Submission. Tori Carrington
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his hat as he shook hands with the portly man behind the bar—apparently the issuer of the hearty welcome.
Molly was both glad and nervous that he’d decided to come. The mix of reactions intrigued her. His being there meant he might include her in the investigation, or at the very least keep her informed on his progress.
Her gaze mingled with his across the already crowded dining room and she swallowed hard, aware now, as she had been earlier, of the strange chemistry that seemed to exist between them.
His being there also meant that he might feel the same pull.
It took him a few moments to make it to the table. She expected him to take off his overcoat—her own wool jacket was on the back of her chair—but he didn’t. He merely sat back in his chair, staring at her silently, his arm stretched out so that the hand that held his hat lay on the table between them.
“I’m glad you could make it,” she said quietly.
He didn’t say anything, almost as if he was as surprised to be there as she was to see him there.
Finally he leaned forward and placed his hat on the empty chair to his right. “Yes, well, this happens to be one of my favorite places. I might have been planning on coming here anyway.”
Molly had given up all pretense of reading the menu and looked him over instead. She’d noticed this morning that he’d looked a little ragged around the edges. It had been at least a day since he’d shaved, and he was in need of a haircut. His clothes…well, it looked as if he might have slept in them, the wrinkles and creases speaking of a man who was either too busy to make or uninterested in making an effort with his appearance.
Strangely this lack of concern for the way he looked appealed to her on a level she hadn’t been aware of until now. She usually went for the well-groomed types. Career-driven, gym-obsessed overachievers in pressed suits who carried expensive briefcases and drove cars that cost more than some houses.
But Alan Chevalier…
She realized she was staring and dropped her gaze to the white tablecloth.
“Has anything—” she began, then stopped, realizing the futile nature of her question.
“Happened in your sister’s case since I saw you a couple of hours ago?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Hello, Detective Chevalier. The usual?” the young waiter asked the man across from her.
“Yes,” he said. “And bring the same for the lady.” He considered her. “Unless you’re a vegetarian?”
Molly said that whatever he’d ordered was fine.
The waiter disappeared, leaving them alone again.
Well, alone really wasn’t the applicable word. The small restaurant was packed with other diners, despite the early hour. But as far as Molly was concerned, they could have been alone in the popular eatery.
“So, Miss Laraway, what is it that you do for a living?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You seem surprised.”
“Your career doesn’t impact me one way or another, Miss Laraway.” He shrugged. “Which branch of law?”
“Right now I’m assigned to business law at the firm where I work.”
“But you hope to…”
“Eventually move on to criminal law.”
He nodded, as if expecting the answer. “A defense attorney.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
He looked over her suit as if trying to put the pieces of her together. “Getting off the same people I bust my ass trying to put behind bars?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”
Molly tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Anyway, my career isn’t the reason we’re here, is it?”
“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the table. “Your sister.”
Had he forgotten?
She realized with some interest that it appeared he had. And that he didn’t seem concerned about the fact, either.
An unwelcome thrill raced through her bloodstream as her gaze took in his hands. Strong hands, clean, nails clipped and neat, dark hair peppering the backs of his thick, square fingers. They were capable hands, manly.
And she was paying them far too much attention.
Molly cleared her throat and took a notepad from her bag.
“Were you and your sister close, Miss Laraway?”
“Molly, please.” She pulled out a pen and laid it against the pad. “And, no, unfortunately my sister and I were never very close. Despite the belief about twins, she and I were nothing alike. And when she moved down here last year, we pretty much fell out of touch.”
She didn’t like admitting that. Seeing as they’d been the only two siblings in their single-parent household, she thought she should have made more of an effort. Called her sister. E-mailed her. At least kept track of how she was doing.
“Do you know if she was dating anyone at the time of her death?”
Molly shook her head, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze.
“Isn’t that the type of thing a sister—forget a twin—would usually know?”
“Do you have any siblings, Detective Chevalier?”
He seemed taken aback by her response. “That’s not at issue here.”
“And my closeness to my sister is?”
He squinted at her, bringing out the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. Were they brown? No, they were green, she realized. A deep leaf green.
“I thought you wanted to help find the person responsible for your sister’s death.”
Molly drew in a deep breath. She did. That was the whole reason she was there.
Appetizers were served and Alan chatted with the waiter for a couple of moments, talking about what had been brought in this morning. After the young man left, Chevalier motioned for her to help herself.
“It’s meant to be shared,” he said.
She accepted a small plate on which he’d placed two of the thick shrimp scampi—or did they call them something else down here?
“I have three sisters,” he said, looking at his food rather than her as he spoke. “All younger. And I couldn’t tell you much about what’s going on in their lives, either.”
Molly felt as though he’d just pressed a thumb against a low pressure point, releasing the tension there.
She smiled easily. “Thanks.”
He shrugged, considering her warily. “Don’t mention it.” He ate for a couple moments, then asked, “So when do you go home?”
Suddenly Molly stiffened again, because it was obvious he’d meant as in today or tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest.
He leaned closer to her, his expression intense. “Look, Miss Laraway, I know your intentions are good, but the fact is, there’s nothing you can do down here. You might as well go back home and resume your life. Nothing you can do can bring your sister back.”
Molly leaned forward, as well. “Tell me, Detective Chevalier, how many unsolved homicide cases do you have open at any one time?”
His eyes narrowed.
She picked up her purse and took out a photograph. “This is a picture of me and my sister taken at our college graduation.” She