Turn Up the Heat

He glanced her way, glanced again. Marie hid back behind her paper. He was so fun to observe, she didn’t want to speak to him. Especially because they were often here at the same time; if they started now, one or the other would always feel obligated to make conversation in the future. Sooner or later on any particular day, some sweet young ‘un would walk in on them chatting, and he’d excuse himself and move on to those greener pastures. Marie could do without that humiliation, thanks very much. Once with Grant was plenty.

But one of these days she wanted to be close enough that she could at least hear his pitch. Though his targets didn’t always leave with him, Marie had never seen a woman respond with anything but smiles and a readiness to talk, even briefly. Was he able to read body language with uncanny accuracy or did he have some deep instinct for who would match him, even for a few hours? How did he know which women to approach and which to leave alone? When to move in and when to move on? When to sit tight and wait until the prey approached him?

The guy was a master, and as someone for whom matching people was an obsession, Marie was shamelessly fascinated.

Maybe there was something more to her interest. Something personal. He did remind her of Grant: his confidence, his certainty in what he wanted and that he would get it. Grant had swept Marie off her feet the same way. He’d walked into the hotel bar where she was waitressing her senior year, having returned to UW–Madison after four years of active duty in the navy, to have a drink with the director of the ROTC program, with whom he’d kept in touch.

One glance at Marie and he’d turned on the charm, overwhelming her with his interest, insisting he take her out, then taking every opportunity to visit until she graduated. When she got a job in Milwaukee, where he’d also settled, it had seemed like fate. Now she thought any woman would have done for him at that stage. That was how Grant operated. Back from duty, time to get a wife, here’s one, good, check that off, next task on the to-do list …

And then, somehow, ten years later, his checklist included having an affair with a girl young enough to be their daughter. Ironic since they hadn’t been able to have children, and Grant hadn’t wanted to adopt. In retrospect, just as well. Who wanted to put a kid through an unpleasant divorce? Not that there was any other kind.

Fifteen minutes later, whaddya know, two women walked in, late twenties, dressed to be noticed. A casual observer wouldn’t have picked up on the way Mr. Cloney minutely adjusted himself on his chair for the best view. Marie wasn’t a casual observer. She waited, with all the patience and concentration of a naturalist studying animal behavior in the wild.

The women ordered drinks, spoke in loud voices, squealed with laughter. One glanced behind her friend at George, glanced again, then a third time. He appeared not to register her interest, taking a leisurely sip of his martini, of which he never had more than two in an evening, at least that Marie had seen.

He was implacably cool, yet, when he chatted up his prey there had to be warmth, or he wouldn’t do so well. You could fool some of the women some of the time …

The girl with her back to Mr. Cloney gave him a shy smile over her shoulder.

“Hello.” His deep voice carried. No stupid line, nothing suggestive in his tone, just a friendly greeting, acknowledging her smile.

“Hi.” The blonde’s blush was visible even in the low, warm light. “I’m Jill.”

The brunette swivelled to face him, giggling silently. “I’m Maura.”

“Hi, Maura. Hi, Jill. I’m Quinn.”

Quinn. Marie nodded. She loved that name.

The girls put their heads together; the blonde nodded.

“What are you drinking, Quinn?” Tipping her head coyly, the brunette extended her arm toward him, let her hand rest on the bar.

“Gin martini. Extra dry with a twist.”

“Join us? We’ll buy your next one.”

“Only if I can buy both of yours.”

Marie had to stifle laughter. Nothing scintillating in that conversation. Nothing cute, nothing enticing, no showmanship, and yet … Quinn was in once again.

He got up, moved closer, left one seat between him and the brunette, not crowding them, keeping his own space to himself. Brilliant. He struck up a conversation Marie wished she could hear, but she’d bet it was casual get-to-know-you chitchat. Where do you work, where do you live, how about them Packers/Brewers/Bucks, and will winter ever end?

