The Dickens with Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

goodnight.
    Crisparkle astonished me by getting up first. “My round, I think.” He went to the bar leaving me
    blinking after him.
    I relaxed in my chair and listened to the Christmas carols and the quiet murmur of voices from other
    tables. It occurred to me that I was already over the legal limit. That meant calling a taxi or sleeping in my car. Neither idea appealed—especially as I might be sleeping in my car full-time soon enough.
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    The Dickens with Love
    Crisparkle was back in a very short while with two more of those sparkling chocolate-cinnamon
    cocktails.
    “What are you planning to spend all that money on?” I inquired, taking my glass and trying hard not
    to spill a precious drop.
    He raised his eyebrows.
    “When the Dickens sells,” I clarified.
    “So you admit that the book is genuine?”
    “Off the record? Yes. I believe it’s genuine. I’m not putting my name to an appraisal without fully
    examining the book, though.”
    “The appraisal destined for this mysterious client of yours?”
    Instead of responding to that, I tilted my head, studied him, asked, “Is Crisparkle your real name?”
    “Yes.”
    “You do know Crisparkle is the name of a Dickens character?”
    “Mm. Canon Crisparkle. My great-great-great-grandfather.”
    “Your…”
    He smiled. It was breathtaking. Literally. He had dimples.
    “Who are you?” I couldn’t help asking.
    “Quite right. We should do this over again.” He reached across the table and offered his hand.
    “Sedgwick Crisparkle.”
    And I had thought the ocelot incident was odd. I shook hands automatically. “James Winter.”
    He released my hand, I picked up my glass, and he inquired smoothly, “Would you like to come up to
    my hotel room and look at my etchings, James?”

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    23
    Chapter Four
    On the glossy surface of the table, tiny gold flecks, like microscopic gold fish, floated in the pool of my spilled drink. I tore my fascinated gaze away from the puddle and stared at Professor Crisparkle’s
    serious expression.
    “Sorry?”
    “Would you like to come back to my hotel room?”
    I tried very hard to read his face. “To take another look at the book?” I asked cautiously. Very
    cautiously, because I couldn’t believe that he was suggesting what he apparently—possibly—was.
    “The book has been returned to the hotel safe.”
    “Oh.”
    “I thought you might like to come to my room anyway.”
    “This is…sudden.”
    “Yes, it is. But I had the impression when we met that you would not be adverse to the idea.” He
    sounded so precise, almost…mathematical.
    “I had the impression when we met that you disliked me. A lot.”
    “I should know better than to form preconceived notions.” It was the serious, half-smile again. “Shall I tell you what two things convinced me I was wrong about you?”
    I wondered if I’d gotten in a car accident on my way to the Hotel Del Monte and was, in fact, happily
    hallucinating in a coma somewhere. “Sure.” I sipped what was left of my drink, waiting to hear this
    revelation.
    “Your hands were shaking when you saw The Christmas Cake .”
    I had absolutely no answer to that.
    “And you were brave when you thought you were going to be mauled by that cat.”
    “Brave? I wasn’t brave at all. I was scared shitless.”
    “Yes, but you made yourself stay calm. Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, it’s how you deal with being afraid. When you asked the ocelot what it wanted to drink, I realized I had probably been wrong about
    you.”
    “You are a very weird guy and this is a very weird night.”
    “Also,” Crisparkle said, as though needing to keep the record absolutely straight, “you blush. I find
    that very endearing in a man of your age.”
    The Dickens with Love
    I opened my mouth and then closed it.
    “Would you like to come back to my hotel room?”
    “Uh…yes,” I replied.

    ~ * ~

    The night smelled of rain and lemon and wood