First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars #8) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,105

Tesla. Unless the police found another connection, Noah could get off with a slap on the wrist.

She made herself focus on the long-sleeved, bittersweet-orange knit dress she’d unearthed from the back of the closet. She’d last worn it at a college friend’s wedding a couple of years ago. The boatneck framed her long neck, something she generally didn’t think about, but for tonight, she wanted to feel at least halfway pretty.

Coop had traded in his jeans and boots for an open-collar white dress shirt, gray pants, and a darker gray sports coat that fit his body as if he’d grown it there. Appreciation glinted in his eyes. “Damn, Pipe, you really do know how to look like a girl.”

“I told you I could,” she said. “Where are we going to dinner?”

“Drinks first. This great new place I’ve heard about.”

“You’re going to be mobbed.”

“All taken care of.”

He was right. The great new place turned out to be right below them, which explained their early date time.

Even though Spiral wouldn’t open for another four hours, soft light glowed from inside the cube-shaped cocktail tables, and the suspended rods glimmered like golden stalactites above the bar. The leather banquettes were welcoming, and music played quietly in the background. No one was around.

Coop stepped behind the bar. “We have three hours until the staff shows up,” he said. “The place is locked tight for now, and I gave strict orders that nobody can get in until eight.”

“Not much prep time before the club opens.”

“They’ll cope.” He uncorked a very expensive cabernet and filled two goblets.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be a team player,” she said as she slid up onto a barstool. “But you weren’t exactly available for consultation.”

“You’re forgiven.”

She held up the wine goblet he gave her. “Here’s to being innocent.”

“Not in that dress.”

The dress’s wide neckline extended all the way to her collarbones, but the rest of it hugged her body. “I was talking about you.”

“I know.” He smiled. “How did you figure it out?”

She told him about Noah’s license plate.

“Not much to go on.”

“And intuition. He hovered around Deidre, and there was something about his attitude toward you that felt more personal than professional.”

He rested his hand on the bar and gave her one of his brain-piercing looks. “How did you get his computer?”

He’d brought up the thing she most didn’t want to look at. “Not legally.” She stared into her wineglass. “I’m turning into somebody I don’t respect. One of those people so focused on the end goal that they don’t care how they reach it.”

“It’s called passion.”

She had another word for it. Unethical.

***

Coop watched her sip her wine. She wasn’t happy, and he wanted her to be. She should be.

He took a platter of meats, cheeses, olives, and summer rolls from the refrigerator under the bar and carried it to the closest banquette. She followed him with their wine goblets, steady as can be on those stilettos she detested. She hadn’t believed he’d assaulted anybody. Not for a moment. She’d been impatient when he’d pressed her about it—as if he were wasting her time by bringing it up. No one had ever had such blind faith in him. What the hell was a man supposed to do with a woman like this?

She slid into the banquette, her skirt riding up on her thighs enough for him to lose his train of thought. Even without tonight’s mascara, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her glossy cinnamon mouth was an invitation. He loved her face best scrubbed clean, but he also loved knowing that she’d bothered fixing herself up just for him.

“This feels ceremonial,” she said.

“It is. A celebration.” She’d put her investigator’s license in jeopardy doing whatever it was she’d done, and that bothered him even more than knowing he’d needed someone else to solve his problems.

“You don’t look happy,” she said.

“I’m very happy.”

“Then why are you frowning?”

“Because I’m trying not to act like the animal I am by picturing what’s under your dress. I’m not proud of myself.”

She smiled.

He set down his drink. “Let’s dance.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

She took his hand and slid out of the banquette. He led her to the floor. It was odd to realize this was the first time he’d been able to dance in his own club strictly for pleasure.

And pleasure it was. The sweet fit of her body against his own was almost painful, although he wished when he’d programmed the music, he’d avoided this off-the-charts sentimental Ed Sheeran ballad. On the other hand, it