A Profiler's Case for Seduction - By Carla Cassidy Page 0,21

her life.

“You mentioned you got married at eighteen. That’s really young.”

“That was my first marriage,” she replied, and then blushed. He raised a dark eyebrow. “I’ve tried marriage twice and both were dismal failures.” The last attempt at a happily-ever-after had sent her descending into the very pits of hell.

“You mentioned the other day that you married a man like your father.” He took a bite of the garlic bread and then washed it down with a sip of wine.

“Billy Cook.” She carefully unfolded her napkin on her lap, refusing to look up as she continued. “I had just graduated from high school and I thought he was my escape from my father, from my life, but instead he was just more of the same abuse and misery. We divorced when I was twenty and then when I was thirty I decided to try the institute of marriage once again.”

She paused and looked at him. “Surely I’m boring you.”

“On the contrary, I find you and your life fascinating. Who was husband number two?”

“Jimmy Martin. He worked at the bank in town, had an aura of respect and genuine politeness that was appealing to me. He’d come into the café almost every night and flirt shamelessly with me. One thing led to another and we got married. It lasted for two years before things fell apart and that’s when I decided romance and marriage just didn’t fit into my life.”

Billy had been her need to escape, Jimmy had been her first real love and in the end he’d led to her near destruction.

“I feel the same way,” Mark said, pulling her from her teetering on the edge of painful memories. “Been there, done that and made a mess of the whole thing. I wouldn’t be too eager to try the marriage scene again anytime soon.”

His words put Dora at ease. Knowing that they were both on the same page and that this was just a meal between new friends, she felt her nervous tension ebb.

By the time the waitress arrived with their meals, they were deep in a conversation about college football, the traditions of homecoming and the upcoming festivities.

“Friday night before the game on Saturday they always build a huge bonfire on the right quadrant of the campus. It draws a massive crowd and they burn an effigy of a football player from the other team,” she said as she dug into her chicken Alfredo.

“Sounds barbaric,” he said drily.

She laughed. “Oh, it is. One of the fraternities sponsors it and there are plenty of keg parties before and after. The college board turns a blind eye to all the shenanigans on that one night of the year.”

The conversation remained light and easy as they ate. They both admitted that there were no traditions or rituals where they had grown up.

“I guess the biggest tradition that occurred in my household was that each year at Thanksgiving time my mother would order a turkey already stuffed and cooked from the local butcher,” he said. “We didn’t actually sit down to eat it at any specific time. It was just left out on the counter for us to help ourselves throughout the day when we got hungry.”

“Hello, salmonella,” Dora exclaimed, loving the sound of his laughter. “I always worked at my mother’s café on the holidays. There were no family gatherings for us, either.” Daisy, Dora’s mother, did have a tradition, but it was a daily event. She’d start each morning with a cup of coffee and the pronouncement that it was a new beginning. And each day by noon she’d be drinking gin and getting sloppy. Before night fell she would have lured at least one man into the back room for a tumble on the cot that was shoved against one corner.

Once again Dora was relieved when the topic changed to favorite foods they shared, colors that attracted them, and they even learned each other’s astrological sign. He was Aquarius and she was Libra.

“Compatible signs,” he exclaimed, and gave her a smile that threatened to melt everything inside her.

They lingered over coffee and dessert, chatting about nothing and everything. Only once did he seem to disappear from the conversation, going deep into his head with that unfocused look that was slightly unsettling. She tapped his hand and he returned with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” she replied as she cut into the thick slice of cheesecake in front of her. “So, how is the investigation going?