Glass Houses Read Free Page A

when I’ll be arriving. Thank goodness for credit cards. I never tho ught I’d say that. I hope we’ll know each other when we meet—if we meet. We should have found a way to exchange photographs. I have a scanner, of course. I know you don’t, but you could have used someone else’s.”
    Aiden looked not only at Ryan’s scanner, but at the digital camera on the desk beside the keyboard. Explanation needed— soon.
    “I’m very ordinary looking,” Olivia continued. “Brown hair and eyes, sturdy, average height and, according to Penny, a sartorial disaster. Sorry abou t that. I’ll be wearing a hat. I almost always wear a hat. And I know it's corny, but I’ll put a flower on my lapel. You could do that, too. We may as well try to lighten things up a bit.”
    That was the last post.
    “Batty,” Vanni said Aiden agreed. “Deranged.”
    “They could be perfect for each other.”
    “He could be planning to rip her off.”
    “What’s she got to rip off?” Vanni asked. “She doesn’t even have the price of an airline ticket.”
    “It’s an expensive ticket.”
    “Not that expensive.”
    The bell announcing incoming mail rang on Ryan’s computer. OliviaFitz’s name showed up together with, “That man just rang up again. He asked if I'd thought about the kill fee and said he was on his way to talk to me in person. They obviously don't think I suspect anything. I tried to get Penny, but she's not at home and I can't find her. I’m getting out of here. I’ll call the airport, then I’ll give you the flight number . See you in New York. ”

 
     
     
     
     
    Two
     
     
    S tress made Olivia hungry. In moments of boredom, anxiety, or when the weather got really gray—which was often in fair London Town—she found herself in the kitchen, in front of the open fridge door with no memory of how she got there. But middle-of-the-night raids on Hampstead’s fragrant twenty-four-hour bakery on Heath Street spelled out-of-control emotional upheaval.
    She was having one of those out-of-control upheavals tonight, or this morning. It was very early on a clear morning and Olivia FitzDurham, she who was considered slightly wacky but generally cautious, was standing before the display cases in GIVE IN AND DIE HAPPY , prepared to do just that.
    The aromas were incredible. Fresh bread, Banbury cakes, Chelsea buns, custard-filled donuts that still sizzled, macaroons and Madeira cake. And those trays of marzipan fancies, the heaps of tender Battenberg slices. She wanted one of each, but most of all she wanted fresh, dissolve-in-the-mouth raspberry jelly rolls coated with coconut shavings and powdered sugar. A fresh batch would soon slide onto a wire rack and cloud the glass case with titillating steam through which she would play peekaboo with the objects of her desire.
    With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Then she drew in a deep breath and heard the only other customer in the shop, a man who had just entered, echo that sigh. From the corner of her eye she saw him pick up a French loaf. Light and flaky on the outside, it would b e so soft and warm on the inside.
    With his teeth, he tore off one end. Olivia watched his reflection in the mirror at the back of a wall case, watched him chew rhythmically—and look at her. Even behind his dark glasses, in profile, she saw how he eyed her slowly from head to foot while steadily turning a mouthful of light bread back into dough.
    She averted her face, only to be confronted by herself, and a not very appealing picture she made. Her red woolen boater sat foolishly on the back of her head and did nothing to tame the ringlet-like curls her hair sprang into when there was even a hint of moisture in the air. For the rest, her old tan raincoat belted haphazardly around her middle was a disgrace.
    This was all nutty. The truth was that she knew any thought of hopping on a plane to New York to meet a man who had accidentally fallen over her on the Internet—only two weeks earlier—was