Perfect Knave
Page 30
Cookie made a sharp turn right. Maybe that was her mistake, or maybe Chess did the wrong turn. In any case they collided. Chess's arm's landed around her.
Off balance, Cookie hit something hard and very warm. Dimly she realized it must be Chess. But that didn't make any sense. This felt nice. Solid. Safe. And there was a smell...she drew in a deep breath. Something smelled familiar.
Cookie turned her face. She caught a fistful of the scratchy stuff. Damp wool. Oh, yes, that was her father's scent, coming home on a San Francisco evening. God, that was so long ago, when she was just a little girl. Cookie's fists tightened on the wool. Her grief spilled up through her chest.
Stupid, stupid. So many stupid arguments, the last one the most stupid of all. She hadn't been speaking to her father, an occasional habit of hers. In the midst of the silly estrangement he had gone and dropped dead.
"Rebecca," she heard someone breathe. Arms shifted on her back.
Cookie's tears abruptly stopped. Her eyes blinked open. The gesture, the deep voice—it belatedly struck where she was.
In exactly the wrong place. She froze, unable to remember how she'd got there. Surely, surely, she hadn't cooperated in this maneuver.
Carefully, Chess unwound his arms. With odd precision, he set her away.
"My purse," Cookie murmured, unable to raise her eyes.
"Here."
She felt the item thrust into her hands. "Thanks," she told the purse.
"You're welcome." Strangely, Chess didn't sound any happier than herself. As if he, too, couldn't believe they'd just embraced.
"Rebecca." There was no gentleness in his tone now nor in the hand that came under her chin. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
Cookie twisted her chin from his grasp. Oh, God. Not now. "No, Chess. No."
"You've been running away from me for two weeks. How long did you think you could keep that up?"
Cookie had to think about that. "Forever?"
A strange expression crossed his face. Laughter? Well, mockery perhaps. "That was an unreasonable expectation," he pronounced, sobering.
Of course it was. Even Cookie had seen the loophole in her father's crazy will.
"We have to talk."
"Oh, no." As a last resort, Cookie hoisted her purse strap over her shoulder and gave a pointed glance down toward David's grave. "This isn't the place."
"You're wrong." Chess, too, glanced down at the grave. There was the same light of resentment in his gaze that she'd felt in her own. "In fact, I can't think of a more appropriate place." Then he lifted his eyes. Sea-green eyes. They suddenly caught her, as they sometimes could, full of murky depths and mysteries.
Cookie had to shake her head. Oh no, there were no mysteries or murky depths in Chess. He was cold, remote, someone who'd pursue his goals with single-minded determination. His next words proved as much.
"Rebecca," he demanded. "Will you marry me?"