“I can blame you for forcing your way into my home,” she said.
“I didn’t force my way; you unlocked the door.”
“To the Chamber’s office. You are now trespassing in my personal space.”
He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the footstool. Before she could protest, Miss Marple stood and Christopher scooped her up, taking her place on the chair and putting her down on his lap, where she promptly settled, tucking her feet under herself. “A fellow could sure go for a cup of cocoa before he goes back out into the cold.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“It is when you’re wearing pajamas.”
“Come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup,” she said, seeking a compromise.
“But Miss Marple is so comfortable,” he said, and sure enough, Miss Marple’s eyes were closed in pleasure, and she purred like a buzz saw as he petted her head.
Traitor! Tricia thought.
“I’ll be right back,” she grated. And so help me, if I find you in my bedroom, I’ll call the police.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Christopher assured her, looking up at her with those green eyes that almost always made her melt inside. This time she was determined to ignore their often-mesmerizing quality.
Tricia turned abruptly, lest she lose her resolve. She stomped down the stairs, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a mug from the drainboard. She filled it with water, which she nearly spilled when she thrust the mug into the microwave, hitting the timer for a minute. While she waited for it to heat, she got out the canister of cocoa and a clean spoon, her anger reaching the boiling point faster than the water. She didn’t wait for the microwave to count down the last twenty seconds and punched the door release. She didn’t want Christopher to say the cocoa needed to cool, thus delaying his departure. She dropped some of the powdered cocoa in her haste to get it into the mug, and slopped more of it onto the counter when stirring. When most of the cocoa had dissolved, she poured a little into the sink. She didn’t want to spill it on the floor or carpet.
Tricia ascended the stairs with more care and quiet than she’d descended them less than two minutes before. “Here’s your cocoa,” she called as she entered the sitting room, but Christopher sat slumped in the chair and was quietly snoring. Miss Marple appeared to be deep in dreamland as well.
“Christopher!” Tricia called sharply, but he didn’t rouse. She shook his shoulder, but he only nuzzled his head deeper into the wing of the chair.
For a moment she was so angry she considered pouring the chocolate over him, but she decided she liked the chair too much to risk such damage, and she wasn’t eager to frighten her cat half to death, either.
“I hope you get a backache,” she grumbled, and switched off the light before heading for her bedroom. She set the chocolate down and undressed, still grumbling to herself.
At last she sat on the bed, considered the mug of cocoa, and decided to drink it. She was so upset, she needed something to calm her jangled nerves. She shouldn’t have had the Irish coffee so late in the evening. And didn’t cocoa have caffeine in it, too?
She drank the last of it, set the mug on the nightstand, and set her alarm for seven, an hour later than she usually got up. It was after three. If she could fall asleep fast, she’d get just under four hours of sleep.
Climbing into bed, she turned off the light. She lay there for a few moments, fuming, wondering if she should lock her bedroom door. What if Christopher got up in an hour or so and climbed into bed with her?
She’d scream, and then she would definitely call the police. She’d have Baker arrest him. Maybe she’d get a restraining order against him, too. Yes, that was it. Christopher needed to be restrained from caring about her. He’d given up that privilege when he’d asked for the divorce.
Tricia squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep, but blessed oblivion would not come—she was listening too hard for creeping footsteps approaching from the other room.
It was after four when she finally let her guard down and allowed herself to feel drowsy.
The nightmare returned with a vengeance. Flames licked the inside of Haven’t Got a Clue, the smoke thickening until it choked her. “Miss Marple! Miss Marple!” she called as she crawled along the carpet, searching for her beloved cat.
But it was only a dream. She knew it—she’d saved the cat and herself, and soon she’d begin to rebuild and refurbish, but the sense of danger still seemed closed—as someone frantically called her name.
“Tricia! Tricia!” came the shrill cries.
Tricia opened her eyes to see light streaming in her bedroom window.
“Tricia!”
The voice calling her name wasn’t part of a dream. It was real!
ELEVEN
“What are you still doing here?” she hissed.
“I guess I fell asleep,” Christopher muttered, his eyes open at half-mast and his chin covered with stubble.
Tricia heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, and she pushed him back toward the sitting room. “Hide!” she implored.
“Tricia, are you all right?” Mariana called, sounding panicked.
“Yes! I’m fine,” Tricia called from the top step. Mariana stopped midway up the stairs. “I was up late last night. Looks like I slept through the alarm.”
“I was so worried. I rang the doorbell and you didn’t answer. And when I found the back door unlocked, I got worried.”
“It was unlocked?”
Mariana nodded.
“I’m sorry. As I said, I was up late last night. Go on down and put on a pot of coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Mariana nodded and turned, heading back down the steps.
Tricia turned toward her sitting room, her anger growing once again. “Christopher!” she called in a harsh whisper.
He stood before her in his PJs, smiling, taking in her filmy nightgown. “You’re the most beautiful sight a man could wake up to.”
“Get out!”
His smile broadened. “Sure.” He reached for his jacket. “Are you sure I can’t stay for a cup of coffee?”
“No.”
“I’ll just say a quick hello to Mariana as I leave.”
“You will not.”
He shrugged, slipping his arms into the jacket sleeves.
She pointed toward the chair. “You will sit there until I can get dressed, and then you will sneak out like the sneak you are for sneaking in.”
“I didn’t sneak. You let me in.”
“I am not going to argue with you,” Tricia said, turned and stormed off for her bedroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.
Ten minutes later, she opened the door damp around the edges but dressed and ready for the day, sure it was going to be daunting but ready just the same.
Christopher stood as she entered the sitting room once again.
“Can I borrow your bathroom? I really have to go.”
“No, you may not. You will wait for me to give you the word, and then you’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out of here.”
“Tricia, I’m wearing pajamas. It’s almost eight thirty. Half the village is up by now.”
She glared at him.
“I’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out,” he promised contritely.
“Wait until I give you a signal.”
“Okay, okay,” he agreed, raising his hands in surrender.
Tricia turned and headed for the stairs. She could smell the intoxicating aroma of coffee as she reached the bottom, and she ducked her head into the tiny kitchen, but Mariana was nowhere in sight. She must have gone to sit at her desk. Tricia crept down the hall, and sure enough Mariana was already seated at her desk going through the Chamber’s e-mails.