A Matter of Choice Read Online Free PDF

haven't got the heart to subject him to obedience school again."
    "That's incredibly stupid," Slade tossed back. "He's too big not to be trained."
    "Want the job?" Jessica retorted. Straightening in the chair, she began to brush at stray dog hair.
    "I've got one, thanks."
    Why should it annoy her that he hadn't once used her name? she asked herself as she rose. Dignity had to be sacrificed as she stepped over the now sleeping dog. "I appreciate the help," she said stiffly. "And the advice is duly noted."
    Slade shrugged off the sarcasm. "No problem. You struck me as more the poodle type, though."
    "Really?" For a moment Jessica merely studied his eyes. Yes, they were hard, she decided. Hard and cool and cynical. "And I have the impression you don't think much of the poodle type. Help yourself to the brandy.
    I'm going up."
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Chapter 2
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    For the next two days there was an uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade's way. He in turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine--which, he discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn't take time for the social rigamarole he had expected--luncheons, clubs, committees--but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.
    From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight o'clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her--or protect her if that's what she needed--if she was always in one place while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a visit at her place of business.
    Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a reason to poke around. Before he'd rounded the last curve in the steps he heard Betsy's voice.
    "...nothing but trouble."
    "Don't fuss."
    Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall, gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a bit--either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his sneakers, he didn't see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.
    "I told you she said you weren't to come in today." Betsy bustled after him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.
    "I'm fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I'm going to mold." He coughed violently.
    "Fine, fine indeed." Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at his back.
    "Mom, lay off." Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. "Oh, you must be the writer."
    "That's right." Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he thought, taking David's measure quickly. Who hasn't completely thrown off the youthful defiance.
    "Jessie and I figured you'd be a short, stooped little guy with glasses.
    I don't know why." He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on the newel post for support. "Getting anywhere with the library?"
    "Slowly."
    "Better you than me," David murmured, wishing for a chair. "Has Jessica come down yet?"
    "She's already gone," Slade told him.
    "There, you see." Betsy folded her arms over her chest. "And if you go in, she'll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too."
    Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post harder. "She's going to need