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She was very much like Mick, he thought, without being in the least degree pretty. He put her down as being about twenty years old, but in fact she was twenty-six. It was a rare person who could put Hannibal off balance, but here stood one of them. She tossed her scarlet locks and motioned for Hannibal to follow her. Her strut seemed exaggerated to him, and accented by the tightness of her jeans, but her walk was so forceful and aggressive it lost all sensuousness. Kate handed Hannibal a pad of preprinted forms and a pen. He had certainly not been in fear of his life then. The hotel stationery had already been replenished, and lay neatly arranged for the next resident. If Jacob had left behind any sign of his occupation, it had since been removed by the police and the maids. Her eyes traveled down the bookmarked page to find a passage heavily underscored.
This level of independence struck him as mysterious for a woman who played submissive. Hannibal stared at himself in the mirror. At least he assumed it was his own face. The character staring back at him, wearing a do rag and cheap sunglasses, reminded him that he needed to stay in character to get closer to Rod in order to separate him from the Cooper formula. But the man inside knew that this situation involved more than business. The house might stand for centuries more, but the porch had seen better days. You need all the sympathy you can get, Quantrill. Inside, the hallway floor was honest oak, innocent of covering, scarred from generations of men wearing spurs - some with Spanish rowels, to judge from the dotted scars. A broad staircase angled down to the big hallway, but Concannon steered his prisoner into a library the size of a bunkhouse. Several noblemen and dignitaries were taking notes, and still more leaned forward curiously, waiting to see how they could benefit from the situation. But my rule is not a mere continuation of Corrino rule. We have all learned our lesson from that.
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