Ray Doyle reached distractedly for one of the paint brushes lying on the palette beside his easel, but it slipped through his fingers and started to fall. It was the most natural thing in the world for him to twist around and grab it out of midair or it would have been two months earlier.
Now, however, the ill-considered movement resulted in a gasp of pain and a slow tumble to the floor.
The crowd ebbed and flowed around him, always managing to stay out of his immediate path. He was a tall man, clad all in black, spine stiffly erect among the hunched figures garbed in drab browns and greens. His clothes and bearing set him apart, and his eyes held an acknowledgment that was not quite pride. He felt no sympathy towards the rest, nor did he make a point of flaunting superiority. It was merely accepted with the same lack of emotion that colored everything he did.
The quiet familiar voice froze me where I sat. My heart seemed to break its rhythm and then thretened to lunge out of my chest.
"Aren't you going to say hello, Bruce?"
"Hey, Vinnie."
Vince nodded. "Sonny." He gave the mob boss a cool look tinged with humor, then glanced at the elegant surroundings. "Like the place, Sonny," he eventually commented. "Is Theresa moving in here or are you going to find a place together?" As he moved to the window to get a wider view of the surrounding wooded area, the other man brought him a drink and stood close.
Peter Sinclair sat staring out the window of the private jet wishing teir mission was over instead of just starging. So much had happened in the past year . . . .
Good morrow, gentle editor, t'is Alan A-Dale, your friendly singer os songs and I, being a minstral by trade, have a merrye little tale to tell of a comely rogue and the handsome face and lively blue yes that tripped him up by that greeatest of all fears and joys; love.
Illya woke to the strange and alarming thought that someone was in his room . . . .
The funeral was finally over. The sun was just setting. Jim was still at te casket . . . .
Thundering bootsteps stormed up the stairs. "Didn't you hear me, Mister?"
Roj Blake woke quickly, instantly alert. The light tapping continued on his bacin door, faintly s if te person outside wasn't really sure that he-or she-wanted him to hear . . . .
The atmosphere of any bar seems based on the people in it at the time, Hooker decided, and he'd had enough experience behind him to know this wasn't te palce to be . . . .
The warmth of your hands, I remember the warmth of your hans as you used to caress by body. As your fingertips sroked tails down my skin, their heat ignited love-fire in my gut . . . .
Harry Truman had just rolled onto his side when his subconscious detected the noise outside. A year ago, he would have bolted awake, prepared to defend life and home in te blackness of the September night. Now, however, his subconscious merely smiled . . . .
March 1993