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Shadowdance(11)

By:Kristen Callihan


She gave him a false smile guaranteed to annoy him. “I believe I was accepted into the SOS before you were, thus I am the one with seniority.”

He stepped closer, surrounding her with the vibrant energy of his body and the appealing scent of him. By rights he ought to have an irritating scent, like lye soap. But no, Jack Talent’s scent was instantly recognizable, yet drifting off before she could properly dissect it. Which made her want to lean closer and inhale deeply. Most annoying. And quite dangerous.

Mary tilted her head back and met his gaze. They glared at each other for a long moment before Talent’s clipped response broke their standoff. “You joined as Poppy Lane’s assistant. Should we be in need of secretarial work, Mistress Chase, I’ll be happy to let you lead.”

The dirty rotter.

He nodded as if she’d finally come to her senses. “Know your place, Chase, and we will not have a problem.”

Mary set her fists on her hips. “I am not doing as you say.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”

“Oh, yes, you are—” Talent broke off with a curse. Close as they were, the dark stubble around his mouth was visible in the morning sun. “Christ almighty, we are not in the nursery.”

“I agree. Kindly desist in behaving like an infant.”

His jaw clenched, red washing over his cheekbones. “So help me, Chase—”

Mary turned away from him, loving the way he snarled at her departure. “We have interviews to conduct, and the day is waning with all this posturing.” Her skirts swished about her ankles as she put a bit more sway into her walk. “Come along, Master Talent.” This time she used his title as a headmaster might and was rewarded with another blue curse from behind her.

Confident that he’d stomp along after her, she jumped only a little when his voice suddenly buzzed at her ear, the heat of his breath raising gooseflesh upon her skin. “It will take more than the sway of your arse to distract me, Chase.” Then he was ahead of her, once more leading the way and whistling a familiar tune.

Mary halted in the act of following him. “Are you whistling ‘Row Your Boat’?” Incredulity had her choking out the question. She detested the nickname he pinned on her, because he thought of her as a “merry bit of fluff.”

Talent’s happy little tune broke off mid-note, and his sly gaze slid over her for a moment. “Why, I do believe I am.” He turned his head back around, and his step grew lively. His pitch-perfect baritone lilted over the quiet street. “ ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

Mary was contemplating murder by cranial bludgeoning when Talent gave her a look over his shoulder. A strange gleam sparkled in his eyes, but before she could question it, the light around him distorted, and his features blurred. Quick as a blink, he shifted.

“What do you think?” His voice was more gravelly now, an older man’s. “Am I the picture of a non-threatening yet authoritative inspector?”

Longer of face, wrinkled, bushy-browed, and sporting an impressive handlebar mustache of grizzled brown, Talent appeared a man of fifty years. He’d kept his height and basic form, for he could not alter his clothing, but a bit of a paunch stretched out his grey waistcoat.

“To the letter,” she admitted. “But why?”

The crow’s feet around his now-blue eyes deepened. “I have a suspicion that this household will be more accommodating to respectable old John Talent than scowling, yet undeniably charming, young Jack Talent.” His true grin on another’s face was a strange sight indeed. “With a blind niece in tow. God help me.”

Charming, was he? Mary barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but then paused. “Is your given name truly John?”

He touched the brim of his hat with a deferential nod to her, but the humor had dimmed in his eyes. “John Michael Talent, at your service, miss.” He glanced back at the door they were to knock on. “For all of one hour. Then back into the shadows he goes.”

Something dark and ugly rode in the undercurrents of his tone.

“Do you not like your given name?” She really ought to curb her curiosity in regard to him, but could not seem to do so.

“I hate it.” Then he stalked forward, leaving her to catch up.

The housekeeper answered the door. “The house is not receiving visitors at this time.” She moved to close the door when Talent stuck his boot in.

“We are not visitors, madam. We are investigators here to discuss the crime.”

The housekeeper’s thin face paled. “The both of you?” Her gaze landed flat on Mary, and she balked again.