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"So tell me," Despereaux said, "Mr Spencer - "
"Shawn," Shawn said. "My friends call me Shawn. As well as complete strangers, on occasion, but they usually spell it with an E. As in: Connery. Which, don't get me wrong, very flattering, obviously, but still, sadly, incorrect. Also, they often seem to think I am their nephew and owe them money."
Despereaux stared at him. In a highly intelligent kind of way as befitted a master thief. No eye goggling or mouth hanging open. There might be a touch of ogling, a hint of awe-struckness.
"I know, it's weird," Shawn said. "I mean, who ever lends money to family, right?"
"I take it you are an only child."
"Can we keep our roles straight, please? You, genius art thief. Me, brilliant psychic."
Despereaux's lips twisted slightly in a very sexy smirk. "Brilliant, I might grant you."
"You're entirely too modest," Shawn said. He wondered if the light was flattering him; he'd planned his position very carefully, but Despereaux also switching on a light hadn't been part of the calculations.
"It comes with the accent."
"And how do you like your vodka martinis?"
"Do I look like I give a darn?" Despereaux asked.
"Ah." Shawn grinned. "A fan of the new Bond, then. And may I say, I do appreciate the slight edit. After all, you never know if there might be children listening."
"I'm ... fairly sure there aren't, in this particular case."
"Well, I might have been on the phone with my young nephew."
Despereaux sighed. It was a very sexy sigh. A touch of world-weary, mixed with just a hint of the utter joy that came from finding oneself face to face with a worthy adversary.
"What is it that you hoped to find here, Mr Spencer?"
"You, naked, with a bucket of whipped cream and a pony."
Despereaux blinked. A very sexy blink. "Beg pardon?"
"Sorry, did I say that out loud? Obviously, I was just kidding. Well, except for the pony. I've always wanted a pony, ever since I was a young child and watched The Adventures of Skippy."
"Isn't that a kangaroo?"
"It's a TV show or, excuse me, a show on the telly. A telly show? That just sounds weird."
"I'm not actually British," Despereaux said.
"That's okay, Pierre - can I call you 'Pierre'? I'm not actually British, either. Although I understand if you thought I was. I mean, in the end of the day, we all speak the same language, don't we? And we all like football, even if you call it by a funny name."
Despereaux was staring at him again. Shawn allowed himself to believe it was in admiration of his not unhandsome features. His great hair. His noble forehead. His chocolate-melty eyes. His never broken nose. His kissable lips.
His quite adorable chin.
"I'm ... not a particular fan, actually," Despereaux said.
"Have you ever watched a game of football completely naked?"
Despereaux coughed. Not a particularly sexy cough, but then, Shawn supposed there were limits even for handsome genius art thieves. "No. I can't say that I have."
"Well, you could, but then you'd be lying," Shawn said. "To me. And that would hurt my feelings. A lot. So thank you for not doing that."
"Enjoyable as this conversation may be, I'm afraid I really should get on with packing. Wouldn't want to miss my flight now, would I?"
Despereaux moved towards the closet. It was, Shawn couldn't help but notice, a far nicer closet than the one in his and Gus's hotel room, even if it didn't have a trail of rose petals leading towards it (or possibly away from it).
"There wouldn't happen to be a gun in there, would there?"
"I don't like guns," Despereaux said, holding up a pair of comfortable looking loafers.
"I thought I could lick it and pretend it was something else," Shawn said. "I've read on-line that people find that very arousing and satisfying."
"It hardly sounds safe."
Shawn scoffed. "Are we not men who laugh in the face of danger?"
"I think that perhaps you should leave now, Mr Spencer," Despereaux said, holding what looked remarkably much like an actual, honest-to-God gun.
"That's really how you want our second-to-last meeting to end? Really? Forcing me out of your room at gun point like I'm some intruder or something, who snuck into your room after getting the key from some guy at the front desk under false pretenses?"
"I wondered," Despereaux said.
"Okay, fine." Shawn raised his hands. "It's the pony thing, right? Can I just say I meant that in a totally platonic, unrelated to the other stuff kind of way? And hey, that whipped cream? Totally optional. I mean, I get it. You're a professional; you gotta watch what you eat."
"How do I know if I can trust you?" Despereaux asked.
"Don't trust me," Shawn said quickly. He might call Juliet tomorrow morning, but not just yet. And he'd probably wake up Despereaux before he'd do it. He'd definitely put on his pants first, anyway. "Trust your heart. Trust these lovely, chocolate-melty eyes."
"They're hardly the color of chocolate, are they?"
"I never said they were the color of chocolate. Who'd want eyes the color of chocolate? People'd be all, 'oh, let me eat your eyes - they look like chocolate'. That would just be creepy. Vaguely fun, but creepy."
Despereaux lowered the gun. "Very well. I believe you."
"Awesome."
"Also, I believe room service may be able to oblige you in regards to the bucket of whipped cream. If not the pony, probably."
"Well, I probably wouldn't be able to get that one through Customs, anyway. To say nothing of sneaking it onto the plane as hand luggage."
" - and that, ladies - excuse me, lady, and gentlemen, is how I ended up handcuffed to this bed."
"Protesting against Canadian whale hunting," Lassiter said.
"Someone's gotta take a stand, Lassie," Shawn said. "Or, in this case, a lay. A lie? God, the English language confuses me sometimes."
"Naked?"
"My strong convictions and righteous anger have kept me warm. Also, there were blankets. Also, I had a vision about where Despereaux is going to strike next."