As the game progressed, Quinn picked up the rules and began to see that hockey wasn’t as chaotic as it seemed at first glance. Halfway through the third period, Lucy leaned close to Quinn and pointed to the penalty box, where a guy sat getting tampons shoved up his nose. “See number seventy-one, he still has the black eye he got four games ago.”
Quinn folded his arms across his jacket and told himself not to look at her so close again. Not to get excited. To just do his damn job. “Who did you come with to that game?” He couldn’t recall if any of his victims had been to hockey games.
“My friend Adele. She loves hockey, too. We spend a lot of time arguing about who’s the hottest player.”
Before he could stop himself, Quinn looked over his shoulder into Lucy’s eyes. “So, who’s the hottest player tonight?”
One corner of her mouth lifted. “Number twenty-eight on the Steelheads. He’s sitting on the bench right now.”
He glanced across the rink and looked at the hockey player with his helmet shoved up his forehead, chewing on his mouth guard. “You’re kidding. He looks about nineteen.”
“Actually, he’s twenty-two.”
“He’s barely legal.” She’d obviously read up on him.
Her eyes got all wide and innocent. “Barely legal for what?”
“You know what, and if I were looking at some twenty-two-year-old woman, you’d think I was a pervert.”
“True,” she said through a grin. “Aren’t double standards a bitch?”
He preferred women around his own age. Mostly because women his age knew what they were doing in bed, but he knew better than to say that out loud. Women were always talk talk talking about how they wanted you to tell them the truth, but they didn’t. “I like women in their thirties. There’s more to talk about.”
“That’s probably true, but-”
Quinn slid his gaze to Lucy’s. “But what?”
Her brows lowered, and she shook her head. “Who said anything about talking?”
Quinn chuckled deep in his chest. Her directness not only surprised him but it was also refreshing as hell. He appreciated a woman who was honest about sex.
Too bad she was busy lying to him about everything else. Yeah, he was lying, too. But he was trying to catch a serial killer before she struck again. Part of being a cop was being a good liar. It was his job, and he was good at it. Lucy wasn’t a good liar, and if she had nothing to hide, why was she lying like it was her job?
The Steelheads beat the Gulls by two points and would face off with them again for a chance at the Kelly Cup title. Lucy had never been to a game with a man. She’d always gone with her friends. Tonight had been quite a different experience. Usually, the action on the ice kept her attention riveted on the men skating up and down the rink, running into each other and duking it out over six ounces of vulcanized rubber. Tonight, she’d been distracted by the man sitting next to her. The man who’d looked at her as if they’d been the only two people in an arena filled with thousands of screaming hockey fans.
After the hockey game, Quinn drove Lucy home, but he refused to come inside the house for coffee. Instead they sat on her porch swing. Lucy brought out a blanket, and they looked at the stars through the bare trees.
As the swing gently swayed back and forth, Quinn asked about her life and told her about his. He talked about the time he’d popped wheelies on his Schwinn to impress the neighbor girl only to end up in the emergency room with a broken arm. Somehow, they got on the subject of her past relationships. Lucy usually didn’t talk about past boyfriends with potential future boyfriends, but for some reason, Quinn got her to talk about all the losers that littered her past.
He told her about his home off Boise Avenue that he’d bought after the death of his wife, Millie. He talked about the gazebo he and his brother had built in his backyard, and he invited her over to check out his Jacuzzi. Anytime. The skeptical part of Lucy that kept looking for problems relaxed a bit. A married man didn’t invite a woman over to his house, anytime.
They talked about the latest episodes of Cold Case Files and The First 48. Once again the conversation turned to the local men who’d been killed, and they speculated about the killer. It occurred to her that every time she was with Quinn the conversation turned in that direction, but she didn’t think much about it. Talking true crime was fascinating for her, and it was one thing they seemed to have in common.
“Off the top of my head, I would say that the perpetrator is an attractive woman with above average intelligence,” she said, as she tried to recall all the research she’d done over the years. “She has an antisocial personality disorder, probably psychopathic rather than sociopathic. She is controlled and organized.”
The swing slowly rocked, and Quinn looked at her beneath the porch light and asked, “Do you have an alibi for the nights of the murders?” He gave her one of his most charming smiles, like he’d meant it as a joke, but something within the depths of his brown eyes told her he was deadly serious.
In the distance, a back door slammed and a dog barked. She supposed that if the situation were reversed-if women were the victims-she’d want to know the same thing. “I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully. “Working, I imagine.”
“Diapering newborns?”
“Yeah.” Lying about her job was starting to make her feel more and more guilty, but now was not the time to confess. “Are you worried I’m going to murder you?”
“Not worried.” He tipped his head to the side, and this time the smile did reach his eyes. “Although it has crossed my mind that I should search your body for weapons.” He stood and tossed the blanket onto the swing. “But not tonight,” he said and pulled her to her feet. He placed his hands on the sides of her face and slowly lowered his head. His gaze stared into hers as his lips lightly brushed her mouth. Soft and sweet, as if he had all night and into the next morning. His breath hitched in his chest and feathered across her cheek as his tongue slid across her lower lip. The kiss teased a heated response deep in the pit of Lucy’s stomach, turning her on with just the light brush of his mouth. Her hands slipped up the front of his leather jacket, and she grasped both sides of the open zipper in her fists. She raised onto the balls of her feet and parted her lips. She felt a moment of hesitation, then bam, the kiss turned hot and wet, like it slammed into him and he couldn’t hold back a second more. Like he meant to eat her alive and couldn’t get enough.
Beneath her porch light, his tongue touched and teased, spreading liquid heat through her. His thumbs brushed her temples and cheeks, and he moaned deep in his throat. She slipped her hands under his jacket, and she felt his hard muscles bunch as she slid her hands up and down his chest and stomach. She moved her palms around his sides to the middle of his back. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he grabbed her wrists and took a step forward. He forced her back against her front door and pinned her hands next to her head.
“You can’t touch me,” he said through harsh, ragged breaths.
“Why?”
He pressed his forehead into hers. “Because I like you too much.”
Against her lower abdomen she could feel every inch of how much he liked her. He was long and rock hard, and he made her want to rub against him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for coffee?”
“No, I’m not sure.” He shook his head, dropped her wrists, and took a step back. “But if I come in, I’ll want to make love to you. I don’t think we’re ready for that. Not yet.”
What? He was a guy. Guys were always ready for that.
“I want more,” he said and turned to leave. “I’ll call you.”
Lucy stood with her back against the door and watched him walk down the steps. “Good night,” she whispered. The big moon shone through the naked limbs of the huge oak and walnut trees and lit Quinn in pale light as he moved down her sidewalk to his Jeep parked at the curb.