cop?”

“So she started shooting. Shooting him, me, herself. Killed herself.” “Damn.”

“Yeah, well.” He gazed past me, into air. I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a long time ago. People get pissed and make bad decisions. They don’t think things through. Anyhow. That’s what happened.”

“What about the husband? Did she kill him, too?” “No, actually, the sonofabitch survived. She was a lousy shot. He was lucky.” “So were you.”

His eyes shifted. Obviously, the subject made him uncomfortable.

We were both quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Damn. Why had I asked that question? “No need.”

“Well, no matter how it happened,” I said, “I like it.”

His attention returned to me. “Like what?”

“Your face. The way you smile. It’s kind of sexy.” Lord, had I really said that?

“You think?” Nick’s half grin opened slowly, gladly. Too genuine to belong to a cop. “Well, good.” He crossed his arms and gave a half smile. “And now, it’s my turn again.” He waited, coplike, for me to squirm. To anticipate what was coming.

My glass was still full. Or full again. How much had I had to drink? My hand held the stem, ready for the next round. Nick fired his next question, and I fired mine, each answer exposing more, peeling away more layers, revealing more of ourselves.

I learned that he was the eldest of four brothers, half Italian, half Jewish, parents both dead, a dozen nieces and nephews. He was a graduate of Columbia, had a master’s in psychology, played football in high school, and rowed crew in college, liked to ski and snorkel, wore a size thirteen shoe. His marriage had ended badly, without children.

I’m not sure what I told him. I was aware of caution, careful not to tell him everything. I said I was an only child but didn’t mention my parents’ divorce or my mother’s early death. I told him about marrying Michael but glossed over the mess of our divorce. I described the euphoria of adopting Molly, not the anxiety of parenting on my own. I said that my father was still living but skipped the detail that we hadn’t talked in years.

I was aware that we’d become, somehow, more than cowork-ers, but I didn’t know what. As we talked, at one point, strong fingers covered my hand. Large, warm fingers. I chewed my lip, took a breath. “Santa Lucia” drifted over white-linen-covered tables. I cleared my throat, trying to decide what to do, but couldn’t. I held still until my hand began to throb. Was I supposed to leave it there and let him hold it? Or take it away? What did it mean, his hand on mine? Was he just making casual contact, or was it something else? My neck felt hot, and my sweater began to itch. Stiles—Nick—was talking, but his words swept past me, phrases without meaning.

“. . . new . . . stranger ...job...you...glad... comfortable . . .”

Oh my. The hand lifted, releasing mine. I grabbed my Manhattan glass, which, incredibly, was full.

“What? Did I scare you? It’s okay. Don’t be frightened. As you get to know me, you’ll see that I don’t have time for games. I size people up pretty fast; it’s my job. Observing. Figuring people out. And at the moment, I’m observing you. Want to know what I see, so far?”

I nodded, feeling a little like a lab animal.

“Beyond the superficial sparkling eyes and jolly laugh, I mean. In Zoe Hayes, I see somebody real. Don’t get me wrong—she isn’t easy to get close to. She’s guarded. But once she puts the guard down, she’s real. No pretenses or hidden agenda. She’s good-looking, smart, funny, and—hell, I gotta tell you, Zoe Hayes is good company. A miracle happened tonight. I actually relaxed. Believe me, that doesn’t happen often. Certainly not since I started working on this case. I needed an evening like this, Zoe. Thank you.” He smiled briefly, then looked away, into his glass. I took another sip; liquor eased into my blood, numbing my aching lips. Who was this guy? Why didn’t that little speech seem corny? Was he a player, adept at handing out lines? Or just a lonely cop, honestly enjoying his evening?

He reached for the relish tray, the seams of his jacket bulging at the shoulders, his hand toying with a carrot stick. His finger stroked it; I expected that it might purr.

I’d had much too much to drink.

He looked at me, head cocked, waiting.

I shifted in my chair, stalling. What was I supposed to say? That my hand tingled