“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.
She’d never been with a man who’d left her standing on her porch, staring after him and wishing he’d come back and give her a little more right then and there. No man had ever turned down her invitation for coffee.
As the Jeep pulled away, Lucy opened her door and entered the house. She locked the dead bolt behind her and flipped on the ceiling light in the living room. Well, she thought as she moved across the room and sank onto her burgundy silk couch, she didn’t have to wonder if he’d asked her out for sex. “I want more,” he’d said. To most men, sex was more.
She tossed her purse on her antique Chinese coffee table and stared at the brick fireplace to her left. He wasn’t married, and he’d just proved he wasn’t out for a quickie. He wanted more, but was that what she wanted?
Jumping into a relationship seemed a little precipitous. Rash. Crazy. She hadn’t known him long enough. She didn’t have time for a man. Especially a man who could be looking to replace his wife. All of those things spelled heartache for Lucy, but deep down inside, none of those very rational reasons mattered.
She wanted to see more of him. There was something about Quinn, some thing that made her smile and her stomach flutter a little. He intrigued
her and made her want to slide her hands all over him. Yeah, she definitely wanted to see what he meant by “more.”
But there was just one small problem. For any sort of relationship to survive, it had to be built on the truth. She had to be honest with him.
No more lies.
Chapter 7
Down2basix: Seeks Nontalker…
The last rays of the setting sun painted the valley in blue and pink as Quinn finished testifying in the Raymond Deluca case. He pushed open the glass doors of the Ada County Court House and pulled a breath of fresh air into his lungs. Outside, a chopped Nissan added its high-pitched whine to the traffic speeding past on Myrtle Street. A cool April breeze tugged at his red tie and the lapels of his navy wool blazer as he headed across the brick sidewalk toward the parking lot.
Raymond Deluca’s defense lawyer had gone after Quinn as he’d expected, attacking the time line and questioning the forensic evidence, trying to make it appear as if Quinn hadn’t done his job. After sixteen years of experience, Quinn had been ready for everything the lawyer had thrown at him. In the end, there had been no way the lawyer could discredit that gasoline transaction at 2:35 a.m.
Quinn moved across the parking lot and unlocked the door to his white unmarked car. Mr. Deluca was up for capital murder and would probably get the death penalty. Quinn supposed he should feel bad at the prospect. He supposed it was the compassionate, human way to feel, but he’d been at the autopsy of Mrs. Deluca and her three children. He’d seen what the fire had done to them, and he was fresh out of compassion for anyone but the victims.
He fired up his car and headed across town. He turned on Grove Street and drove past the Grove Hotel, with its infamous river sculpture on the exterior wall.
The sculpture was supposed to represent the Boise River, but it resembled quake damage more than anything else. It wasn’t uncommon to see tourists standing in front of the multicolored crack, their brows scrunched as they wondered what the hell they were supposed to be looking at. To confuse them further, the crack sometimes wafted steam, which was supposed to resemble fog. It didn’t.
Quinn was the first to admit that he knew zero to nothing about art. There were really cool sculptures and paintings around the city; the crack in the Grove Hotel just wasn’t one of them.
He pulled to a stop at a red light and reached for his sunglasses. With the Deluca case behind him, his thoughts turned to Lucy. He was a cop, trained to pay attention to detail and have near-perfect recall, but he didn’t need any tricks of the trade to recall every second of the night before when he’d stood on her front porch kissing her. He’d held her face in his hands with her smooth hair tangled in his fingers. Her mouth had tasted like warm woman, and she’d melted into him. He’d reminded himself he’d just been doing his job. That the woman running her hands up and down his chest and making him hard enough to pound nails was a murder suspect. He’d kept his hands on her face to keep them from traveling south to more interesting places. He might have given into his urge to touch her waist and hips and breasts. To drive her as crazy as she was him, but she’d slid her hands to his back, and he’d grabbed her wrists a split second before she’d discovered the recorder taped to his back.
He would have loved to have taken her up on her first and second invitation for coffee. He would have loved to have followed her inside and checked out her bra right before he’d have buried his face in her cleavage. He would have damn sure loved to have stripped her naked and do the hot sweaty deed, but he couldn’t have followed her inside and jumped on her. Breathless did her work in the victim’s bed, not her own. Sure, he probably should have followed Lucy inside and maybe gotten more information out of her, but he just wasn’t into prolonged torture.
The traffic light turned green, and by the time he got to the office it was the end of his shift. He filled Sergeant Mitchell in on what had taken place in court that day. They talked about the latest developments in the Breathless case. He had a date that night with a new suspect, Carol Rey, aka sugarbaby. Carol was an Internet dater, an employee of Hastings Books and Music, and she loved animals. Once again, Quinn would buy a woman coffee and set the bait to see if he could hook a serial killer.
