Sex, Lies, And Online Dating

Perhaps it had been just an innocent slip as he’d explained. Or maybe he was using the whole widowed thing as a con. Yeah, maybe.

“What are your hobbies?” he asked.

“I really don’t have any hobbies,” she answered as she reached for her mojito. Or maybe she should believe him. Just because she was telling a few little lies about who she was didn’t make him a liar, too. He could be telling the truth and really did want to move on with his life.

“Not one?” he persisted, as if he was really interested in getting to know her and not just making conversation. “There has to be something you do for fun.”

Perhaps she was looking for trouble where none existed. Deflecting her guilt onto him. She decided to believe him for now. “I’m not very crafty.” She took a drink and let memories of past mojitos fill her head. The sweet rum and mint drink always reminded Lucy of sitting in a cabana somewhere in Mexico. Or sitting on a beach in the Bahamas with her friends. “I can’t draw or sew or glue,” she added. She took another drink, then told him about the time she’d tried to make a Christmas wreath and had burned her fingers with hot glue. She talked about her experience rock climbing and the time she’d let an old boyfriend coerce her into kayaking. Both had been disasters. “Do you have hobbies?” she asked the man looking at her from across the table.

“Not really. When I have some free time, I work around my house. Hanging cabinets and refinishing floors.” He raised his bottle of Becks and took a drink. He lowered the beer and said, “I take my dog out and bird hunt. That’s about it.”

She could picture him doing both. Tool belt hung low on his hips or wearing fatigues, shotgun in the crook of his arm, loyal dog at his heels. Looking very fine. Very studly. She wondered if he wore camo boxers or tighty whities. Maybe he went commando.

“What did you do all winter? Go on any ski trips? Take a vacation to Mexico?” he asked, breaking into her mind’s libidinous wanderings.

“Last November my friends and I vacationed on Paradise Island. We drank too much. Gambled too much. And had too much fun.” It really wasn’t her fault her brain had gone to the sinful side. From the second she’d walked in the door, she’d felt the pull of his gaze on her, like dark, intense tractor beams. She couldn’t ever recall being the sole attention of any man. Not like this. Not to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, even the young waitress in the tight shirt who’d given him a flirty smile as she’d served their drinks. “I haven’t gone anywhere this year.”

“Not even an overnight trip to Pocatello?” he asked, referring to a town a few hundred miles east of Boise.

“No. I’ve just been working.” In the subdued light, his eyes looked black. A lock of thick hair fell over his forehead, while little comma curls touched the tops of his ears. It was several hours past his five o’clock shadow, and black whiskers darkened his square jaw.

“No boyfriends sweeping you off your feet for a weekend getaway?”

“No. No boyfriends for about a year now.”

“You’re kidding,” he said as if he found it hard to believe.

Lucy stirred her mojito with the sprig of mint stuck in it. “No. I’ve been avoiding relationships.” Her fingertips brushed the condensation on the side of the glass, and the pesky sleeve of her boat neck sweater slid down her arm again. If she’d known the sweater was going to give her so much trouble, she would have worn something else. “I’ve been involved with some real idiots in my life, and I’ve decided to take a break before I get too bitter.”

“You’re bitter about men?”

“Perhaps jaded is a better word.” She pushed her sweater back up.

“How long have you been on break?”

She really didn’t want to admit how long it had been since she’d had a real date. “A while,” she answered. She didn’t consider tonight a real date. Tonight was more a curiosity thing. She’d only agreed to meet with Quinn because he’d sent her those two sappy e-mails. She felt kinda sorry for him and…well, she’d wanted to see if he was as good looking as she remembered. He wasn’t as good. He was even better. “I prefer a good book to a bad date.” Without the red ball cap to shadow the upper half of his face, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes, which hinted at easy laughter.

“How many bad Internet dates have you had?”

Those hadn’t been real dates either. Lord, it was getting hard to keep up the pretense. “How many have you had?”

He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. He reached for the candle and pushed it from one hand to the other. His silver watchband scraped the smooth surface. “Most of the women I’ve met have been nice ladies, just not for me. You’re the only woman I’ve asked to meet me twice. The only woman I’ve thought about since I met you. The only woman I want to know better.” He glanced up from the candle and looked at her as if she were the only female in the bar. He said, “Your turn.”

Something in his voice spread warm, seductive tingles across her skin. She didn’t even know the man. Didn’t really believe what he was telling her half the time. So why was he giving her tingles? “My turn at what?”

“Tell me about your Internet dates.”

Oh yeah. “Out of all the men I’ve met online, seventy percent were just looking for quick sex and were real losers. Twenty percent were lonely and desperate for a girlfriend, any girlfriend. The jury is still out on the last ten percent.”

“Where do I fit?”

She picked up the glass and took a drink before she answered, “The jury is still out on you.”

He placed his hands flat on the table and sat back in his chair. He looked at her for several heartbeats, then turned the conversation in a different direction. “What do you think about those three men who were murdered recently?”

Lucy set her drink on the table. Wow, what a way to ruin the mood. She’d only met one of the poor guys. Lawrence aka luvstick had fallen into the seventy percent looking for quick sex, and she’d killed him off in chapter three. A few weeks later she’d read in the newspaper that someone had really killed him. Thinking about it was freaky. Ahuge coincidence that she tried not to think about. She looked into Quinn’s dark gaze, and she wondered if he was worried for his own safety. If she were a man, she’d be worried about it. “Are you afraid you could be next?”

He chuckled as if deeply amused and raised the Becks to his mouth. “Nah. I can take care of myself,” he said before he took a drink.

That’s probably what luvstick had thought. “Have you heard how the perpetrator is meeting her victims?”

He shook his head and lowered the bottle. A drop of beer clung to his top lip, and he sucked it off. “Have you?”

“No. The police must not have much evidence.”

He set the bottle on the table, and he did that intense tractor beam thing with his gaze again. As if what she’d said was important. “Why do you say that?”

The way he paid attention was odd, really. Yet at the same time flattering. “They don’t generally tell the press much if they don’t have a lot of evidence.” She’d read so many books and interviewed so many cops that she could practically predict how they’d behave. It was part of her job to know. Quinn was a plumber and wouldn’t necessarily know police procedure. “They like to keep certain aspects of cases from getting out. Things that only the killer would know. If they don’t have a lot, they don’t leak much.”

His dark brows lowered. “How does a nurse know all of that?”

Yeah, how did a nurse know all of that? She smiled. “Cold Case Files. Remember?”

“Ah.” He tilted his head back. “That’s right. Did you date any of the guys who were killed?”

Lucy looked down at the table and her hand resting next to her glass. After luvstick’s death, the newspaper had reported that he’d actually been married but had had a little bachelor pad/love nest set up in an apartment off State Street, where his body had been found. The report had been ugly and sordid, and his family hadn’t deserved having it splashed across the news. Lucy didn’t want to talk about luvstick. “No. I didn’t date any of them.” Which wasn’t a real lie. She didn’t consider meeting men at a coffee house a real date. Her sweater slid down her arm once more, and she decided just to leave it there. It wasn’t like anything was showing, and she was tired of pushing it back up. “You should be careful, though.”

Again he leaned forward to play with the candle. “Are you worried about me?”