Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,1

temple.

“Sorry,” she called, reflexively, “we’re closed!” Her last word came out in a bit of a squawk as she watched the figure sidle into the studio.

A second later, she felt a flash of relief. It wasn’t the bearded bear-gut after all. In fact, as she looked, she felt a sudden, impulsive sense of self-consciousness. The man now standing in front of her looked as if he’d stepped off a movie set. Impossibly handsome, with a thin, neatly trimmed beard and eyes like sapphires speckled with starlight. He didn’t have a single hair out of place, and though she was used to the many fragrant odors of her workplace, she detected one she hadn’t smelled before—a faint hint of a citrus aftershave. He smiled at her and nodded politely as he stepped into the studio and gave a small wave with a gentle hand.

Amelia often could determine the career of someone based purely on their hands. Something a sommelier often paid attention to in their clients—the bruises, the thickness of calluses, the softness of fingertips. She had spotted musicians, laborers, and once even a banker based purely on the hands.

This man had the hands of a painter, or, perhaps, a surgeon. Careful, lean fingers. He also held a small black bag—like that of a physician, or like the veterinarian who had once visited her mother when their cat had been sick.

She smiled politely at the man, but inwardly was in turmoil. She smoothed the front of her uniform and hastily tried to adjust her hair, but then felt a pulse of embarrassment as she realized she’d likely sweated through her uniform and was showing him the unsightly splotches by lifting her arms. Just as quickly she dropped her elbows and stood straight-backed, returning his smile.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “We’re closed.”

The man’s countenance dropped. It was like watching the sun set, a radiance disappearing behind a horizon of disappointment.

“But we only just closed,” she said, quickly, as if trying to catch his disappointment before it hit the ground. “I suppose I could pour you a glass of our special. In fact,” she added, with no small amount of pride, “I had a say in the recipe.”

The man’s face brightened again. He nodded at her, dipping his head in a sort of little bow. He spoke then, in an American accent, his French clipped and clean, but also hesitant as he fished for the proper words. “That would be a pleasure,” he said. He smiled at her, and then he moved over to one of the tables she had recently cleared.

Amelia watched as he moved, tracking his form through the neat suit and dress pants. It almost looked like he’d recently come from a wedding or funeral. She made a mental note to ask if the opportunity arose.

Amelia glanced back at the door. She knew it was against the studio’s policy to have people in after hours. Unlocking the cash register off-timer would be a headache as well. Then again, though she hated to admit it, over the last year, she’d had a number of customers like Mr. Bearded Beer-Gut. She was starting to get tired of unwanted attention. Was it really so bad to use her job, for the first time, to entertain some attention she actually looked forward to?

She looked at him, smiling slightly. He really was quite handsome. Perhaps not as tall as she would’ve liked, but those eyes, that jawline, the posture, the confident swagger, all of it cumulatively made up for any small defect she might have spotted.

Another drawback of being someone whose job it was to critique: some thought she was overly critical in the partners she chose, but Amelia could pick out a ten-euro bottle of wine in comparison to a hundred-euro bottle. She could detect the taste in an instant, and in the same way, she wanted quality in the men in her life.

The handsome man sat at the table and leaned back, placing his small, black physician’s bag on the table. It was then she noticed he was wearing gloves. Riding gloves? Or perhaps driving gloves?

The gloves were black, with stitched seams, and he tapped his fingers against the table for a moment. Slowly, she watched as he peeled off the gloves and placed them into the physician’s bag. He zipped the bag back up, though not fully. This time, she glimpsed something glinting within. A matchbook?

He wasn’t a smoker, was he? She hated it when that happened. Not the vice itself—the prettiest ones