“What was that?” I asked, wondering what had been so urgent he couldn’t wait until we finished dinner.
“I sent a text to Andy Cunningham.”
“And who is Andy Cunningham when he’s at home?” I asked jokingly.
“Andy is a detective inspector with Scotland Yard. He also moonlights as a consultant for crime writers. For a modest fee, he’s happy to help out with lingo, police procedure, legal ramifications of certain actions, and so on. Saves many an author from embarrassment.”
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
“But why did you text him now?” I asked, still lost.
“I asked him about Lisa and Alastair. And Paul Scanlon.”
“And he will do what? Look them up?” I asked.
“If he’s feeling helpful,” Kyle replied, lifting a piece of steak to his mouth.
“Is that even legal?” I demanded.
“It is if I have reason to suspect you’re in danger.”
“And do you honestly believe me to be in danger?” I asked, fingers of apprehension dancing up my spine. “We’re talking a missing notebook, Kyle, not a letter bomb.”
“I told Andy that. If he thinks there’s no cause for alarm, he’ll simply tell me to bugger off. He’s very direct, Andy is. Room for pudding?” Kyle asked, smiling at me in a way that left me in no doubt that he wanted pudding.
“No, but you go ahead.”
“Will you share a sweet with me?” His voice was low and velvety, and I felt warmth pool in the pit of my stomach, reminding me that it’d been ages since I’d felt anything resembling desire.
“If you insist.”
“I insist. What would you like?” he asked.
“You choose.”
“A woman who doesn’t mind surrendering control,” Kyle mused as he caressed me with his gaze.
“We are still talking about dessert, aren’t we?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
After sharing a rather decadent sticky toffee pudding with homemade cream and washing it down with coffee, we returned to the car. The clear sky of earlier was now overcast, the night silent and dark around us as we drove back to Lockwood Hall. Had I been driving alone, I would have been spooked, but being with Kyle made me feel safe. I never gave my trust easily, but I found that I was prepared to trust him, at least for the next few days. The charming old house was now full of shadows, and the people who’d seemed so welcoming now frightened me with their hidden agenda.
“Will you join us for a drink?” Paul called out from the sitting room when we came in.
“I’m afraid not,” Kyle said. “Early night.”
My cheeks flamed as he took my hand and pulled me toward the stairs, the gesture witnessed by both Paul and Anna. If they were in doubt, they now knew precisely why we wouldn’t be stopping to have that drink. I thought I saw Len out of the corner of my eye but didn’t bother to turn around. I didn’t care what he thought.
“Did you have to be so obvious?” I whispered once we were on the landing.
“Wasn’t that the plan?” Kyle asked, his lips twitching with amusement. “You wouldn’t make a very good sleuth, you know.”
“I don’t have years of experience planning murders,” I hissed as he rested his hand on the small of my back and guided me the rest of the way to his room.
Kyle’s room was very different from mine. Instead of pretty wallpaper, it was paneled in maple wood, the bed hangings a dusky blue embroidered in a whimsical pattern picked out in silver thread. The furniture was heavy and dark, the sort of pieces that would take a team of removal men to maneuver. The carpet was thick and muffled the sound of our footsteps as Kyle directed me toward the bed, since there was only one chair and it didn’t look very comfortable.
“Climb in,” he said as he grabbed his laptop. He joined me on the bed, and we leaned back against the pillows, looking for all the world like a couple of many years rather than two people who’d just met a few days before. Kyle opened a new window and typed the names of our hosts.
“What are you searching for?”
“Anything noteworthy,” he replied.
Several entries popped up. There was the website for the retreat. A write-up of Alastair’s gastro pub in Sheffield, and a short article about a court case from several years back. Kyle clicked on that.
“Well, this is interesting,” he said. “It seems Alastair Prentiss laid claim to an estate in Scotland when an elderly man with dementia revised his will, leaving everything he owned to Alastair. The man’s daughter challenged this claim and accused Alastair of fraud.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“She was able to reclaim her father’s estate.”
I peered over Kyle’s arm. “That was nearly twenty-five years ago. Alastair would have been in his twenties.”
“Yes, but it shows he was willing to defraud someone who was no longer in possession of his faculties,” Kyle replied. “I’m going to send a copy of this to Andy and see what he makes of it.”
“You really have the Prentisses pegged as the villains, don’t you?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I was ready to get aboard that train. Alastair might have had a legitimate claim on the estate.
“I think there’s something going on here,” Kyle said, his expression serious. “And I mean to find out what it is.”
“Is that Kyle Walsh or DI Kelly Shaw speaking?”
“Kyle Walsh,” he replied, setting the laptop aside and turning to face me. His gaze was warm, the spicy scent of his cologne seductive.
I leaned forward and kissed him, relieved when he responded with enthusiasm, his arm sliding around me to pull me closer. A part of me was terrified of where this would lead.
