“Who says I know it?”
“The fact that you don't have a clue about exotic beer makes me doubt you're a foodie and into gourmet lingo. And Devina wouldn't have translated
Heron drummed his fingers on his knee as he seemed to think things over. “Tell me what's in that box you hid in the drawer and maybe I'll answer you.”
“Anyone ever say they had to drag things out of you?”
“All the time.”
Figuring it was no real revelation—because, really, when was Heron going to have anything to do with Devina? — Vin got the Reinhardt box back out and popped the lid. As he turned the thing around so Heron could see what was in it, the guy let out a low whistle.
Vin just shrugged. “Like I said, I'm into beautiful things. I bought it last night.”
“Christ, what a sparkler. When you going to pop the Q?”
“Don't know.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Vin snapped the box shut. “You've asked more than one question. My turn. French?
“I've done some real estate deals north of the border, so I speak it. Your accent is not Canadian, though. It's European. How long were you in the military?”
“Who said I was?”
“Just a guess.”
“Maybe I went to college overseas.”
Vin regarded the guy steadily. “Not your style, I wouldn't think. You don't take orders well, and I can't imagine you'd be content behind a school desk for four years.”
“Why would I go into the service if I don't take orders?”
“Because they let you do something on your own.” Vin smiled as the guy's face remained utterly closed. “They let you work by yourself, didn't they, Jim. What else did they teach you?” Silence expanded to fill not just the room, but the whole duplex.
“Jim, you do realize that the more you stay quiet, the more I make up my own mind about your military haircut and that tattoo on your back. I showed you what you wanted to see—seems only fair you return the favor. More to the point, those are the rules of the game.”
Jim leaned in slowly, his pale eyes as dead as stone. “If I tell you anything, I'd have to kill you, Vin. And that would be a buzz kill for the both of us.”
So that tat wasn't just something the guy had seen on a wall in some two-bit piercing and body art parlor and gotten it inked onto himself because he thought it was cool. Jim was the real deal.
“I am so curious about you,” Vin murmured.
“I suggest you get over that.”
“Sorry, my friend. I'm a tenacious motherfucker. Lest you think I just won the lottery to get all this crap you're gawking at.”
There was a pause, and then Jim's face broke into a small smile. “So you want me to think you have balls, do you.”
“Believe it, my man. And word to the wise, they're as big as church bells.”
Jim settled back in his chair. “Oh, really. Then why are you sitting on that ring?”
Vin narrowed his eyes, anger flaring. “You want to know why.”
“Yeah. She's an incredibly gorgeous woman and she looks at you like you're a god.”
Vin tilted his head to one side and spoke what had been banging around his head since the night before. “My Devina went out last evening wearing a blue dress. When she came home, she immediately changed out of it and took a shower. This morning, I pulled the thing out of the dry-cleaning hamper and there was a black smudge on the back of it—like she'd been sitting somewhere other than on a neat and tidy chair in a bar. But more than that, Jim, when I lifted the dress to my nose, I smelled something on the fabric that was a lot like men's cologne.”
Vin measured every single one of the guy's facial muscles. Not one of them moved.
Vin sat forward in his chair. “I don't need to tell you that it wasn't my cologne, do I. And it might interest you to know that it smells a hell of a lot like yours—
Chapter 10
Well, wasn't this a fucking party.
As Jim stared across the desk at his host, he realized it had been a long, long time since he'd met a man he'd been impressed by—but Vin diPietro did the trick. SOB was calm, cool, collected. Smart as shit, and not a pussy.
And it was evident that the guy truly believed Jim hadn't been with his girlfriend—at least, that was what Jim's instincts were telling him, and as they rarely were wrong, he was inclined to trust them. But how long would that last?
Christ, if only he could go back to the night before and leave Devina in that parking lot. Or…shit, just walk her inside where it was warm and let her find some other guy to work out her confusion and sadness with.
Jim shrugged. “You can't be sure she was with someone.”
A shadow passed over Vin's face. “No. I can't.”
“You ever cheat on her?”
“Nope. I don't believe in that shit.”
“Neither do I.” Strange…for once, lying sent a shaft through Jim's chest. In truth, he hadn't cared at the time that Devina was with someone else.
As silence flared again, Jim knew the guy was waiting for another revelation so he sifted through his life, looking for ready-for-prime-time details. Eventually, he said, “I also speak Arabic, Dari, Pashto, and Tajik.”
Vin's smile was part Cheshire, part respect. “Afghanistan.”
“Among other places.”
“How long did you serve?”
“A while.” He hadn't been kidding about having to kill the guy if the information exchange went any further on his part. “And let's end the conversation there, if you don't mind.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, how long you been with your woman?”
Vin's eyes went over to an abstract drawing that hung on the wall by the desk. “Eight months. She's a model.”
“Looks it.”
“You ever been married, Jim?”
“Fuck, no.”
Vin laughed. “Not looking for Ms. Right?”
“More like I'm the wrong kind of man for that sort of thing. I move around a lot.”
“Do you. You get bored easily?”
“Yeah. That's it.”
The sound of high heels on marble brought the guy's eyes to the study's doorway. It was obvious when Devina made her appearance, and not just because that faint, flowery perfume wafted into the air: Vin's stare went slowly down and then up, like he was seeing her for the first time in a while.
“Dinner is ready,” she said.
