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Chapter 2 by lostandfound lostandfound

What does she look like?

A clear night, calm and gentle.

She's about 5’ 10” and 135 pounds and has a body you would normally only see on a statue of Venus. She wears a fashionable pale blue business suit with a skirt. Her skin is smooth and unblemished, the color of dark chocolate. Her hair, black as night, is tied back in long braids that reached down to the small of her back. Her dark brown eyes sparkle like stars as she gives me a quick smile. That smile causes my heart to skip a beat.

“Are you Whisper Clark?” she says with a British accent.

I quickly compose myself and reply, “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Cassiopeia Anthony. I work for a museum in London, and I was hoping that you might be able to help me track down something that was stolen Mr. Clark.”

“I’d be happy to help, it should be a nice change of pace from the divorces and missing person cases I usually do, but please, call me Whisper. I can’t stand Mr. Clark, I had a English teacher with that name.”

She smiles at me, and again my heart jumps. “Very well, I will call you Whisper if you promise to call me Cassey.”

I walk over and shake her hand, her skin is incredibly soft, and I almost have to **** myself into letting go.

“What is it you’re looking for exactly?”

“An old manuscript that contained parts of the Mabinogeon.”

I pause and blink, completely without comprehension, “The Mabenwhat?”

Cassey grins and says, “The Mabinogeon-- a collection of Welsh tales. It was on loan to us from Oxford and it was stolen shortly after it arrived.”

Over the next couple of hours she gives me the details of the crime. I take notes, but find it very hard to concentrate in her presence. She’s a full moon on a clear night; her light dims everything else in the sky.

I’m at the computer, looking at a website she has directed me to, when she leans over my shoulder to point out something on the screen. A quiver of pleasure runs down my spine as a few of her long braids fall from her shoulders and caress my back.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cassey says tossing the braids back, “Sometimes my hair seems to have a mind of it’s own.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I respond. “Cassey, if I’m going to have any hope of finding this manuscript, I’m going to need your help. I don’t have your knowledge or, quite frankly, your brain power.”

She laughs and puts her hand on my shoulder, “Whisper are you trying to flatter me?”

What should I say?

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