From: hardluvnman@hotmail.com
To: n2u@mail.net
Lucy,
I enjoyed talking to you last night while gazing into your sparkling blue eyes. You are very different from the women I’ve met recently. Smart and intriguing. I have always been a sucker for brains and beauty. Meet me for dinner and let me see if I can turn that spark in your eyes into a flame.
Quinn
Lucy read the e-mail three times and didn’t know whether to gag or…or be pleased. Which was patently ridiculous. Last night hadn’t been a real date, but even if it had been real, it had turned into a disaster. So why was he asking her out again?
What was wrong with him?
Mr. Snookums butted his head into her jaw, and she shoved him out of her lap. The cat hit the floor with a heavy thud, and he let out an angry meow. Lucy was going to turn Quinn down, of course, but before she did, she forwarded the e-mail to her friends to get their reactions.
Typical of Clare, she thought Lucy should give Quinn points for at least trying to sound romantic. “He did get the color of your eyes right.”
Adele wrote, “What kind of guy writes about sparks and flames? Is he trying too hard?”
Maddie made her opinion known with one short sentence. “Don’t engage the freaks.”
Lucy laughed and glanced at her calender. Next Saturday, she had to speak at the Women of Mystery readers and writers group, but other than that she was free. She talked to her friends all the time, but she hadn’t been out with them for a month. “Let’s get together Monday for chimichangas and margaritas,” she suggested to her friends, then pushed Send. Next she brought up Quinn’s e-mail and clicked Reply.
She didn’t have time for a man, especially a hardluvnman who wanted to gaze into her eyes and turn her spark into a flame.
A single votive candle flickered within red jars in the center of each table inside the Red Feather restaurant and lounge. The noise level rose and fell, from the obnoxious laughter of those who’d had a few too many, to the steady murmur of those who hadn’t.
Quinn sat at a table with his back to the wall, the entrance and the door to the kitchen within view. He didn’t expect trouble. Not tonight, but sizing up his surroundings and zeroing in on the most advantageous spot was so ingrained that it was a part of him, like the way he tied his shoes or brushed his teeth or read a person’s demeanor. Within minutes of walking into the lounge, he’d ascertained the lowlives in the place. It didn’t matter that some of them wore expensive suits and drank expensive wine. He’d arrested enough of them to know that criminals crossed all social and economic bounds.
Quinn pushed the sleeves of his thick olive green sweater up his forearms and reached for the drink menu propped next to the candle. The flat transformer was once again taped to the small of Quinn’s back, just above the waistband of his black trousers. Across the street, Anita sat in the van, with her receiving equipment filtering out background noises, while Kurt waited in the kitchen to snag a glass with legible fingerprints. Tomorrow night, they would repeat the same process with Maureen Dempsey.
The door to the Red Feather Lounge opened, and Quinn lifted his attention from the drink menu. Lucy Rothschild stepped inside looking even better than he remembered. It had taken Kurt two e-mails to coax her into meeting Quinn, but here she was, wrapped up in a black trench coat that tied at the waist and covered her to her knees. She wore red shoes with high heels, and for one brief second, Quinn let himself wonder if she was naked beneath that coat.
She looked right at him, and he stood and moved from behind the corner table. Subdued bar lights shone in the gold hair curling about her shoulders. She walked toward him looking like a centerfold and turning heads. Her hair bounced a little with each graceful step.
Too bad she might be psychotic.
He took the soft hand she offered him. Her fingers were chilled, and he looked down into her face, searching for signs that she was crazy. The kind of crazy that slipped a bag over a man’s head while she rode him like Seabiscuit. All he saw was a hint of humor shining in her deep blue eyes.
“You’re on time,” she said with the same humor curving her red lips. “Your dog didn’t get into the trash tonight?”
“No. I put the garbage in the garage before I left.”
She let go of his hand and set a small red purse on the table. “I was a little surprised to get your e-mail.” She reached for her belt, and Quinn moved behind her.
“The first e-mail? Or the second one, when I had to beg?” The tips of his fingers brushed the smooth skin of her neck as he moved her hair aside and grasped her coat by the collar. She smelled like his mother’s garden in spring, and holding her hair was like holding a bit of sunshine. Like…he stopped. Good Lord, he was beginning to sound like those sappy e-mails Kurt sent. Even in his own head. If he wasn’t careful, before he knew it he’d be listening to Jewel and writing shitty poetry.
She looked up at him over her shoulder, and her cheek brushed the backs of his fingers. “You didn’t beg. You were persistent.”
“Whatever you call it, it worked.” He let her hair go and held the collar as she shrugged out of the coat. He was in the Red Feather to work the Breathless case, not get sidetracked by how her hair smelled or her smooth cheek. Tonight he was going to listen and watch and seduce information out of her. If that meant he was going to have to seduce the hell out of her in the process, he was only doing his job. At some point in the investigation, he might have to slide his hand to the back of her head and bring her mouth to his. And while he did that, he was going to remember that she was the number one suspect in a criminal investigation. It wasn’t personal. It was the job.
“I turned you down the first time because I’m really not dating right now.”
He handed the coat to her, and she hung it over the back of a chair. “Why is that?” She wore one of those fuzzy red sweaters made of rabbit or something equally soft. It clung to the tops of her arms, defying gravity and leaving her neck and shoulders bare.
“I’m extremely busy with work,” she said as his gaze slid lower, down her spine and over the curve of her behind covered in a black skirt that reached just above the backs of her knees.
He held her chair for her while she sat. “At the hospital?”
She stilled for a fraction of a second, then said, “Yeah.”
“Which floor do you work on?” He moved to sit across the small table from her.
Silence as she reached for the drink menu, then, “Maternity. Hmm…let’s see here. What should I have? Martini or mojito?”
She wasn’t all that great a liar. He’d certainly been around better, but not all sociopaths were good liars. Even some of the bad ones still managed to pass a polygraph. But the one thing all of them had in common was a total lack of conscience.
A waitress who didn’t even look old enough to serve drinks approached the table. Lucy ordered a mojito, Quinn, a bottle of Becks. While they waited, he sat back in his chair and tilted his head to one side. Time to get busy. “Tell me about yourself.”
She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table. “I’m so dull I’d hate to bore you to death.”
“Oh, I doubt you could do that.” The candle in the center of the table flickered, scattering tiny shards of light across her clavicle and bare shoulders. “Tell me about your family.”
“There’s really not much to tell. My mother and father divorced when I was in the sixth grade. They fought a lot, so it wasn’t a big shock when my dad left.” She shrugged, and the little right sleeve of her sweater slid down her smooth arm to her elbow. “After that, my mother worked long hours, and I took care of my little brother.”
“How old is your brother?”
“He’s twenty-four. I’m ten years older than Matt.” She raised a hand to push the sweater back up to the edge of her shoulder. “How about you? Brothers? Sisters?”