Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(12)

Putting an arm across his chest, he stretched his too-tight triceps. “You wouldn’t believe it. How’s your back?”

Pat grinned. At forty, two years older than Conor, half of his brother’s life had been nothing but hard work and responsibility, but Pat’s sense of humor was as solid as the inch-thick oak bar that wrapped around them. “Feels like someone used me as a trampoline while I slept.”

“Hey, in your house, that’s a real possibility.”

Pat’s three kids ranged in age from four to nine, and they were a wild bunch, true Sullivans down to their pint-size souls.

“No kidding.” Pat laughed. “But next time I decide to break up a concrete patio solo, remind me that my back is too old for heavy labor.”

“Will do.”

Pat counted bottles of Absolut and wrote a number on his sheet. Conor pitched in, and together, they finished taking inventory. The bell on the door jingled.

“And here comes the lunch crowd,” Pat said.

They spent the next couple of hours serving sandwiches. At night, orders of beer and wings ruled, but the lunch crowd preferred french fries and burgers. The crowd thinned to stragglers around two o’clock.

“Well, look at that.”

Hefting a new case of beer, Conor paused, tracking Pat’s gaze to the door. In the dim entryway, a slim blonde smoothed a hand over her sleek, fancy updo.

Oh, snap.

Conor wouldn’t have been more shocked if the pope walked through the door and ordered a boilermaker. Louisa Hancock, PhD, didn’t belong in his bar or his life, regardless of how many times she’d sneaked into his thoughts—and dreams—over the past six months. Besides her cool and prickly nature, which he perversely found to be a huge turn-on, he and Louisa were as different as NASCAR and yacht racing.

But she was here. In his bar. Every perfect, polished inch of her, as if his earlier thoughts had conjured her.

Like the first time they’d met, she was dressed in a conservative suit. The feminine cut of her skirt was just snug enough to give him plenty of ideas, and the silky drape of the fabric made him wonder if she wore fancy lingerie underneath. The less she showed, the more his hopeless imagination ran with the images. Where were the glasses that gave her that hot librarian look?

“Earth to Conor.” Pat nudged him, whispering, “Who is that?”

“That is the museum curator I met in Maine when I was helping Danny out.”

“She doesn’t look much like a curator.”

“No shit.” Conor dumped the beer on the counter.

Pat poked him in the back. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go see the lady.”

“Going.” Conor dusted his hands on his jeans. “You got the bar covered for now?” he asked.

Pat motioned to the nearly empty barroom. “You’re joking, right?” He nodded toward Louisa. “Get the hell over there and talk to her.”

Without further urging, Conor crossed the worn, old floor in a few long strides. Wishing he’d taken the time to shave this morning, or even yesterday morning, he held out a hand. “Louisa, it’s nice to see you.”

Sure, he’d known she’d moved to Philly.

Not that he was keeping track of her.

OK. He had been keeping track of her. Ugh. He even went to the Livingston Museum a few weeks ago, but he’d left without asking to see her. They had nothing in common, and despite the fun he’d had teasing the hell out of her, his acute and inexplicable attraction to Louisa was irritating.

Close-up, she wasn’t quite as perfectly presented as usual. A few locks had escaped the uptight bun his fingers always itched to unravel. What would she look like with all that hair down, tumbling over her shoulders?



“Louisa?”

Conor’s voice yanked Louisa from her daze. She blinked. Perhaps coming here was a mistake. She’d underestimated the impact seeing him would have on her. Maybe it was the strange and terrible circumstances that had first put them together in Maine, or the uncomfortably similar connection that had brought her here today, but Conor Sullivan had unsettled her from the moment she first saw him. She looked away.

Louisa studied the tavern, taking a few seconds to rein in her composure. Deeper than it appeared from the street, the interior of Sullivan’s was dominated by a rectangular bar. Three flat-screen TVs, tuned to different muted sporting events, hung from the walls. A few dozen tables and booths crowded most of the remaining area. A scratched and dented piano occupied the far corner. Duct-taped to the floor, electrical cords snaked across the ten-by-ten empty space next to it. They likely hosted a band on busy nights.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely lady?” a deep voice asked.

Conor led her to the bar and introduced the burly redheaded bartender as his older brother, Pat. She knew he had a younger brother and sister as well. Louisa gave Pat a distracted smile and said, “Hello.”

But her attention returned immediately to Conor as if pulled by an elephant-size magnet. An ancient gray Rolling Stones T-shirt clung to his sculpted torso. Equally worn jeans and motorcycle boots showcased lean hips and long legs. She’d come here for answers, not to gawk, but the worn fabric clung to the sculpted muscles of his chest. Look him in the eye. She raised her gaze.

Well, that didn’t help. Under shaggy black hair, his turquoise eyes were sharp with the intelligence and humor that disconcerted her more than his impressive physical attributes. Lines fanned out from his eyes. As usual, his strong jaw was shadowed with several days’ beard growth. Did the man own a razor? The overall effect was lean, utterly masculine, and completely different from any man she’d ever known.