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“I didn’t say I wanted a drink.”
“If you wanted one, what would it be?”
She’d never thought of herself as particularly stubborn, but even if she were, she didn’t think she’d reach his level.
“Maybe something lighter. Pinot grigio.”
He poured a glass of red, a glass of white, then locked the wine cooler.
“Let’s take these outside. You may be tired,” he continued, “but you’re wound up with it. So wind down.”
He took both glasses, waited for her to cross over and open the door.
When she’d closed it again, he took the closest table, sat.
“Did he really look that much like Rozwell?”
Shaking her head, she gave up and sat. “No. The build, the hair, and he was dressed in that I’m-casual-but-stylish way.”
“Uh-huh. Did Jen teach you to chase down a murdering bastard and punch him in the face?”
“Of course not. I just… reacted.”
“I was sitting right there. Security’s a couple taps away on your phone.”
“I couldn’t think, sure as hell didn’t think.” She sampled the wine. Cool and light, like the air. “It’s not an excuse, but I don’t think I’d have reacted that way except he killed another woman.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. A couple weeks ago. I just found out. He got another credit card in my name,” she continued, and told him.
“They found his hotel. He either dyed his hair or wore a red wig. He checked out the day after he killed her and took a cab to the airport.But he never went in the terminal. He stole a car from long-term parking. He had five days before the owner got back and reported it, so he could be anywhere.”
“He wouldn’t have gotten past Security and walked into Après.”
“I didn’t think about Security. I didn’t think at all. I panicked.”
“No.” Miles kept his gaze locked with her. “You didn’t panic until you realized you’d grabbed the wrong guy. Up until then, you looked ready to kick some ass. Are you prone to panic attacks?”
“Not before. Not ever. Since? I’ve had a few, I guess, but nothing like that.”
“Mad’s better, if you can hold on to it. Are you going to call him? The guy you mistook. He gave you his card,” Miles added when she looked blank.
“Oh. No. Definitely no. First, it’s bad policy whatever the circumstances. Second? Circumstances. Add the last guy I dated—and only a couple times at that—turned out to be a serial killer. Sort of puts you off the process.”
“You’re feeling better.”
She tipped her head back to look up at the stars. “I guess I am.”
“Then there’s the asshole with the fries.”
“Oh yeah. He was a winner.” She lifted her glass in toast. “The sort who knows leaving a single on the bar’s more insulting than leaving nothing.”
“What’s his story?” Miles wondered. “You’d have one.”
“He likes being an asshole. It makes him feel important, especially when it’s to service people or underlings. He wore a Rolex, looked like the real deal, and his room number’s one of the suites on the Club Level, so he can afford to be generous. He’s just not made that way. He’s a terrible boss, impatient, demanding, and rude because he can be.”
Sipping his wine, Miles watched her. “What about his wife?”
