“I have a younger brother and sister,” he answered truthfully. He told her about his seven nieces and how loud holidays were with all those shrieking girls running around. “My father died about three years ago, and my mother’s been nagging me to produce a grandson.”
“You’ve had a rough time in the past few years.”
Quinn’s gaze followed her sweater as it once again slipped down her arm. “How’s that?”
“First your dad and then your wife.”
Oh yeah. His wife. “Yes,” he said and returned his gaze to hers. “I loved Millie very much. She was everything in the world to me, but I need to move on without her. I have to try and get my life back. She’d want that for me.” He wondered if the lies about Millie sounded as lame as he thought they did. He wondered if Lucy had worn that sweater to distract him.
“She’d want you to date as many women as you can possibly meet via the Internet?”
Quinn didn’t point out that Lucy was meeting men via the Internet. Possibly killing them too. Instead he said, “Millie would want me to do whatever makes me happy.”
Lucy pushed her sweater back up. “I imagine a lot of women would want their husbands to pine away for them a little longer than six months.”
“Millie is different from a lot of women.” If Lucy continued to do battle with her clothes, it was going to be a very long night. Watching her was like watching a slow striptease.
“Don’t you mean was different?”
“What?” He raised his gaze to hers as desire, hot and unwelcome as hell, twisted and tugged and gave a little kick to the pit of his stomach. The woman looking back at him over the flickering candle might be innocent. Might be a mystery writer and nothing more. A victim of circumstance. Or she might be responsible for the murder of three men.
“You said, ‘Millie is different’ as if she were still alive,” Lucy said.
Shit. He’d let himself get distracted by her sweater. She was sharp, and he was going to have to be even sharper. Which meant he was going to have to pay more attention to doing his job and less attention to the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders. “I meant was, of course.”
A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “Perhaps it’s too soon for you to date.”
“No.” He shook his head and gave her his best “trust me” smile. One he’d used many times to put murder suspects and drug dealers at ease. “Sometimes I still refer to my father in the present tense, too,” he lied as easily as he smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know he’s gone. Just like I know Millie’s gone and she’s never coming back. I will always feel the loss of her, but that doesn’t mean I have to stand in one place and feel the pain of it every day. For the rest of my life.”
Her brow smoothed, and he knew the second she decided to believe him. Yeah, she was smart and very perceptive. If she wasn’t a murder suspect, she was just the sort of woman he usually went for. But she was a suspect, and it would be a cold day in hell before a suspect outsmarted Detective Quinn McIntyre. No matter how smart and gorgeous. No matter how hot she was or how hot she made him.
Chapter 4
Skeptic: Seeks Lady in Red…
The cocktail waitress returned with their drinks, and Lucy sat back in her chair, the alarm bell in her head fading beneath his charming smile, which she didn’t quite trust. He’d used the present tense regarding his wife. Perhaps it had been just an innocent slip as he’d explained. Or maybe he was using the whole widowed thing as a con. Yeah, maybe.
“What are your hobbies?” he asked.
“I really don’t have any hobbies,” she answered as she reached for her mojito. Or maybe she should believe him. Just because she was telling a few little lies about who she was didn’t make him a liar, too. He could be telling the truth and really did want to move on with his life.
“Not one?” he persisted, as if he was really interested in getting to know her and not just making conversation. “There has to be something you do for fun.”
Perhaps she was looking for trouble where none existed. Deflecting her guilt onto him. She decided to believe him for now. “I’m not very crafty.” She took a drink and let memories of past mojitos fill her head. The sweet rum and mint drink always reminded Lucy of sitting in a cabana somewhere in Mexico. Or sitting on a beach in the Bahamas with her friends. “I can’t draw or sew or glue,” she added. She took another drink, then told him about the time she’d tried to make a Christmas wreath and had burned her fingers with hot glue. She talked about her experience rock climbing and the time she’d let an old boyfriend coerce her into kayaking. Both had been disasters. “Do you have hobbies?” she asked the man looking at her from across the table.
“Not really. When I have some free time, I work around my house. Hanging cabinets and refinishing floors.” He raised his bottle of Becks and took a drink. He lowered the beer and said, “I take my dog out and bird hunt. That’s about it.”
She could picture him doing both. Tool belt hung low on his hips or wearing fatigues, shotgun in the crook of his arm, loyal dog at his heels. Looking very fine. Very studly. She wondered if he wore camo boxers or tighty whities. Maybe he went commando.
“What did you do all winter? Go on any ski trips? Take a vacation to Mexico?” he asked, breaking into her mind’s libidinous wanderings.
“Last November my friends and I vacationed on Paradise Island. We drank too much. Gambled too much. And had too much fun.” It really wasn’t her fault her brain had gone to the sinful side. From the second she’d walked in the door, she’d felt the pull of his gaze on her, like dark, intense tractor beams. She couldn’t ever recall being the sole attention of any man. Not like this. Not to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, even the young waitress in the tight shirt who’d given him a flirty smile as she’d served their drinks. “I haven’t gone anywhere this year.”
“Not even an overnight trip to Pocatello?” he asked, referring to a town a few hundred miles east of Boise.
“No. I’ve just been working.” In the subdued light, his eyes looked black. A lock of thick hair fell over his forehead, while little comma curls touched the tops of his ears. It was several hours past his five o’clock shadow, and black whiskers darkened his square jaw.
“No boyfriends sweeping you off your feet for a weekend getaway?”
“No. No boyfriends for about a year now.”
“You’re kidding,” he said as if he found it hard to believe.
Lucy stirred her mojito with the sprig of mint stuck in it. “No. I’ve been avoiding relationships.” Her fingertips brushed the condensation on the side of the glass, and the pesky sleeve of her boat neck sweater slid down her arm again. If she’d known the sweater was going to give her so much trouble, she would have worn something else. “I’ve been involved with some real idiots in my life, and I’ve decided to take a break before I get too bitter.”
“You’re bitter about men?”
“Perhaps jaded is a better word.” She pushed her sweater back up.
“How long have you been on break?”
She really didn’t want to admit how long it had been since she’d had a real date. “A while,” she answered. She didn’t consider tonight a real date. Tonight was more a curiosity thing. She’d only agreed to meet with Quinn because he’d sent her those two sappy e-mails. She felt kinda sorry for him and…well, she’d wanted to see if he was as good looking as she remembered. He wasn’t as good. He was even better. “I prefer a good book to a bad date.” Without the red ball cap to shadow the upper half of his face, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes, which hinted at easy laughter.