“How many bad Internet dates have you had?”
Those hadn’t been real dates either. Lord, it was getting hard to keep up the pretense. “How many have you had?”
He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. He reached for the candle and pushed it from one hand to the other. His silver watchband scraped the smooth surface. “Most of the women I’ve met have been nice ladies, just not for me. You’re the only woman I’ve asked to meet me twice. The only woman I’ve thought about since I met you. The only woman I want to know better.” He glanced up from the candle and looked at her as if she were the only female in the bar. He said, “Your turn.”
Something in his voice spread warm, seductive tingles across her skin. She didn’t even know the man. Didn’t really believe what he was telling her half the time. So why was he giving her tingles? “My turn at what?”
“Tell me about your Internet dates.”
Oh yeah. “Out of all the men I’ve met online, seventy percent were just looking for quick sex and were real losers. Twenty percent were lonely and desperate for a girlfriend, any girlfriend. The jury is still out on the last ten percent.”
“Where do I fit?”
She picked up the glass and took a drink before she answered, “The jury is still out on you.”
He placed his hands flat on the table and sat back in his chair. He looked at her for several heartbeats, then turned the conversation in a different direction. “What do you think about those three men who were murdered recently?”
Lucy set her drink on the table. Wow, what a way to ruin the mood. She’d only met one of the poor guys. Lawrence aka luvstick had fallen into the seventy percent looking for quick sex, and she’d killed him off in chapter three. A few weeks later she’d read in the newspaper that someone had really killed him. Thinking about it was freaky. Ahuge coincidence that she tried not to think about. She looked into Quinn’s dark gaze, and she wondered if he was worried for his own safety. If she were a man, she’d be worried about it. “Are you afraid you could be next?”
He chuckled as if deeply amused and raised the Becks to his mouth. “Nah. I can take care of myself,” he said before he took a drink.
That’s probably what luvstick had thought. “Have you heard how the perpetrator is meeting her victims?”
He shook his head and lowered the bottle. A drop of beer clung to his top lip, and he sucked it off. “Have you?”
“No. The police must not have much evidence.”
He set the bottle on the table, and he did that intense tractor beam thing with his gaze again. As if what she’d said was important. “Why do you say that?”
The way he paid attention was odd, really. Yet at the same time flattering. “They don’t generally tell the press much if they don’t have a lot of evidence.” She’d read so many books and interviewed so many cops that she could practically predict how they’d behave. It was part of her job to know. Quinn was a plumber and wouldn’t necessarily know police procedure. “They like to keep certain aspects of cases from getting out. Things that only the killer would know. If they don’t have a lot, they don’t leak much.”
His dark brows lowered. “How does a nurse know all of that?”
Yeah, how did a nurse know all of that? She smiled. “Cold Case Files. Remember?”
“Ah.” He tilted his head back. “That’s right. Did you date any of the guys who were killed?”
Lucy looked down at the table and her hand resting next to her glass. After luvstick’s death, the newspaper had reported that he’d actually been married but had had a little bachelor pad/love nest set up in an apartment off State Street, where his body had been found. The report had been ugly and sordid, and his family hadn’t deserved having it splashed across the news. Lucy didn’t want to talk about luvstick. “No. I didn’t date any of them.” Which wasn’t a real lie. She didn’t consider meeting men at a coffee house a real date. Her sweater slid down her arm once more, and she decided just to leave it there. It wasn’t like anything was showing, and she was tired of pushing it back up. “You should be careful, though.”
Again he leaned forward to play with the candle. “Are you worried about me?”
With his wide shoulders, thick arms, and strong hands, he looked like he could sling her over his shoulder and run for a mile or two. He exuded complete confidence in himself and his abilities, but confidence didn’t stop a determined killer. “Do you want me to worry about you?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
He watched the flickering candle for several moments. Then he looked up, and his voice dropped to that smooth, seductive level that gave her tingles. “On what worrying about me involves.”
Lucy had been around enough men in her thirty-four years to know exactly where this conversation was headed. A part of her wanted to go there, too. The part that was attracted to Quinn beyond rationality and reason. The part that felt his testosterone-laced voice slide across her flesh and felt his gaze touch her everywhere at once, even as he stared into her eyes. But she hadn’t allowed that part of her to act irrationally since she’d learned the hard way that sex was much better with a man she actually knew. Sure, she’d gone to bed with her share of liars and losers, but at least she’d known the liars and losers for a while first. It seemed like a small distinction, but it was an important one. “Tell me about your plumbing business,” she said, introducing a nice, safe-boring-subject.
He chuckled and told her that he mostly ran the business end of it these days, as opposed to installing toilets and running pipe. Within minutes, the subject somehow changed from plumbing to field trials. She learned he had an Irish setter that he was training to hunt, and while she didn’t give a damn about bird dogs, she was a little surprised that the conversation didn’t bore her. Perhaps it was because of Quinn’s obvious pleasure in the subject, or maybe because he looked so good talking about it. Probably both.
The waitress approached the table just as Lucy polished off her mojito. Again the waitress gave Quinn a flirtatious smile, but he hardly spared her a glance. He asked Lucy if she’d like another drink or perhaps dinner. She declined and reached for her Dolce & Gabbana snakeskin clutch. She had to write at least ten pages tonight if she was going to meet her book deadline. She pulled out a ten-dollar bill, but Quinn insisted on settling the tab. He helped her with her coat, but this time his fingers did not brush the back of her neck as they had earlier.
She tied the belt at her waist and held out her hand. “Thank you.”
Instead of taking her hand, he grasped her beneath her arm and said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” They moved to the entrance, and he dropped his hand from her and opened the door. “Where did you park?”
“About half a block down Bannock.” Cool night air touched Lucy’s face and slid down the front of her coat. She pulled the lapels close. Light from the restaurants and bars lining both sides of Eighth Street lit up patches of sidewalk as they made their way to Lucy’s car. Occasional laughter from the bars leaked out into the night and drowned out the sound of Lucy’s heels hitting the concrete. Quinn’s arm brushed hers once, but other than that brief encounter, he didn’t touch her again.
“Have dinner with me Monday,” he said as they rounded the corner.
Monday. That was two days away. In the back of her brain, she knew she had plans, but at the moment she couldn’t remember what they were. But even if she didn’t, he was coming on so strong that Lucy didn’t know whether to feel flattered or stalked. “Oh, I don’t know.” Perhaps because he’d been out of the dating pool for so long, he’d forgotten the rules of dating. Clearly rule number one was to pretend indifference until you could ascertain the other person’s feelings. “I’m not really dating right now.”