Low Pressure

“And then there’s this.” He passed her the day’s edition of EyeSpy. “The headline speaks for itself. In the article, I’m the ‘ruggedly handsome stranger later identified as Denton Carter,’ boyfriend of your slain sister.”

With a sinking stomach, Bellamy scanned the front page, which was dominated by Van Durbin’s column. The text was accompanied by a snapshot of her and Dent. She realized the shot had been taken yesterday outside Lyston Electronics. “His photographer was hiding and used a telephoto lens.”

“Not my best side,” Dent said, scrutinizing the grainy photograph. “Pretty good of you, though.”

She stuffed the newspaper into her shoulder bag. “I can’t read this now or I’ll throw up.”

Traffic along Peachtree Street was at a crawl due to construction. They got stuck at an intersection where they sat through three cycles of the traffic light. Dent swore under his breath and played an impatient tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingertips. Yesterday’s chambray shirt had been replaced by an oxford cloth, the color of it close to the mossy green of his eyes. It was tucked in. His jeans were belted.

“Where did you get the shirt and belt?” she asked.

“Ralph Lauren store in the mall across the street from the hotel. I was there when it opened. Dammit! If that moron would pull forward into the intersection to make his left turn…” He finished on a string of oaths, then once again the light turned red before they could get through the intersection.

“You’re not mad at the traffic or oth

er drivers. You’re mad at me.”

He looked over at her.

“This visit with Steven could be awkward. It won’t help if you’re pouting over what happened, or didn’t happen, last night. There. It’s out. Let’s not make it an unsightly wart that’s there but no one acknowledges.”

“Don’t sweat it, A.k.a. I asked, you—”

“Funny. I don’t recall you asking.”

“Maybe not in so many words, but, just FYI, in a crotch-grinding embrace, when a man’s got his tongue in your mouth and his hand on your ass, it’s a pretty safe bet on what he has in mind. I asked, you said no.” He shrugged with supreme indifference and returned his attention to the traffic. He lifted his foot off the brake. The car rolled forward only a few yards before he had to brake again.

“You should have known better than to try,” she said. “You’re the one who remarked on my TFR. Except that it’s not temporary. I don’t relate well to men in that way. I never have.”

“Well, that creates a communication problem for us.”

“Why should it?”

“Because ‘that way’ is the only way I relate to women.”

They sat through another cycle of the traffic light in teeming silence. Then he said in a low voice, “One thing, though. About your kid, your baby… it being a shame that you lost it?”

She turned to look at him.

“I meant that. I don’t want you thinking that I said it just to soften you up.” He shot her a one-second glance. “I can be a bastard, but not that much of one.”

Maxey’s was already bustling when they arrived. The hostess, dressed in a short black dress and four-inch heels, was a rail-thin, platinum-blond beauty. Bellamy could have been invisible, because the young woman’s baby blues homed in on Dent. In a drawl practically dripping honey, she asked if he had a reservation.

“We’re just having drinks,” he told her.

Once they were seated on stools that looked too insubstantial to support an adult, they ordered glasses of mint-sprigged iced tea. When they were served, Dent said, “Sip slow. That’s an eight-dollar glass of tea. God knows what they charge for a cheeseburger.” Then he looked around the dining room, with its cloth-draped tables and creamy pale orchids in the center of each, and added, “If they even make a cheeseburger.”

“There he is.”

Bellamy had spotted her stepbrother, who was leaning across a table to shake hands with two diners. Steven had been a sullen but good-looking boy. He’d grown into an incredibly attractive man. His dark hair was swept back from his high forehead and left to fall in soft waves almost to his shoulders in a fashion that was distinctly continental. He wore a black suit with a white silk T-shirt that seemed color-coordinated with the smile he flashed as he moved from table to table to greet his patrons.

“Excuse me? Aren’t you Bellamy, Steven’s stepsister?”

She turned toward the man who had addressed her from behind the bar. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a pleasant smile.

“I thought it was you,” he said. “I recognize you from television.” He extended his hand. “I’m William Stroud, co-owner of the restaurant.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She introduced Dent. The two men shook hands.