Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen Read Free Book Online Page A

factory area. I had that scream-movie feeling again. The place was creepy. So was Peter’s anger. I thought of that night I’d met him. Of Lance’s mangled body. I wish Plant had been able to find out more about the real cause of Lance’s death.
    “Look.” Peter moved to a long, wooden table covered with books and picked one up. The title Home is the Hunter glowed in big, red lettering, and above it, even larger, was the name Gordon Trask. “A print run of five thousand—all rubbish now.” He gave an angry snort. “Trask’s contract lapsed because of delays caused by the move, so he started making absurd demands…he wanted to reserve the e-rights. E-books are the future, lass. We have perhaps five more years to sell paper books and then—they’ll be as obsolete as horse-drawn carts.” He tossed it back and put on a smile. “Sorry. Mustn’t natter on. Where are your bags? Still in the Mini?”
    As we trudged across the wet parking lot to fetch my bags, I started to wonder why Mr. Trask had left. Had he found out something terrible about Sherwood? About Peter? I caught a glimpse of the River Trent through the buildings—a dark, wide blackness between concrete banks. I had the awful thought that it would be easy for a person to disappear into it. I shivered as I watched Peter lift my suitcases from the car and start back toward the building.
    I followed him back inside—past the big machines and down a corridor that led to another wing of the building. He unlocked a wooden door and flipped a light switch to reveal a large, tidy office filled with desks and computers. About a dozen rather good paintings hung from the whitewashed walls, and glossy green plants looked to be thriving by a bank of net-curtained windows.
    A normal business office. Hardly the lair of criminals and murderers. Maybe jet lag was making me a little crazy.
    He unlocked another door that led to a small office furnished with a mahogany desk, matching file cabinets, and a green leather couch. Another painting—of a gnarly, ancient oak tree—graced the white-painted brick wall above the couch.
    He clicked on a space heater that filled the room with soothing warmth.
    “Please sit.” He indicated the leather couch. “I must show you something, then I’ll take you on a quick tour. The complex covers nearly the whole block...”
    I sank onto the couch. I couldn’t imagine standing up again, much less taking a tour of the block, so I faked a large yawn. But Peter didn’t get the message as he pottered with things on his desk and lit a pipe. The sweet-sharp tobacco smoke surrounded him with a misty haze, as if he weren’t quite real. Or maybe that came from my own bleary eyes.
    He sat next to me on the couch, bouncing on the springy cushions.
    “I just bought the office furniture. Do you like it?”
    “It’s lovely,” I murmured. “You’re lovely. Swynsby-on-Trent is lovely. But I’m afraid the only place I want you to take me right now is a bed.”
    Peter gave a mock-coy smile.
    “You think I’m lovely? You want me to take you to bed?”
    I pulled away and widened my eyes in an expression of cluelessness. I’ve always told my readers the best way to save both parties embarrassment after an unwanted advance is to pretend you’ve misunderstood.
    “I’m sure you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s been a long day…” I reshouldered my laptop, wondering how far I would be required to hike to my room.
    But he was very close now, looking into my eyes. I anticipated the kiss a moment before it came—quick and soft—not invasive, but the romantic intent was there.
    Exactly what I didn’t want at the moment.
    I stiffened and turned away as my fears came flooding back.
    What if Peter was exactly the kind of pervert he first seemed? Plant wasn’t certain about Lance having a heart attack. Had I just delivered myself into the hands of a murderer?

Chapter 13—Good Manners for Bad Times
     
    Peter stood, looking wounded at