Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“What were you going to say?” Derek said.

I blinked a few times. Had I imagined him? No, and I hadn’t imagined his laughter, either. So now I had to wonder if Gabriel had tried to steal the book in order to sell it to the very person who now owned it. I couldn’t blame him for laughing. Maybe I should’ve just let him get away with the book.

“Love?”

I focused on Derek. His eyes twinkled with laughter and his lips were twisted in that mocking half smile I grew more and more fond of every day, despite my best intentions.

“So you’re saying,” I began, “that all of a sudden, out of the blue, the queen of England gets a bug up her butt for an old book of coarse, sentimental, impossible-to-comprehend Scottish poetry.”

He flexed his shoulders. “If you don’t mind, we Brits prefer not to think that members of our beloved monarchy have bugs.” He shrugged. “Or butts, for that matter.”

“Sorry to offend. But…” I stared down the street, where I’d last seen the Bentley driving east toward the palace. Then I glanced in the opposite direction, where Gabriel’s taxi had gone. I wasn’t sure what I’d learned from the Flaxen’d Quean and Kyle’s death, but I knew I was not quite as unhinged and tattered as when I first arrived in Edinburgh. In fact, I felt a lot better. I turned to Derek and asked, “What do you think will happen to the book?”

He eased his arm around my shoulders and I caught a trace of his scent, an intoxicating mix of leather and citrus and pure masculinity. “I think it’ll make for hours of royal bedtime reading.”

“I doubt it,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t help but worry that she’ll take that book and its secrets to her grave.”

“Darling Brooklyn,” he said with an affectionate squeeze. “That surely won’t be the only secret she takes with her.”

“Aha! So you admit she’ll be taking the secret with her, which must mean that you believe the story is true.”

“That’s quite a leap, and you’re sadly mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I think…”

He stopped in the shadow of the hotel wall. The night was cool, but I didn’t feel it as he held me at arm’s length and patiently studied my features. “The stress has finally gotten to you, hasn’t it, darling?”

“I’m not stressed at all,” I said, biting back a grin. “I feel great.”

He touched my cheek, pushed a thick strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me there. “But you’re obviously delusional, aren’t you?”

I laughed, then almost moaned as he moved his lips along my hairline and down to skim across my jaw. I should’ve asked him if this was his idea of a kiss-off, or if he intended to finish what he was starting. Instead, I decided to do as Guru Bob would do and simply live in the moment.

“What was the question?” I whispered when I could speak again.

“Ah, your memory is impaired as well,” he murmured, his warm breath stirring the tiny hairs along my neck. “I suspect you’ve conked your head on some hard surface. That can be dangerous. I’ll have to watch you very carefully from now on.”

“If you insist,” I managed to say as he turned his attention to my earlobe.

“Oh, I do, sweetheart,” he said. “I really do.”

New York Times bestselling author Kate Carlisle worked in television production for many years before starting law school, where she began writing fiction as a way to lawfully kill off evil professors. The murderous urges faded but her need to write remained strong, culminating in the publication of her 2009 bestselling debut novel, Homicide In Hardcover, the first book in the Bibliophile Mystery Series featuring rare book restoration expert Brooklyn Wainwright. Book two in the series, If Books Could Kill, arrives February 2010. Kate lives with her husband by the beach in Southern California.