Dead on the Dance Floor (17 page)

Shannon had looked surprised at first, almost offended. But by the time Mollie finished speaking, she was laughing. “Great. Bring me a beer. Something on draft, and very big.”

“You got it,” Mollie told her, and moved on.

“I get to pick up the tab, though,” Shannon said firmly. “I owe you guys, after this morning.”

“After this morning?” Doug said.

“The reporter,” Quinn reminded him. “That guy is a real pain in the ass.”

“His paper has been sued a dozen times,” Shannon assured him. She sat back in her chair, looking around. “Great place,” she murmured. “It's so rustic—and nice.”

“Dancers are used to white tablecloths and diners in gloves and beaded gowns, huh?” Quinn asked.

“I seldom leave home without my beads, you bet,” she said seriously. “I wasn't taking a crack at your special place. I like rustic. I live on the beach. My favorite vacation spot is the islands. This patio is outside, and there are boats and oil and fish all over the place down on the pier, and it's still unbelievably clean. I'm not sure I could manage that.”

“Nick is a great guy,” Doug said. “He runs a tight ship.”

“And it's a big cop hangout, huh?” she said.

She was definitely after something, Quinn decided.

“His niece is a cop. Married to another cop,” Bobby said. He stood abruptly, looking uncomfortable. “Thanks very much for dinner, Shannon. I'll let you buy, since we did invest pretty heavily to look good for the wedding.”

She grinned. “And you two
did
look good.”

“Yeah, we did. Thanks again for dinner. Since I'm still pretty much a newlywed, I've probably hung out long enough. Night, all.”

He received a chorus of good-nights in turn, not just from their table, but from others. As he left, Mollie returned with Shannon's meal.

Shannon thanked her and bit in, chewed, then said, “Wow, this is a great burger.”

“Naturally,” Doug told her. “We wouldn't lie.”

“No?” she said, smiling. Doug looked at her gravely and shook his head.

“You nervous to be at your house?” Quinn asked her abruptly.

“Nervous? No,” she said quickly.

“Why would she be nervous at her own house?” Doug asked.

“No reason,” she assured him.

“Everybody's nervous now and then,” Quinn said. “Houses creak. Especially old houses with old floorboards.”

“What's it like living on a boat?” Shannon asked. “You have one up here, right? Isn't that what you said?”

He pointed down to the pier. “She's right there.”

“You should see her,” Doug said. “Sweetest little thing in the bay.”

Quinn glared across the table at his brother.

“I'd love to see your boat,” Shannon said.

“Would you?” Quinn murmured. She was nervous, he thought. She wanted company and had actually chosen him. He rose abruptly. “Let me take a look at her first, then—pick up a little.”

“Don't be silly. I don't want you to go to any bother,” she told him.

“I'll just take a peek and see if the place is presentable. Doug, don't even think about leaving Miss Mackay until I get back.”

“Hey, no problem.”

Quinn left them at the table, ready to strangle his own brother. Doug had forced him into the game and hadn't given him the full deck.

He hurried down the pier to his boat and jumped aboard, quickly heading into the cabin. The tape of Lara Trudeau's last performance was sitting on the counter between the galley and dining area. His files, with the copies of the autopsy reports on Nell Durken and Lara Trudeau and various other papers, were next it. He quickly stashed them in one of the cabinets by the small desk. Taking a quick look around, he ascertained that he'd left out nothing else incriminating.

Incriminating? Shit! If she'd seen that stuff, she would have been furious.

He went topside again, leaped to the pier and hurried back to Nick's patio. Shannon hadn't lied when she'd said she wasn't a vegetarian—she'd consumed everything on the plate. Apparently she didn't starve herself to stay so perfectly in shape. But then again, in her line of work, she must burn energy by the barrel.

“Am I allowed to see the sacred ground now?” she teased.

“It's still not great, but…hey.” He arched a brow. “You're sure you won't be fraternizing if you come to my boat?”

She'd finished her beer, as well. She looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. “I'm coming to see if you're capable of arranging the charter I need for my get-together before the Gator Gala.”

Doug rose. “If you'll excuse me, I've seen the boat. And I'm on at eight tomorrow morning, which means I try to get into the station by seven. Good night, and, Shannon, thanks for dinner.”

“My pleasure, Doug,” she said, rising as well.

Quinn realized she had apparently paid the bill in his absence.

“You really didn't have to pick up all our dinners,” he told her.

She flashed a smile. “You were really cheap dates, and I was glad of the company. Besides, I didn't pay for
your
dinner. Just a beer. You didn't eat.”

He smiled. “I just came out and found those two talking. I ate in.”

“You cook?”

“Not a lot, but enough to survive. I'm not bad. And you?”

“I'm pure gourmet.”

“Really?”

“No, I'm horrible. But I can manage the basics, like boiling pasta and heating sauce. And hey, can I break a head of lettuce!”

She spoke lightly as they walked along the pier. He glanced at her. It was almost as if a wall had come down.

One beer. And she hadn't really wanted that. He had a feeling she didn't drink very often.

“Lettuce is good,” he murmured. “Well, here we are.”

She was wearing sneakers and easily leaped the foot that separated the dock from the boat. On deck, she looked around, closing her eyes briefly as she felt the night's breeze. “She's lovely,” Shannon said.