By the time Quinn returned home after his date that evening, he was exhausted but knew it would be hours before he slept. Hopped up on coffee and conversation, his mind went over every detail of the past several hours.
Carol had been a nice-looking woman. She’d seemed normal enough-until she’d started talking about her ex-husband. She’d torn into the man, ripping him apart for his job performance in and out of bed. That kind of resentment produced a lot of hatred, and Kurt would e-mail her in the morning and set up a second date.
Quinn grabbed his laptop and files off the counter in the kitchen and moved down the hall to his office. He flipped on the light and walked to his desk in the corner. Across the room he’d set up a treadmill and weight bench. Detectives ate on the go, in greasy spoons, or at their desks. At the age of thirty-six, Quinn had to work out five days a week to stay in shape and stave off the love handles that plagued a lot of cops.
He sank into his office chair and set the laptop and files on his desk. He booted the computer and scratched Millie’s head as he waited for the program to appear.
Even after two months of online dating, Quinn was still taken aback at the things women confessed to virtual strangers on a first date. If they were telling him about past husbands and lovers, he was sure they were telling everyone else they dated, too. Sometimes it got so bad that he had to fight the urge not to lean across the table and say, “Honey, I don’t want to hear about your former husband’s foot odor, and I sure as hell don’t want to know he had to take Viagra, Cialis, or Enzyte. Some shit you just keep to yourself.”
Lucy was the only woman he’d dated that he’d actually had to ask about former boyfriends. Of course, Lucy had a bad habit of lying her ass off, so whether she’d managed the truth was open to speculation.
He reached for the phone on his desk and glanced at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m., and he flipped open his notebook and wrote down the time. On the fifth ring, she picked up.
“Hello.”
“Lucy, it’s Quinn.” He leaned back in his chair and moved his head from side to side to work out the kinks in his neck. “I’m just calling to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow night.”
“Hang on.” There was a pause like she put the phone down. A few drawers opened and closed, then she picked up again. “Okay. Yeah, but I was thinking you should come in for a drink first. Or we could just stay here and order takeout.”
Breathless never killed and moved the body, and she probably never invited a suspect to her home. “Sounds good.” The phone made a soft thud, as if she’d dropped it.
“Sorry,” she said and confirmed his suspicion. “I dropped the phone.”
He tapped the pen on his desk and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m standing here in my underwear getting ready to put on my pajamas.”
The pen stopped. “I’ll let you go,” he said as a vision of her wearing licorice candy pants flashed into his head.
“It’s okay. I’m going to kick my feet up and watch a little television before bed. What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just sitting around.” In his mind, he had her dressed up in an edible bra too. He wondered if she got kinky. Not the kind of kinky that killed a man, but the kind that let him eat off her undies. Quinn hadn’t worked undercover in over four years now, but he still knew how it was done. When to push and how far. He set down his pen and told himself he was just doing his job. “Are they edible?” But he knew his curiosity was more than just work.
There was a pause, during which he half-expected her to tell him to go to hell. “My feet?”
“Your panties.”
Another pause and then, “No. They’re white satin.”
He swallowed, the chair swi
veled, and the arm bumped Millie’s face. She looked at him like he’d done it on purpose and left the room. He didn’t want to talk dirty in front of his dog and watched her go before asking, “Any lace?”
“No.”
Damn, he liked lace on a woman.
She added just above a whisper. “But there’s pink ribbon.”
Damn. “Tell me more about the ribbon.”
“It’s woven around the tops of my thighs, and there’s little bows.”
He closed his eyes and imagined it. Imagined that pink ribbon warmed by the heat between her legs. Those panties suddenly sounded edible to him. “Are you wearing a bra?”
Her breath whispered across the line, and he could picture her pink lips. “Yes.”
“Does it match your panties?”
“Yes.”
He sucked a breath deep into his lungs and pressed his palm against his erection. “Where’s the ribbon?”
“Woven down the front.”
He could imagine that, too. “Are your nipples hard?”
Instead of answering, she asked, “Are you hard, Quinn?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in the habit of talking dirty on the phone?” Her voice was seductive as hell.
“No.” He pictured her standing right in front of him, her hair spilling across her shoulders like the sun, her feet slightly apart as he ran his hands up the backs of her thighs while he put his mouth on her flat belly. “But I’m willing to give it a try if you are, Sunshine.”
Her quiet laughter reached him across the phone line. “See you tomorrow night, Quinn,” she said and disconnected.
He opened his eyes and half expected to see her standing in front of him. Instead his gaze focused on the work laid out on his desk. On the mounds of folders, notes, laptop, and the photographs of Mary and Donny’s kids.
The silence in the room pressed in on him. The weight of it sat on his chest and forced him to feel the loneliness deep in the black pit of his soul. For several seconds, it was stronger than him and threatened to close his throat. Then he beat it back and shoved it down once again.
Sex, Lies, And Online Dating Page 8