The closer she got to the bottom of her drink, the more convinced she was that this man would be perfect for Darcy. Too smooth, too polished for Kim. Kim would do better with a sweet boy-next-door type. Once Candy figured out who she was and what she wanted, her guy would come along, too, someone earnest and kind, harboring an inner wild child. But Darcy needed someone with as much confidence as she had. Someone who’d let her be herself, but would never let her walk all over him.

Marie dug her cell out of her bag and dialed, knowing Darcy was at Gladiolas and wouldn’t pick up. Better that way. If she spoke to her, Darcy would blow off the suggestion.

But if Marie left a message to work on Darcy’s subconscious before she brought it up again in person … maybe.

Marie grinned, waiting for voice mail to pick up.

Darned if she wasn’t as big an operator as Mr. Quinn.

4

“HI, JUSTIN, NICE TO MEET YOU. Come on in.”

Justin shook Marie’s hand, impressed by her grip. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Her rich voice on the phone had him imagining a broad-shouldered Amazon, not this intriguing mix of elfin and elegant. Small, plump, with short auburn hair and scattered bangs above hazel eyes emphasized tastefully with makeup. She wore a stylish reddish-brown suit with a silk scarf of beige, orange and yellow, the colors combining to evoke pictures of a New England fall.

“Nice to meet you, too.” He stood looking around, hands in his pockets, portrait of a brand-new dating client nervously ready to put his ego on the line. He hoped the act was convincing. “Great office. Very inviting.”

“I’m pleased you noticed.” She leaned over her desk to make a quick note in a folder—that he appreciated decor?—and gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” He dropped into the comfortable chair, rubbing his hands along his thighs, poor ill-at-ease dude who could barely handle the stress of putting himself out there. “So, how do we do this?”

He was having fun already. Not that he wanted the lovely Marie and the even-more-lovely Candy to be involved in anything shady, but it was great to be back to the rush of an investigation. Writing the computer book with Troy was a good idea, a great career move, satisfying in many ways, but not exactly a thrill ride.

“We ‘do this’ any way that makes you comfortable, Justin. You and I can talk, or you can fill out paperwork, or we can fill it out together. What do you think?”

“Well …” He shrugged lamely. “I’m okay talking.”

“Good.” She dimpled a smile, and instead of taking the Interviewer Seat behind her desk, came around and settled into the chair next to him. “That’s the way I like getting to know our clients, too.”

“Do I tell you my life story?”

“I’ve got some of it here.” She opened his folder; he could see part of the form he’d completed online with basic information—name, address, marital status, brief romantic history. “You’re straight, college educated, nonsmoker, never married but coming off a relationship in California. Would you mind talking about it with me?”

Oof. He hadn’t planned on this. “No, not at all.”

“How serious was it?”

“More for me than for her.” He couldn’t help the bitterness seeping into his voice. “When a job came open in Milwaukee I knew it was time to cut ties and go.”

“You’re a writer …”

“I was a journalism major, did technical writing and some reporting on the side in California. Now I’m writing a non-fiction book with a friend and hoping to get back into the print-media business as well.”

“Interesting career.” She made a note. Rating him on the Great Catch vs. Loser scale? “How long have you been single, Justin?”

“Oh …” He rubbed his hands together, not having to fake the nerves and reluctance any more. Single? Calculations were hard, since as a couple he and Angie had been on-and-off and off-and-on for the better part of a year since he’d met her at a friend’s beach party. Finally last fall he’d left her apartment swearing it was over for good that time, and though he got suckered into one more night with her—saying no to sex with Angie was a skill he took a while to master—he’d never felt the same way about her again. You could only kick a dog so many times. “About five months.”

“Five months.” Marie was watching him carefully, probably taking in more signals than he knew he was sending. He unclenched his hands, which he hadn’t noticed were fisted until Marie glanced at them. Bizarre interview, both of them talking on one level while searching for a deeper, possibly contradictory story lurking underneath. “And you feel ready to move on?”

“I am ready to move on.” That much he could state firmly and with absolute honesty.

“Good to hear.” Another note in his folder. “Are you comfortable talking about why the relationship didn’t work out?”

“You don’t pull punches.”