Frisk Me(44)

The restaurant Ava picked was tiny, trendy, and crowded, even on a Wednesday night, and definitely not a typical NYPD hangout.

“Don’t worry,” she said, catching his expression as they claimed a spot at the bar to wait for a table. “I’ve got this handy thing called a corporate credit card and a hefty spending limit. So what can CBC get you from the bar?”

The restaurant was noisy, so Luc dropped his head slightly so his lips could get close to her ear. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“You like wine?”

He gave her a look. “I’m Italian.”

“Does that mean I should limit it to Chianti, or are you up for a little adventure?”

Luc’s brain went in a sideways direction. He wanted to take an adventure with Ava all right. And not with wine.

“Surprise me,” he said, turning to face the bar more fully in hopes that nobody noticed that his response to this woman was immediate and potent. At least he wasn’t in uniform tonight. Boners and cop uniforms didn’t go well together.

Out of habit, Luc surveyed the restaurant while Ava chatted up the bartender about the wine list. He didn’t eat out much, beyond the odd late-night cheeseburger run, and he had to admit that while he wasn’t much of a “scene” guy, there was something sort of nice about being out for a late dinner with a beautiful woman.

It made him feel his actual age.

Despite the fact that his family frequently reminded him of his status as the baby, the truth was, Luc generally felt a good deal older than his twenty-eight years.

The job had aged him. The things he’d seen, the long hours…Mike.

Shayna.

He closed his eyes briefly to block out the haunting image of her tiny body. Not now, he pleaded his subconscious. Not when I’m having dinner with a reporter.

But Ava would never connect him with the case.

Somehow, Luc had gotten lucky, and none of the follow-up news reports of the kidnapping gone sideways had gotten into the specifics of the first responders.

As far as the world knew, this was just the sad case of a sick f*ck-wad killing little kids.

Of course, everyone wished that it would have worked out differently; that the cops could have gotten in front of it. But the public was sadly accepting that sometimes it didn’t work that way. There was an assumption that the cops had tried their hardest, but sometimes it wasn’t good enough.

It was a mistaken assumption.

But nobody knew it.

Except Luc.

“Here,” Ava said, turning around to face him. Luc grasped at the oversized red wineglass like it was a lifeline.

Her head tilted a little, her brown eyes worried. “You okay?”

Luc clinked his glass to hers. “Never better. Now what are we drinking?”

“Pinot Noir from Oregon. The good ones are expensive, but hey. We’re worth it.”

Luc didn’t buy into the whole swirl and sniff routine with wine—any wine—but he did appreciate the good stuff, and his taste buds told him right away that this was good. Very good.

“So,” Ava said, slipping onto a recently vacated bar stool and crossing her legs. The motion made her pencil skirt ride up just a little, exposing smooth knee and long calf. His fingers itched to run from her ankle all the way up to her knee, to her inner thigh and beyond…

She snapped her fingers against his upper arm. “Do not look at me like that,” she said, her voice husky. “When I suggested a get-to-know-Ava evening, I didn’t mean little Ava.”

Luc choked on his wine. “Is that what you call your—”

She laid a finger over his lips, although she looked as surprised by the gesture as he felt. Very slowly she removed her hand, shaking her head slightly as though to erase it.

“Let the questions commence,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “And keep it clean, Moretti.”

She licked a little speck of red wine from her bottom lip, and it took every ounce of self-control not to crush his mouth to hers.

Clean. Right.

“All right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s start with the basics. How long are we going to pretend that we don’t want to be in bed right now? Or against the wall? Or on a kitchen counter?”

She gave a strangled laugh. “Clearly you don’t understand the art of interviewing. It’s all about finesse.”

Unable to stop himself, Luc traced an index finger along the sharp line of her jaw, dragging the pad of his finger down to her stubborn chin. “Guess you shouldn’t have flirted with a cop then, lady. No such thing as an interview in my line of work.”

“No?”

“Nope.” He moved in closer, shifting so that his upper body leaned into hers. “We start with interrogations.”

“And then?” Her voice was flirty and light, but her eyes were pure heat.

His gaze dropped to his hand, which had found its way to her knee somehow. “Depends. If the cop’s skilled at interrogation, things generally progress to handcuffs…and other things. If the cop’s unsuccessful…”

Luc broke off and shrugged.

Ava looked at him over the top of her wineglass. “Which one are you? The skilled interrogator or the other?”

“Depends.”

“On.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. “Whether or not you like handcuffs.”