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She shook her head. “I’ve been asked a time or two, but my parents’ marriage was nothing to write home about. I think I’m better off on my own.”
“That’s what I thought until Angie came along and led me around by my libido.”
She laughed. “What a way to put it.”
“Nothing like the truth for getting through life.”
“Well said.”
“I can do the laundry.”
“No,” she said. “You’re dressed to go out, so I expect you’re investigating the kidnapping. All I have to do is put the clothes in and go to bed. By the time I wake up, they can go into the dryer.”
“I appreciate that,” he said. “I spend part of my life in laundromats and dry cleaners. And the repair lady.”
“The repair lady?”
He opened his jacket to show the pistol on his belt. “Plays havoc with clothing, especially suit coats.”
“Wow. I never thought of that,” she said, eyeing the gun with no fear showing.
“Aren’t you afraid of guns?” he asked.
“Heavens, no! Remember I told you my dad was a cop, but he was also a triple-A skeet shooter. I have a twenty-eight-gauge shotgun and I know how to use it.”
He laughed. “I’ve very rarely seen a woman who’d pick up a shotgun, much less use it.” He grimaced. “Angie hated weapons. I tried to explain to her that it went with the badge, but she never got used to it.”
“Tools of the trade,” she said simply.
He eyed her clothes. She was wearing a colorful paisley shirt with plain cotton trousers and a lanyard with a nurses’ badge around her neck.
“Where’s the white cap?” he asked.
“We haven’t worn uniforms in years,” she pointed out. “Scrubs are much more comfortable and easier to keep clean.”
“I guess so.” He studied her. “You look nice in that.”
She flushed. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for breakfast. And the laundry,” he added.
“No problem at all. I’m Annalisa Davis, by the way,” she said, extending a hand.
He took it in his big one. “I’m Tom. Tom Jones.”
She looked at him, raised an eyebrow over twinkling silver eyes, and began to sing the Tom Jones song, ‘What’s New, Pussycat.”
“I will tell everybody in town that you’re a pole dancer,” he cautioned.
She grinned and started to pull her hand away, but he kept it, smiling down at her. She made him feel warm inside, bubbly. He was a man who smiled very rarely. She was getting to him.
“Don’t oversleep,” he teased softly, and bent and brushed his mouth tenderly against hers. “And don’t get attached to me,” he added when he lifted his head. His expression was solemn. “I’m only a passing ship in the night. When I finish this case, I go home,” he added.
“I know all that,” she said. “I promise not to follow you, wailing all the while, on your way to Chicago.”
He grinned. “Fair enough. Just so you know. I like you. But I’m not marriage material.”
“Don’t sweat it. Neither am I.”
