on another chair, and until a few moments ago, he’d been in a similar pose.
And, as promised, there was popcorn. Microwave, but she hadn’t had enough to eat today to be especially choosy.
“Eleven and a half minutes passed from the time Christiansen pulled in to that convenience store lot and the security camera caught the back door of his car opening. In that time, the offender had to find a place to park, run to the convenience store lot, and break into the car.”
“We’ve already watched the videos from the areas closest to the lot,” she said around a yawn. He had to have left the car in a spot that he could access quickly without scouting beforehand. “He may have lucked into a parking place near no cameras.”
Nate dropped the tape he was extracting and, muttering a curse, bent to pick it up. Because she wasn’t dead, Risa tilted her head for a better view. The man was built. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and a tight behind. Topped off by his smoldering dark good looks and he was three for three in the tall, dark, and handsome category. She was only surprised she hadn’t tripped over some of his admirers yet.
Her mouth quirked. Of course, there had been the older woman calling to offer borscht. Which may have been wrapped up in an ethnic culinary bow, but there was little doubt what she’d really been suggesting. Risa was certain most women were far more obvious in their interest.
He turned then to say something, caught her gaze on him. A purely masculine smirk settled on his face. “Made you look, huh. See anything you like?”
Oh, yeah. Nate McGuire was definitely used to female attention. “You’ve got a hole in the seam of your pants.”
The smirk faded in dramatic fashion as he rose and twisted around, one hand going to his butt. Then he glanced at her. “I do not.”
It was her turn to smirk. “Made you look.”
“That’s what I like about you, Chandler. Your maturity.”
“That’s only because you don’t know me well enough to be familiar with my myriad other charms.” Punchy with weariness, she slouched farther down in her chair. “I’m a kick-ass chess player.”
Looking unimpressed, he slid a different tape into the slot and picked up the remote before heading back to the table. “I’m more of a checkers guy, myself. Although I’ve been known to get beaten by my five-year-old nephew, most of the time it’s because I let him win. Almost always,” he corrected himself.
Unwillingly charmed, she considered him. It was late. She was low on caffeine, sleep, and food, in that order. But there was something appealing in the open affection with which he spoke of his nephew. Coupled with the dangerously desirable sleepy-eyed and stubbled look he was sporting now, and she was skating perilously close to attraction.
She wouldn’t let it bother her. Tomorrow, when she was well rested and proactive enough to buy her own jug of coffee before heading in to work, she’d be back at the top of her game. Professionalism firmly in place. But right now, she let herself consider how long it’d been since she’d simply enjoyed the company of a good-looking man with whom she shared a common interest. Found the answer dismally difficult to summon.
There had been men since her divorce, but none that couldn’t be forgotten the moment Raiker sent her to whatever location a case demanded. Las Vegas, Chicago, Tampa, New Orleans. Few males of her acquaintance were content to put up with the weeks-at-a-time absences demanded by her work. Fewer still had elicited any real regret when they’d moved on.
She had a feeling that leaving Nate McGuire behind could lead to a boatload of remorse. Which was only one of the many reasons there was no way she’d allow anything to start between them.
Risa was carrying all of the regrets she could handle already.
To distract herself from the familiar gloom just threatening to settle, she picked up the original thread of the conversation. “Took my police basketball team to the city championship three years running.”
“Yeah?” That disclosure was met with more interest than the first. He resettled himself in his chair and started the tape. “Why do I have the feeling you think you’re hot shit on the court?” His look was appraising. “You play college level?”
“Penn State.”
“Bunch of pussies.” He coupled the trash talk with a smile. “I quarterbacked for the Fighting Irish. We regularly kicked the Nittany Lions’ ass.”