flow problems—and dark little Davey did always seem in a foul mood. I suppressed the fears again. Peter was a wealthy businessman who believed in my book. Besides, he was adorable—and a gentle, cuddly lover.
As we walked through the evening drizzle to the Merry Miller, I told Peter about my thoughts of taking a room there after all. “Earplugs might make the situation bearable.”
Peter looked wounded. “I thought that now…you might want to bunk with me.”
I’d often written in my column about how too much togetherness, too soon, destroys a relationship. But Peter’s kicked-puppy look warned me that this was not the time to quote the Manners Doctor.
Instead I gave him a kiss.
“I’m flattered by your offer, but a lady needs her privacy.”
He kissed me back, and kept his arm around me as we walked.
“We’ll find you some decent digs soon,” he said as we reached the Merry Miller. “Better than here. Don’t bother Brenda right now.”
His tone had the sound of a command, so I dropped the subject.
The place was crowded and loud, but the atmosphere seemed less merry than the night before. The “lads”—all but the Professor—were already at their booth, scowling into their beers. The big, scarred man with the shaved head, who seemed to have no name but “Ratko,” greeted Peter with an
“Oh, Duchess, you didn’t…Peter, you’re an ass.”
He slammed the door and was gone.
Chapter 16—Rubber Gregory
Davey’s intrusion didn’t seem to have the alarming effect on Peter that it did on me. He laughed. I fought grogginess and tried to tell myself I’d mis-heard.
But a familiar panic seized my gut. I seemed to have come halfway around the world to work with somebody in as dire financial straits as me. Somebody who seemed to be as much of a slimeball with women as my ex-husband
“Vera must have been slow making the deposits again.” The futon bounced as Peter jumped off. “It’s disappointing we won’t have Henry’s book for the delivery date, but the pervs will survive without their new dose of smut for a few days. I’ll sort out things with Vera in the morning.”
I opened one eye as he flipped the light switch. In the bright fluorescent glow, his pale body looked skinny and child-like, except for a few blond chest hairs. His sweet vulnerability rekindled my warmth.
“Do you have to go? Is it morning?” I held my arms out to him.
But he barely gave me a glance as he grabbed his jeans and sweater from the back of his office chair and scrambled into them.
“No lass, it’s still Sunday.” He put on his watch—a showy blue and gold Rolex Yachtmaster II. “But we’ve slept half the evening away. It’s high time we went down the pub.” He gave my shoulder another pat. “Don’t worry, lass. Davey will be fine once I’ve poured a few pints in him. Besides, it’s quiz night. With you on our team, we’ll beat them all to hell on the bloody American geography questions.”
“It’s nighttime? You’re going out?” I didn’t bother to cover a yawn. I hadn’t the slightest desire to go “down the pub.” All I wanted was sleep—for days, weeks—however long it took for all the crazy panic to go away for good.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” Peter gave me a quick kiss. “Don’t mind Davey. Bloody Northumbrian. Those Geordie bastards are in a temper from the day they’re born. Any normal bloke would be happy to have an excuse not to work on a Sunday night. Besides—the lads need him for quiz night. The locals keep beating us. Bloody embarrassing. Please come?” He handed me the clothes I’d left draped on the desk.
I pushed sleep from my brain as Peter sat next to me on the futon and put on his shoes—Bruno Maglis, from the look of them. Six hundred dollar shoes and a ten thousand dollar watch. Even in the heyday of his TV talk show, Jonathan wouldn’t have made such purchases lightly. Peter must be used to money. Every new business had cash flow problems—and dark little Davey did always seem in a foul mood. I suppressed the fears again. Peter was a wealthy businessman who believed in my book. Besides, he was adorable—and a gentle, cuddly lover.
As we walked through the evening drizzle to the Merry Miller, I told Peter about my thoughts of taking a room there after all. “Earplugs might make the situation bearable.”
Peter looked wounded. “I thought that now…you might want to bunk with me.”
I’d often written in my column about how too much togetherness, too soon, destroys a relationship. But Peter’s kicked-puppy look warned me that this was not the time to quote the Manners Doctor.
Instead I gave him a kiss.
“I’m flattered by your offer, but a lady needs her privacy.”
He kissed me back, and kept his arm around me as we walked.
“We’ll find you some decent digs soon,” he said as we reached the Merry Miller. “Better than here. Don’t bother Brenda right now.”
His tone had the sound of a command, so I dropped the subject.
The place was crowded and loud, but the atmosphere seemed less merry than the night before. The “lads”—all but the Professor—were already at their booth, scowling into their beers. The big, scarred man with the shaved head, who seemed to have no name but “Ratko,” greeted Peter with an
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