Chapter Seven
Zane gasped for breath. He was out of shape. He worked out at the gym three times a week but was lazy when it came to cardio. He’d have to remedy that as soon as he got home. He frowned, thinking of leaving this glorious house and Clara. He’d only been here a few hours. It felt like he’d come home. Weird.
Across from him, Clara leaned back against the sofa, eyes closed, chest heaving from exertion. A broad smile stretched across her face. He much preferred it to the stressed, alarmed frown she’d worn on his arrival, and her nervous grimace earlier. She should wear that grin more often. Not that he knew how often she smiled. Somehow, he got the impression that she was a smiler. She’d taken a light attitude to her problems today, perhaps a sign of an optimistic outlook.
She’d forgiven him for bursting into her home unannounced as well. He’d risked offending her when he raced around the house, but she’d joined in gleefully, like a child. She was going to be a successful host. She was accepting, playful, open, and welcoming. If her cookies were any indication, she’d also be a great cook.
“I guess I better let you cook. You’re probably hungry. I got here before lunch and it’s nearly suppertime.” His stomach growled, emphasizing his words.
Clara’s eyes flew open, and she burst into joyous laughter. “I guess I can’t let you starve to death. The reviews would be brutal.”
“Nope. Dead men don’t tell tales,” he countered. “But it’s not easy to hide a body and I’m rather large compared to you. I can’t see you wrapping me in that rug and toting me outside of town for disposal.”
“Ew.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “You have a sick sense of humor.”
“A bit of a twisted mind, so I’m told. I love murder mysteries, thrillers and dark stories.” He’d be writing a murder mystery while on this vacation. The story had nibbled at his mind, demanding attention for years. Lately, it had been clawing, waking him from sleep and interrupting his work. It was becoming a living, breathing thing. It was finally time to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard if you were a literalist, if for no other reason than to escape the idea’s demand to be written.
He frowned. The darkness inside him wanted out. His rough upbringing had left scars. He’d heard writing could be therapeutic. He would exorcise his demons in a story. He’d keep those problems to himself. She was alone in the house with a stranger for what he assumed was the first time. It would be logical for any woman to be wary and over-cautious. He wasn’t about to add to those potential fears.
It wasn’t that Zane thought he’d do something bad or violent; it was more that he hadn’t dealt with his father’s violent tendencies. He didn’t have any of his own, but telling Clara he was trying to write out those emotions might be frightening for her.
“Murder mysteries, hey? I can see that. Engineers are good at puzzling things out, what with their logical minds and all.”
“I love a good puzzle. Word puzzles, mysteries, anything really. I’ll spend hours putting together a jigsaw puzzle.”
“Great idea! I love jigsaws. Aunt Tilly left behind a closet full of them upstairs. I’ll set up a puzzle on the big table in the library. But first,” she jumped to her feet. “I’m going to feed you, before your stomach eats its way to your backbone.”
“Nice. That’s pretty graphic.”
“Yup. I heard it somewhere. I don’t even know where. But I loved the imagery. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to use it. Anyway … make yourself comfortable. See you at,” she glanced at her watch, “at six forty-five for dinner.”
“Is this a fancy-dress affair?” he teased.
“But of course.” Laughing, she left him sitting there.
In the distance, he could hear the light clatter of pots and pans. The din paused for a moment before warm jazzy music flooded the house. He looked up and realized the ceiling was fitted with speakers. There must be music in every room on the main floor.
Rising, he checked the damper on the fireplace, ensuring it was closed. He did the same in the common room. The forensic part of his mind was always on the alert for potential disasters. Assured both rooms were secure, he double checked to be sure the inner and outer doors, surrounding the small mud room, were securely latched. He would double-check the outer door was locked before going to bed.
Time to start his story. He had no idea where to begin, despite all his research on how to write a novel. He’d read dozens of instructional books and visited hundreds of blogs. Every one of them had different advice. Plot it, let it write itself, and every combination in between. How did a man even know where to start?
“Begin at the beginning.” He stated logically as he unlocked his suite door, stepped inside and eased it shut behind him. Where exactly was the beginning?
When his computer booted up, he opened a new document and started typing. First, set the scene. A dark alley, filth and debris all around. Late evening, barely enough light to see. A homeless old woman stumbling upon a heap of dirty rags. Her shock and fear turning to outrage discovering it wasn’t cloth, but a dead body covered in sticky, wet, blood.
Gruesome details followed.
Police arriving, cordoning off the area. His hero, a talented but somewhat jaded detective, finding clues.
Before long, Zane was as caught up in his story as his yet unnamed detective was involved in his investigation. A sharp rap on his door startled him out of the alley, back to his room.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Clara. Are you coming to dinner? It’s past seven.”
“Holy crap! Yes. Just give me two seconds. I got caught up in work.” What an idiot he was. Neglecting a pretty woman and delicious meal for the darkness of his story. He had no idea he’d become so engrossed in his own fantasy world.
“Meet you downstairs then. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Sure, if you have some.”
Her footsteps turned to tapping as she jogged lightly down the stairs. He saved his work and shut down his computer. He’d always been an all or nothing guy, totally immersing himself in his work. But this was a completely different experience. He’d lost total track of where he was, and left Clara waiting. Unacceptable.
