“My parents and my grandparents, as well as their parents and grandparents, were all successful. And lucky.”
She looked him dead in the eye in that oddly annoying way she had. “I saw Echo’s apartment this morning. Is she from the poor side of the family?”
“Echo is a rebel,” he explained. “Her parents very happily live off the family money. They travel, they sleep, they drink, they party. That’s about it. Echo wants to earn her own way. I admire that in her, even if she does sometimes cut off her nose to spite her face.”
“Are you lucky?”
He looked her over appreciatively and smiled. “Not tonight, I’m guessing.”
She didn’t respond to the comment, not even to bristle. “You’re definitely lucky as a detective. I’ve seen your file.”
“Goody for you. I’d like to have a look at yours.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She took a drink of her soda, and he played with the condensation on his glass with one finger. If Malory got too nosy, if she asked too many damn questions, he would have to move. Dammit, he liked it here. He liked his house, and the men he worked with—most of them—and he loved being near the ocean. He had come to need it in a way he had never expected. For years he’d moved from department to department, always going to the place where he thought he was needed most. Sadly enough, his talents were called for just about everywhere, so he’d finally decided to settle down here.
If Detective Malory started investigating him and uncovered more than she should, he wouldn’t be able to stay here much longer. So much for settling down. So much for home.
He was either going to have to make Hope Malory a friend or get rid of her. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who was easy to get rid of once she dug in her heels, and he wasn’t sure he could make her his friend. She didn’t seem to be the friendly type.
Again Malory studied the living room with critical eyes. “There’s something odd about this place,” she said thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s very pleasant. You have comfortable furnishings, and nice paintings on the walls. Everything matches well enough, and the lamps didn’t come from a discount store or a yard sale….”
“But?” Gideon prodded.
She looked at him, then, with those curious blue eyes of hers. “The television is small and cheap, and the phone is an old landline. Most single men of a certain age who have a disposable income own a decent stereo. You have a boom box that any self-respecting fifteen-year-old would be embarrassed to carry onto the beach. Run of bad luck?”
Luck again. How could he tell her that his electronic devices had a nasty habit of exploding without warning? He owned two more small televisions, which were stored in a spare bedroom, ready for the time when this one went, and he’d never had any luck with cordless phones or digital clocks. He couldn’t get too close to a vehicle that relied on computer chips, which was why he drove older models. On the rare occasions when he’d been on an airplane, he’d worn a powerful shielding charm that only Dante could fashion. He went through cell phones the way other people went through Kleenex.
“I don’t watch much TV. Don’t listen to much music, either. Cordless phones aren’t secure.”
“And you need your phone calls to be secure because…?”
Enough was enough. Gideon rose slowly to his feet. He left his drink behind and crossed the room to stand near her. “Why don’t you just ask me?” he said softly.
“Ask you what?”
“Ask me if I’m dirty.”
The alarm in her eyes was vivid, and he could almost see her assessing the situation. He wasn’t armed, at least as far as she could tell. She was. He had a small advantage, standing over her this way, but she had the gun handy.
“Ask,” he said again.
Her eyes caught and held his. “Are you?”
“No.”
Her alarm faded gradually. “Something here stinks to high heaven. I just haven’t figured out what, yet.”
“It’s the money. People can’t believe that anyone would be a cop if they have any other choice.”
“It’s more than the money, Raintree. You’re good. You’re too good.”
He leaned slightly forward, and she didn’t shrink away. She smelled good. She smelled clean and sweet and tempting. She smelled comfortable and familiar. His fingers curled,
as he resisted the temptation to reach out and touch her. Just a finger on her cheek or a tracing of her jaw, that was all he wanted. He kept his hands to himself.
“I made my choice a long time ago. I don’t do this job because I have to. I have enough money in the bank to be a beach bum, if it suits me. I could get a job in my brother’s casino—” as long as he stayed far, far away from the slot machines “—or live at the homeplace, or just do nothing at all. But when my parents were murdered, it was a couple of detectives and a handful of deputies who caught the killer and put him away. This job is important, and I do it because I can.”