“Cabin is that way,” he told her, pointing. “Pretty obvious, huh?”

She nodded and turned toward the steps leading down to the cabin.

“Tight, but oddly spacious,” she told him.

“There are two bedrooms, one forward, one aft. Galley, as you can see, and the head is there, on the left, right before the master bedroom. She's not all that small, but then again, on a boat, a tour is pretty quick,” he said dryly, then switched topics, hoping to surprise her into an honest answer. “You're afraid to be at your house, aren't you?”

“No!” she protested quickly. She turned as if she were inspecting the inside of the cabin. “No, I came home before it was too late.” She glanced at him wryly. “I did the inspection thing myself, looking under beds and in closets and all.”

“So you just wanted to get out and have some fun?”

“Yes.”

“Well, have a seat.”

There was a small sofa, which could be used as a sleeper, across from the dining table. She gingerly sat.

“Can I get you something?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, then, excuse me, I'll get myself something.”

He walked the few steps into the galley and got a Miller out of the small refrigerator. On second thought, he took two, twisting the top off one and handing it to her.

“Really, I'm fine,” she said.

“Really, you need to relax. Forget the last week.”

She hesitated, then took the bottle from him. “Thanks,” she said, and shrugged. “You're driving.”

He sat down next to her, watching her as he sipped his own beer. “So, you do own a pair of jeans.”

“Actually, I own several.”

“They weren't in your closets.”

“You didn't go through my drawers.”

“True.”

She was downing the beer a little fast, especially for a woman who had originally refused a drink. But it was nice to see her without the guard that was customarily so carefully wrapped around her. Not a guard that repelled—she was warm and friendly with people; he'd seen it. It was a guard that kept something back. He wondered if it would have been there if he'd met her before Lara's death.

Tonight the smiles she flashed were genuine, warm. And despite her casual attire, he didn't think she'd ever been more appealing. The color of her hair was like wheat touched with gold. Her eyes flashed with a true emerald depth. Her skin was pure ivory, barely touched by the sun. Smooth, silken. And that scent she wore…

He should move. He didn't want to. And suddenly he wasn't sure why he should. He was tempted to reach out, smooth back a lock of that golden hair, so he did. She looked at him, startled by the touch.

“Sorry, you look a little lost there.”

“Oh, I'm not lost. I know where I'm going,” she murmured.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd had a thing with Ben Trudeau?”

She stiffened instantly, looking as if she was about to rise and find her own way home.

“Hey…” He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Innocent question.”

“Really? And none of your business,” she said.

“Sorry. I guess I just heard the talk about it.”

“Oh, great, so people are talking about it. It was a long time ago.”

“You might have mentioned it.”

She stared at him, and her gemstone eyes were hard. “Why should I have mentioned it? It's not as if we've suddenly become deep friends.”

He shrugged. “I guess you're right.”

“I don't remember you sitting on my couch spilling secrets about your love life,” she said.

He smiled, almost laughing. “Shannon, you fell asleep ten minutes after I sat on your couch. By the way, though, I did enjoy the movie.”

She blushed, staring across the room. “Sorry. It was nice of you to stay. You're being awfully decent. I really don't want anyone else to know how ridiculously paranoid I've gotten.”

“So you
were
nervous at your house. Why?”

She shook her head. “No reason. Well, all right. I thought I saw something moving in the backyard. And being scared of that is kind of ridiculous. There's the neighbor's dog. And we've got cats aplenty in the neighborhood. And now and then a possum or a raccoon. I know I'm being ridiculous. I just can't seem to help it.”

“It's all right,” he said.

“I'm sorry. I'm probably keeping you from something,” she said.

“I offered to drive you home.”

“Yes, you did. Still…”

“I'm not married and not involved,” he said flatly.

“I didn't ask for that information.”

“You said I hadn't told you anything.”

“Only because you sounded as if I should have told you about Ben. Why would you think that?”

“No reason, I guess.”

She looked at the empty beer in her hand, then at him. “One more. Then I'll sleep like the dead when I get home.” She winced. “I'll sleep well, I mean.”

He took the empty bottle from her, walked to the galley and got her another. “You're sure?”

“I'm twenty-eight, and I'm sure.”

“I don't want you saying I took advantage of you because you'd been drinking.”

Her brows arched and she looked down, a little smile teasing at her lips. “You're planning on taking advantage of me?”

“There's nothing planned,” he told her. He handed her the new beer and sat next to her. “Okay, sorry, I have to ask. The Ben Trudeau thing is really over?”

She looked irritated. “Years over. I can't believe anyone even brought it up.”

“He sounds like a real jackass, but he's working for you. Why?”

She shrugged. “He's good at what he does. I don't hate Ben.”

“Did you hate Lara?”

She laughed suddenly. “That would be kind of like hating a bee for having a stinger. I didn't particularly like her. Like I said, we didn't hang out, have lunch or go shopping. But I admired her talent. I even felt sorry for Ben when she broke up with him.” She hesitated a minute. “Ben is a really good dancer. Their problems were professional, at first. Ben started getting angry with the way they worked—it was her way or the highway, that kind of thing. The fights spilled over into their marriage, and she walked out. Jim Burke was a perfect partner for Lara. He let her lead. Well, you know, men lead, but…he let her call all the shots, so they worked well together.”