Where to Begin?

Looking for the key. Looking for a clue. Looking for murdered Poppy’s killer. Where to begin?

Tasha straightened abruptly to face her cross-examiner. The heavy planked door remained shut. Bracken strolled into view. His broad hand shoved at his hip ready to delve into a non-existent pocket. He glanced down, rubbed his silk tie and fingered the heavily starched shirt.

“Jesus,” he muttered. His gaze returned to her, to Poppy.

“How did you get in here?” Tasha demanded.

“Through the door of course.”

“I didn’t hear it open.” The scent of pine blanketed the room. Tasha’s gaze moved from Bracken to the door to the pink and white brocade drapes framing the cloudy glass in the latched window. “I thought you had left. Why’d you come back?”

His green eyes darted from Tasha to the chest to the bed. “To have tea with you – sweetheart.”

The corset restricted her breathing, the scent of evergreens evaporated. Her pulse ratcheted higher. Now Tasha understood why Victorian ladies used fans, to fend off the sweltering heat caused by layers of stifling clothes. She plopped down on the trunk lid. Had his eyes been green?

“Sweetheart? I thought you only wanted her - my money.”

“Darling,” he drawled. He moved swiftly to kneel in front of her. Bracken grasped her pale hand and cradled it against his chest amidst the scratchy layers of his shirt. He pressed closer. Stubble scratched her cheek and a heated kiss caressed the corner of her mouth promising an elusive taste of rain.

“But you’re so beautiful. Red hair and blue eyes. What more could a man want?”

Stars danced across his face and filled her sight. Tasha fainted.

Tasha came to prone on the bed. A niggling thought scampered free of her subconscious into the murky daylight of her waking thoughts.

She peeked through squinted lids at the ugly green and pink bedspread. Poppy had terrible taste except for fiancés. Bracken sat next to her, his weight pulling her body into his gravitational field. Through slitted eyes she watched him study his voluminous cravat. He tugged at the knot and tossed the green swatch aside.

Tasha opened her eyes. “Water,” she croaked.

He rose and she flopped in the other direction. Poppy’s fortune hunting fiancé picked up the silver teapot from the tray now resting atop of the trunk. He inexpertly poured liquid in the porcelain cup splashing the sides. He sucked a drop from his finger and grimaced.

She struggled to sit, floundering in the mass of fabric and constricting undergarments. Tasha took the cup and drank. She wrinkled her nose. The brew smelled of almonds and tasted bitter. Mouth still dry, she forced herself to take another sip and returned the cup.

“Better?” He set the cup on the floor. “What happened?”

“I think my laces are too tight.” She pulled Poppy’s hair over her shoulder and shifted. The corset dug into her side. “Could you?”

He came to his knees and made quick work of her buttons and ties. Tasha took a deep breath, her lungs filled to capacity with oxygen.

Bracken traced the column of her spine with a broad finger. She clutched the dress to her and shivered.

“Cold?”

“Not hardly,” she mumbled. She swallowed, mouth dry, again and stared at him over her shoulder. “If you would just tie me back up – -"

A slight intake of air, his eyes widened. Bracken’s very green eyes. Eyes that had been more hazel when he had carried her up the stairs. She tore her gaze away and looked at the trunk. Tasha reminded herself she was here to find a murderer not to make wild monkey love to a dead woman’s fortune hunting fiancé.

“Please tie my gown back up, just not so tight.” As soon he finished she bunched up the skirt and scampered off the other side.

A sharp retort of a gun and glass shattered.

Tasha dropped to the floor. Bracken dove over the bed and covered her body. He rolled them against the wall.

Some one really wanted Poppy dead. Tasha wondered what would happen to her if they succeeded.