A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn by Patrice Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page A

margaritas, though.”
    â€œYou like margaritas?”
    â€œSure, when I’m in the mood.”
    He grinned. “What about tequila shooters?”
    It was my turn to make a face. “No, thanks. I prefer grown-up limeade.”
    He laughed, which lit up his face, which gave me a shiver. His eyes are quite beautiful when he’s not in cop mode.
    â€œOK, how about Del Charro?” he said.
    â€œFine. Shall we walk?”
    â€œIt’s kind of warm. We could go on my bike.”
    I glanced down at my lace dress. “I’d have to change.”
    To be honest, I wasn’t anxious for a motorcycle ride. Not my favorite activity. I was about to suggest that I drive us instead, but was stopped by the long, appraising look Tony gave me.
    â€œI’m in no hurry.” He smiled lazily, and suddenly the thought of sharing the motorcycle seat with him had more appeal.
    â€œOK.”
    I looked down the hallway, darkened now except for the evening sun coming in the lights around the front door. I couldn’t really ask him to wait in the tearoom. It just seemed awkward to leave him downstairs.
    â€œUm, come on up.”
    I led the way up to my suite, which occupies the southern half of the upper floor. The last time Tony had been in my private rooms he’d brought two cops and a search warrant, and had tossed the place pretty thoroughly. Remembering it reawakened my annoyance, and I had to remind myself that he’d only been doing his job.
    I gestured to the two chairs and low table that make up what I generously call my living room. “Have a seat. Would you like a glass of water?”
    â€œSure, thanks.”
    Tony looked around as if he hadn’t seen the place before. I suppose he hadn’t, from an aesthetic point of view. Like the offices across the hall, it had a sloping ceiling and a chimney dividing the space east and west. I'd done my best to make the odd space cozy. The deeper, richer colors of the Renaissance decor in my suite were a departure from the Victorian frou-frou of the tearoom.
    Tony nodded toward the brocade draperies caught back with tasseled cords that divided the sitting area from my bedroom. “This is different.”
    I stepped over to the kitchenette and fixed him a glass of ice water. “Yes, well—all Victorian all the time would get a little boring.”
    â€œAnd here I thought you couldn’t get enough lace.”
    â€œLace has its place.” I handed him the glass. “I’ll just be a minute.”
    I went into my bedroom and loosed the drapes. From my dresser I took out a pair of jeans and a casual top, and from my wardrobe a pair of sandals.
    I changed, trying not to think about Tony being just a few feet away beyond the drapes, trying not to imagine him watching me undress. I failed at that, I confess.
    I hung up my dress and tossed stockings and slip in the wicker basket I use for a laundry hamper. A glance in the mirror told me my hair needed attention, so I went back out, smiling at Tony as I passed him on the way to the bathroom. He was looking through one of my food magazines, but glanced up to smile back at me.
    I took down my hair from its Gibson-girl do and brushed it out, then pulled it back into a ponytail. A touch-up to my makeup, and I was ready to face the motorcycle.
    â€œOK,” I said, returning to the living room. I picked up my purse and slung it over one shoulder.
    Tony stood up and gave me another appraising glance, then grinned. “Nice. Didn’t quite escape the lace, though.” He flicked a finger across my shoulder, brushing the narrow band of lace that trimmed the neckline of my top.
    I tilted my head, looking up at him. “Sorry about that.”
    â€œDon’t be.”
    We went downstairs and I locked up the tearoom behind us. Hot sunshine hit us as we stepped off the portal , and the heady scent of roses filled the garden. I strolled with Tony down the path to the street,