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Meanwhile, Bob Bix and his cronies were tucking into soufflés and moving on to dessert wine. If Jack wasn’t distracted by how quiet Honeywell was, he’d be writing paragraphs in his head.
She kept her eerie eyes down on her plate, so he could look at her without being caught out. Her complexion wasn’t milk and roses, and it wasn’t bought at Macy’s and troweled on. She’d seen a lot of sunshine in her life, a lot of weather, and it had given her freckles, given her skin a kind of depth that didn’t come from hours in front of a mirror. There was something about her hands that told him she was more than he understood as well. A fine white scar ran across the last three knuckles of her left hand, short nails, polished a bright pink she kept touching as if she wasn’t sure of the texture or the color. Those hands had done more than worry a keyboard.
She wore no jewelry, no bobbing earrings or jangling bracelets, nothing that flashed or glittered. Her watch was serviceable, a nothing brand. Those absences were remarkable. He’d lay a bet on her hair being wildly curly when it wasn’t styled. And another on the fact she hadn’t worn heels all her adult life.
He’d say she was playacting at being the kind of grown-up woman who painted her nails, but it wasn’t like she wobbled in her shoes or chose awful lipstick or wore too much perfume, and the dress was a knockout, a fabric that had felt silky under his hand.
Whatever those observations added up to, it was enough to make his skin go tight with feeling. It was a bad idea to feel anything for Honeywell. He kept sex out of the work equation. He should never have invited her here, decoy or not; she was a distraction he needed to dispense with, guilt he needed to find another way to deal with.
Fists were good for that, but he’d already tried to have the sense of her beaten out of him and he couldn’t do that again for a few weeks. Tired beyond thought was good. If he was going to stay ahead of Bix and the Keepsafe fraud story, he had a long few weeks of work ahead.
She sipped at her green tea and he realized they’d been silent for some time. “You don’t seem brittle to me, Honeywell.”
She closed her mouth around a forkful of cake and double blinked. Brittle, what kind of a word was that to use? He made it sound like he’d considered her readiness to shatter and found it, to his imminent satisfaction. What a bastard of a thing to say.
“I mean, I’m sure you’ll make it.”
She rubbed her lips together. It was a very quick kiss and he hadn’t caught the flavor of her, but then he had no right to that—he could barely make conversation with her. What he’d just said was the equivalent of patting her on the head like a good dog.
He dropped his eyes to a safer place than her lips, a new message on his cell, and she said, “Keep digging.” She was blurry when he looked at her over the top of his glasses, but he didn’t miss the cheeky smile. “Every time you open your mouth you dig a bigger hole.”
“That appears to be the case.”
She made an open-handed flourish. “Can write like a god, but can’t make small talk with his decoy date.”
“See, you’re not brittle at all.”
She pushed her plate away. “I’m too well fed to be brittle.”
“You look like you’re in good shape.” Oh shit, was there no end to his shoveling. Good shape, like she was a boxer. One, what the hell was he doing commenting on her figure, two, she was fucking gorgeous, and three, shut the fuck up.
“You are a crack up, Jackson Haley. This is the best fake birthday date I’ve
ever been on.”
It was also over. Robert Bix was on the move. Jack’s need to hear him say the names of the other two men he’d dined with to confirm they were Michael Whelan and Manny Noakes had him on his feet, credit card in hand. While the other men were dithering over their coats, he paid up and hustled Honeywell outside, seconds before Bix came through the door with his guests. He’d wanted to find a place to stand where he would still hear but not be seen, but there was no time. He put his hands to Honeywell’s shoulders and backed her into the restaurant’s glass wall.
She made a sharp sound of surprise and her hands went to his chest. He managed to stop her smacking her head on the black glass before he brought their foreheads together. Her peppermint breath puffed across his mouth and she twined her hands around his neck.
“Not brittle at all,” she said.
There was that floral scent, there were those curvy hips he’d tried not to notice. She felt good in his arms despite the fact he’d bumped his brow and knocked his glasses askew.
Two feet from them Bix said, “Ah, Michael, next meal is on you,” and Michael—possibly Whelan—said, “No, no, it’s on Manny.”
Jack adjusted his glasses while Manny—possibly Noakes—agreed. “Are they paying any attention to us?” Derelie’s eyes were wide pools of opalescent wonder, centered on his face. He could only see his suspects as shadows on the glass wall. “Honeywell.”
She turned her head sharply toward Bix and friends. “No. They’re drunk. What should I do?”
“Pretend this is not making your skin crawl.”
She shook her head, but he didn’t have time to interpret that. Bix was on his phone to his car service. “Pick up for Michael Whelan,” he said, and gave what Jack prayed was Whelan’s home address. Bix did the same for Manny—most definitely Noakes—of a very fashionable address by the lake. Jack had double confirmation, full names and addresses, which Bix knew without prompting after more alcohol than was sensible for a man of his age.
These men knew each other well enough to be colluding, just as Henri Costa’s information suggested. They were scum and Jack would expose them. But right now he needed to avoid the same fate.
He shifted closer to Derelie, one hand to the wall behind her, the other to her cheek. He brought his forehead to hers so they were sheltered in each other. Her eyes went to his mouth and her chest rose with short, quick breaths, and all the blood in his brain took a fast train south. He was vaguely aware of a car pulling up, men’s voices, but the whoosh of his own heart was louder than the city.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered.
