into the room behind her.
She didn't even see the hand as it came out of nowhere and clamped down on her wrist.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice said.
With a scream, Belinda jumped back.
The man towered over her, gaunt and expressionless, his hooded eyes fixed calmly on her face.
And as Belinda stared up at him, she noticed the slight movement of his other arm ... his smooth attempt to hide something behind his back... something shiny . . . yet smeared with dull red. . . .
A meat cleaver.
Jt2
Chapter 5
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, miss," he said again. "Some of them are quite dangerous. Hardly safe to touch." He lifted the cloth, and Belinda's eyes widened. A screen was fastened on top of the box, and there below it, coiled in the bottom, was a thick brown snake. "A hobby of Mr. Thome's. Revolting, really."
Belinda couldn't stop shaking. She looked back at him as he replaced the cloth, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, and then she pointed weakly toward his back.
"Oh, this?" He gave the cleaver a disinterested glance. "I was just preparing dinner. Didn't want to frighten you,"
BeUnda's voice wavered. "You . . . you must be Mr. Cobbs?"
"Cobbs, miss, yes. And you're no doubt Miss Behnda."
She nodded, still studying him. He was well over six feet tall, ramrod straight and very thin, with a cadaverous sort of face and pale, cahn eyes, which
had remained half-closed throughout their conversation. He was dressed in a black suit, starched and neat, and Belinda doubted if he ever so much as wrinkled when he moved. It was hard to tell exactly how old he was -- with that angular face and receding white hairline; she guessed that Cobbs had been born looking like an old man. And then, as she continued her scrutiny, it occurred to her that he knew exactly what she was doing, and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment.
"I was looking for Mrs. Thome," she said quickly.
"Logical choice of locations."
"I really need to get home."
"Come with me."
Cobbs had that kind of voice that left no room for argument, and Belinda followed him into a gigantic, gleaming kitchen.
"Sit there." Cobbs nodded at a spotless tile bar that separated the cooking area from a smaller breakfast room.
"But I have to get --"
"Sit down, miss. FU fix you some tea and toast, and then I'll take you home. If you'll forgive my saying so, you look a trifle . . . anxious."
Belinda gave a grim smile and hoisted herself onto a high stool at the counter. She propped her chin in her hands and watched as Cobbs put the kettle on the stove, rinsed a flowered teapot with hot water, and measured tea from a blue cannister. He moved quickly without hurrying, and Belinda had the feeling he could find his way around this kitchen in his sleep.
"Sugar?" he glanced at her. "Cream?"
"I've never had cream in my tea," Belinda said doubtfully.
Cobbs lowered his head, but Belinda could ahnost swear he'd rolled his eyes. "It's the civilized thing to do, miss."
"Oh. Then I guess I'd better try it --"
"Splendid." He crossed to an oaken china cupboard on a wall in the breakfast room and took down a delicate cup and saucer, which he placed before her.
"Aren't you having some, too?" Belinda asked.
"I, miss?"
"Yes. I'd feel better if you'd have some, too."
A tiny flicker of -- what? shock? amusement? -- showed in his eyes. He regarded her thoughtfully, then fetched another cup and saucer.
"I just. . . well. . . you really don't have to treat me like company, you know," Belinda said uncomfortably. "I'm not used to being waited on."
"Obviously." He filled the teapot, and waited for it to steep. When it was ready, he filled Belinda's cup and returned to the stove.
Belinda pointed to the stool beside her. "Don't you want to sit down?"
"If it makes you more comfortable."
"Yes, it would." Belinda watched, relieved, as he perched himself on the edge of the stool. He looked like a strange, exotic bird very much out of his element. "Maybe we should sit at