The man at the reception desk nodded politely when she walked in and then looked back at his computer as she made her way to the bar. It was quiet this late on a Tuesday. Most of the tables were empty. Dells was at a table in a corner, looking at something on a tablet.
As if sensing her arrival, he looked up. Instantly, Harper didn’t know what to do with her face. Smiling felt weird. Not smiling felt wrong.
His navy suit was perfectly tailored, making the most of his narrow build. His white shirt was crisp. He’d taken off his tie and without it, he looked younger.
But he was still Dells.
It was so strange to be on a date with him. For so long he’d been her boss. And she’d been in love with Luke.
Arranging her face into something like a smile, she walked over to join him.
“You did make it,” he said. The hint of relief in his tone told her he hadn’t been sure she would.
“It was close.” She dropped down in the chair next to his without ceremony, hoping to avoid the “do we hug or shake hands” awkwardness. “Triple shooting at eleven thirty.”
“Fatalities?”
“If there were I wouldn’t be here.”
With a smile, he slid a glass of neat Jameson to her and raised his glass of Scotch. “To Savannah’s survivors.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She clinked her glass against his.
The sweet, smooth sip of whiskey was just what the doctor ordered. The warmth of it burned the nerves away.
There was a brief silence as they each considered which way to take the conversation. Harper decided to stick with work. It was the safest bet while she was still deciding what she wanted from this night.
“How’s Channel Five treating you?”
He arched one eyebrow before replying. “I’m knocking it into shape. It’ll be fine.”
Before she could ask more work questions, he leaned back in his chair, shifting a little to see her better.
“You look good,” he said. “Still too tired. But good.”
She didn’t think it was true. She was still in Bonnie’s clothes, although she had at least brushed her hair and dabbed on a little lipstick. She was conscious that she lacked the gloss of his usual type and, whatever he said, she couldn’t really believe that he found her attractive.
“Thanks.” She took another sip of courage. “It’s been a long couple of weeks.”
“You said something like that yesterday.” He tilted his head. “What’s been going on? It can’t just be work. You could cover this Xavier Rayne story with one hand tied behind your back.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her glass. “Just life. You know?”
The thing that had always made Dells a good editor was that he could spot a story a mile away. He had a nose for it. And he always knew when someone was bullshitting him.
He studied her intently then emptied his glass, ice cubes rattling.
“Drink up,” he said. “I’ll get us another.”
He walked to the bar. She watched as he spoke to the bartender and wondered how much to tell him. She trusted his instincts. Editors give better advice than they take. He was someone who might know what she should do.
When he returned he slid a fresh glass in front of her, and took his seat.
“Now,” he said, “tell me what’s going on.”
Still, she hesitated. “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Instead of replying, he lifted his glass and motioned for her to talk.
She took a deep breath. “You know what happened to my mother, right?”
His eyes darted up to hers, a crease forming above them. “She was murdered when you were a child.”
Harper nodded. “And all this time I’ve been looking for her killer. Now I think I’ve found him. Which would be great. Except I think he’s coming to kill me.”
Dells had gone still. His intelligent eyes searched hers. “You’re going to need to start at the beginning.”
She told him everything. As she talked, Dells listened seriously, never interrupting. When she’d finished, he sat in silence for a moment, and then emptied his drink, setting the glass down with careful deliberation.
“Okay,” he said, calmly. “You have to get out of that house. You have to get back in the city. And you have to get somewhere safe.”
This was precisely the opposite of what Miles had said earlier that day. Harper couldn’t hide her frustration.
“Miles thinks I should stay where I am. You think I should move. The cops don’t know what I should do.” She set her glass down hard. “Nobody knows anything.”
Dells wasn’t backing down. “I did a piece on the Southern Mafia years ago when I was based in Atlanta. They are ruthless. If what you’re telling me is true—if your father really betrayed Dowell—he will take revenge. And you would do nicely. These guys are psychopaths.”
“I know that.” Her anger flared suddenly. “You think I’m not scared? I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I bought a gun. You think I should be afraid? Well, congratulations. I’m fucking terrified.” She stopped for a moment, shocked at her own admission, before repeating it more quietly. “I’m terrified. And I don’t know what to do.”
To her surprise, Dells didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to make things worse.”
He had long, artistic fingers. His skin was warm against hers.
Suddenly, Harper was glad she’d come tonight. Glad that she wasn’t alone, trying to deal with this by herself.
“Look,” she said, “I agree with you. I think I should get out of there as soon as I can. I just don’t know where to go.”
“Let me help.” Releasing her fingers, he reached for his phone and made a note to himself. “I know people. Maybe someone has an apartment free right now. I’ll ask around. And you can always stay with me.” He looked up at her. “In fact, why don’t you stay with me tonight? Don’t go back to Tybee.”
Harper held his gaze. Electricity flared between them.
It was tempting. The idea of not having to go all the way back out to the island. To sleep someplace where no one would ever think to look for her.
On the other hand, she knew what would happen if she spent the night in his apartment, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She was still trying to figure out what she wanted.
“Actually,” she said, softly, “I think I’ll go home tonight. But … thank you.”
“Well, the offer stays open. I don’t like the idea of you out there alone.”
There was a protective note in his voice.
This wasn’t at all what she’d expected from tonight. Dells wasn’t her type. But then, what was her type? Before Luke, she’d gone out with grad students and artists—mostly guys Bonnie set her up with. None of them had worked out.
Besides, she liked the way Dells listened. The way he trusted her judgment. She felt comfortable with him. Maybe the suit didn’t matter. Maybe it was just clothes.
On impulse, she leaned forward, took him gently by the collar.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and pressed her lips lightly against his.