Her lips quirked. ‘Are they now? And why’s that?’
‘Because they’ve got heat and spice—which is the way I like my enchiladas.’
She tilted her head to one side, propped her elbow on the table and ran her tongue over her bottom lip, torturing him. ‘Sold, Montoya.’
‘Call me Zane.’
‘Yes, Zane.’ The quick smile became astute. ‘Tell me something, do you date a lot of women?’
‘Why do you ask?’ That was a lot more direct than he was used to.
‘Because you’re very good at it. And you haven’t answered my question.’
‘I never date more than one at a time,’ he replied, not wanting to tell her it had been six months since he’d dated—and give this evening more significance than it deserved.
‘You’re very cagey. Is that part of the detective code? Not divulging personal information?’
‘No.’ He gave a half laugh, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. But he knew he’d been busted, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Women generally enjoyed it when you made them the focus of the conversation. He’d sure as hell never had one turn the tables on him this fast.
‘I’m an open book,’ he lied smoothly. He leaned back in his chair—the picture of relaxed indifference. ‘What do you want to know?
‘Why did you ask me out tonight?’
‘For all the usual reasons,’ he said carefully. Was that a trick question? No way was he going to tell her about his recently acquired butt-fetish.
‘Which are?’ she prompted.
The confusion cleared and he relaxed for real. She was looking for a compliment. Not surprising, given her recent association with Demarest. He leaned forward, happy to oblige.
‘You’re cute and tenacious. I admire your spirit—even if you do need a keeper when it comes to your personal safety—and I wanted to get to know you better.’
Truth was, he wanted to get to know her a lot better, but no need to go there yet.
Instead of her looking pleased with his answer, though, the light in her eyes dimmed and the colour in her cheeks bloomed. She stared out to sea for a moment, her smile pensive and more than a little sad. And he wondered where she’d gone.
‘You’re really a nice guy, aren’t you?’ she said at last. ‘I’m sorry I was so rude to you yesterday—you didn’t deserve that.’
Nice? What the hell?
Zane bristled, the spurt of irritation catching him off guard. No one had ever called him nice before. But before he could think of how to respond, a huge hand clasped his
shoulder, and he glanced round to find his primo Manuel—the last person he wanted to see—standing by the table.
‘Great to see you, compadre,’ Manuel boomed, the hearty smile making Zane tense even more. ‘Welcome back to my humble cantina.’
Cute!
Wasn’t that what Brad had once called her? And she’d despised it even then. Why couldn’t she be sexy, or, better yet, irresistible?
Iona let the grudging disappointment melt away as she listened to Zane’s friend Manuel wax lyrical about the blackened catfish enchiladas, which she already knew were Zane’s favourites. Her stomach rumbled loudly and the excitement of the evening seeped back.
Enough with the pity party. If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have asked.
And cute was better than what she’d begun to fear. That the only reason he’d asked her here was to interrogate her about her association with Brad. As long as the man sitting opposite never found out the truth about that, she could live with cute.
‘They sound ravishing, Manuel,’ she said, smiling when the proprietor’s warm mahogany eyes lit with enthusiasm. ‘But I already know how good they are from Zane’s sales pitch.’
Manuel beamed at Zane. ‘You like them? I didn’t know that.’