Read Online Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page B

Much like her mouth . . .
    He removed his eyes from hers, lest he disgrace himself in a police station. The inspector, to his mild amazement, was enthusiastically extolling Spence’s role in the pub brawl.
    “Most nice! Most nice!” exclaimed Inspector Mizzi, stroking his moustache and beaming up at Spence. “I say, such bosom from an Englishman!”
    Spence blinked. “Ah . . . bottom, I believe you mean. Courage,” he added when the inspector looked puzzled.
    Clementine leaned into his view, giving him a narrow-eyed look. Braggart, she mouthed.
    He bit back a smile. “That is, I had no choice but to fight,” he told the inspector. “I promise you, I was not the first to throw a punch.”
    The inspector’s face relaxed into a smile again. “But of course not,” he said. “Bottom, courage! Yes, very good. My English, you will forgive. Not so nice. But you! Very nice. Most of your countrymen, they come, they go—one day, one night. Stay at hotels, never see our places, the local places.” The man’s broad, easy grin invited Spence to relax. But the smile paired rather oddly with the shrewd gleam in the inspector’s eyes. “I like you, sir. I like your . . . style, do they say? Very nice style. Is that the word? I admire it.”
    “And I, your English.” For Spence had the sudden intuition that the man’s language skills were not nearly as rudimentary as he claimed. “I confess, I can’t speak a word of Italian.” Not the local variant, at any rate, which was heavily flavored with Maltese.
    Clementine loosed a pointed huff. Impatient creature. Perhaps she was displeased by the interruption of their previous activity. Spence had rather enjoyed it, himself. Who would have guessed that she would kiss like that? He’d dallied with any number of practiced seductresses, but he could not recall a single one who had caused him to lose his head in an alley . . .
    The thought lingered, suddenly darkening his mood.
    Perhaps she was a practiced seductress.
    Perhaps he was following in the very same footsteps as his cousin.
    “But what brought you to that place?” asked Mizzi.
    The idle question snapped Spence’s mind back to the present. “Thirst,” he said.
    Mizzi snapped toward the doorway. An underling’s head popped around the doorframe. “Tea for you,” he said, and then rattled off a string of Maltese. When he turned back, his smile was benign. “But come,” he said. “You Englishmen—very nice tastes. Our native wine, not good for you. What brought you to the, eh, the caffe ?”
    Spence, pausing, considered Mizzi with new respect. This was a very cordial interrogation, but an interrogation all the same.
    Accordingly, he changed his answer. “Curiosity,” he said. “Curiosity and thirst.”
    “Oh!” Mizzi nodded. “I will recommend a very fine ristorante by the quay. Top-notch wine, what ho!”
    Spence carefully maintained his smile. These toplofty Anglicisms took on a new attitude when rendered in such a heavy accent.
    “But how did you find that place?” Mizzi pressed. “No one at the hotel would have . . . what is the word? Recommended it, I think?”
    “Yes, well, we were looking for refreshment—”
    “And a man.” Clementine popped to her feet, hands on hips. “We were looking for a blond gentleman, very tall, very English.”
    Mizzi beamed at her. Spence cursed inwardly. “No need to trouble the inspector with that business,” he said sharply. Had he not explained to her the importance of discretion? The last thing he needed was for some Maltese policeman to be broadcasting Charles’s description—
    “Ah! But I know this man!” cried the inspector, his manner warmly delighted. “Very, very tall?”
    Tensing, Spence said, “No taller than I.”
    Clementine was squinting at him. “Taller,” she said.
    He shot her a look. “He is not taller.”
    “Yes, taller!” agreed the inspector cheerfully. “He was—how do you say?—in a pinch. No, ah . . .