“Go on,” she said now. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because I sound like an asshole.” Not dinner conversation with a lady—at least not in his parents’ day.
He sounded exactly like what he was. A man with trust issues.
“You sound like a man who feels hounded by members of his own clan.” She was staring at his face, her gaze roaming over it, and he felt as though her fingers had caressed him. It left him wanting more.
“If I’m going to be used, I want to know about it,” he said slowly. “And I don’t want to care. Emotions are messy. They cause mistakes.”
Which explained the mess he was making of what could have been the best night of his adult life.
He was not making it easy for himself to get to where he really wanted the evening to go—his lips on hers.
“Emotions are most definitely unreliable,” she agreed. He watched her mouth move.
“So we build walls around ourselves...” His arm slid along the back of the booth behind them; his hand dropped to touch her bare shoulder.
“Thick ones.” Her husky voice could only be heard if he leaned in toward her.
“I pride myself on not trusting anyone until their trustworthiness has been tangibly proven to me.”
Her lips were inches away now.
She licked them. “How does one tangibly prove their trustworthiness to you?”
He was going to kiss her. Right then. Right there. Protocol be damned.
“Okay, your oil should be hot enough...”
Oh, God, the fantasy was gaining momentum and getting out of control.
“I’ll get your meat right out. Would either of you like more wine? Or a bottle of water?”
Their waitress had come around the corner. Colin hadn’t kissed Chantel.
Yet.
* * *
THEIR ASSORTED BITE-SIZE pieces of meat arrived on a large china platter. Chantel listened to instructions Colin had clearly heard before as he jumped into clarify a couple of times. Or demonstrate how to handle her fork in hot oil without losing her dinner to the bottom of the pot or getting burned.
When they were once again alone, and their first pieces of meat were bubbling side by side in the pot, Chantel tried to figure out how to get the conversation back on topic. On Julie. And hopefully Leslie, too.
How to make certain it never got as personal as it just had. Fate had intervened in the form of their waitress. Chantel was certain it had been fate. The timing had been too critical. Saving her from blowing what could turn out to be the biggest job of her life. By forgetting she was Chantel Johnson and letting Chantel Harris fall for her subject.
She’d almost kissed him. Right there in the restaurant. She, who’d never, ever felt comfortable with public displays of affection.
She didn’t believe in coincidences, so yes, fate was on her side...
Colin adjusted their forks so that his wasn’t beneath hers, lifting her meat out of the oil.
“I just need to say one more thing about Julie, and then we can put difficult topics aside and enjoy our evening together,” he said, as though he knew she’d been trying to find a way back. She and this man who was way out of her league were sympatico. Chantel wished she was surprised by that.
She also wished she didn’t find the fact quite so delicious. She just needed to eat. She was starving. She should have had more cheese.
“You don’t have to entertain me, Colin. I’m happy to talk about, or listen to, anything you need or want to share.”
Surely people in his circle shared real conversations when they were out alone among themselves, in personal settings. She had to get the information she needed out of him.
And then find a way to keep herself cool while she pretended to date him for as long as it took her to find out the truth—with usable proof—about Leslie and James Morrison.
To find out who’d raped Julie Fairbanks and bring him to justice.
His look thoughtful, he nodded. “The reason Julie didn’t want to pursue charges back then...”
She raised her brow and nodded, trying to show compassion but not avariciousness in her need to know. And felt like she was on the edge of her chair.
She had to stay on track.
The more information she could take to the commissioner, the better chance they had at finding the mole in the department. Because there was no record of Julie Fairbanks ever having made a complaint against anyone, for anything.
No official record of a medical report, either.
Which meant that someone in the Santa Raquel Police Department was guilty of a cover-up. She was going to have to find out who the rapist was. And track possible connections and associations from there. Both in the police department and in the court system...
And something told her that when she did that, she’d also find out who or what was keeping Leslie Morrison quiet. Talking to the woman wasn’t going to net her what she needed. If conversation could get Leslie to turn her husband in, Chantel wouldn’t be undercover.