High Noon (4 page)

“But you look so pretty in it.”

“She should save it,” Ava commented as Carly dragged Phoebe in. “For when he takes her out to dinner. Sit right down, it's all ready. We wanted to give you plenty of time to primp.”

“It's a drink. It's only a drink in an Irish pub.”

Ava set her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? Tonight you represent every dateless woman in this city, every woman who's about to sit down to a lonely meal of Weight Watchers pasta primavera she's just nuked in the microwave. Every woman who'll get into bed tonight with a book or reruns of
Sex and the City
as her only companion. You,” she said, pointing her finger at Phoebe, “are our shining hope.”

“Oh God.”

Essie patted Phoebe's shoulder before she sat down. “But no pressure.”

 

She didn't want to be a shining hope. But she got on the bus. She had to refuse Ava's offer of her car three times, and disappoint Carly by choosing a black sweater and jeans over the green dress. But she put on the earrings her daughter picked out, and redid her makeup.

Life, Phoebe knew, was full of compromises.

She got a wolf whistle from Johnnie Porter—all of fifteen and full of sass—as he circled her on his bike.

“You sure look pretty tonight, Miz Mac Namara. Got a hot date?”

Now she worried she looked as if she were expecting a hot date. “Why, thank you, Johnnie, but no. I'm off to catch a CAT.”

“You going somewhere, you can just hop on here with me.” He popped a little show-off wheelie. “I'll give you a ride.”

“That's neighborly of you, but I believe I'll stick with the bus. How's your mama?”

“Oh, she's fine. She's got Aunt Susie over.” Johnnie rolled his eyes elaborately on his next circle. “Talking about my cousin Juliet's wedding. So I lit out. Sure you don't want to boost on up on my handlebars?”

How a fifteen-year-old boy could turn that into a sexual innuendo was puzzling. “I'm sure.”

“See you later, then.”

Off to find some trouble, Phoebe thought with a shake of her head as he zipped down the wide sidewalk. God help the neighborhood when he was old enough to drive.

It was just cool enough she was grateful for the sweater as she walked from the bus stop along East River Street. Plenty of others enjoyed the evening and the stroll, wandering in or out of restaurants and clubs, pausing to window-shop or just gaze out over the water.

So many couples, she thought, hand in hand, taking in that balmy air. Mama had a point, she supposed. It was nice—could be nice—to have someone to hold hands with on a pretty spring evening.

And it was better, given her personal situation, not to think about that sort of thing. Especially when she was about to have a drink with a very cute man.

She had plenty of hands to hold. So many, in fact, that a solitary walk along the river was a rare indulgence. Take the moment, she advised herself and, because she had a few minutes, slowed her pace, turned toward the water, and enjoyed the indulgence.

And see, she mused, she wasn't the only one on her own. She saw a man, solitary as she, standing spread-legged in a pool of shadow and watching the water. The bill of his ball cap angled low over his face while a pair of cameras were strapped bandolier style over his dark windbreaker.

Not everyone was a couple.

Maybe she would bring Carly down for a long walk on Saturday, she thought as she tipped her head back, let the breeze take her hair. The kid got such a charge out of wandering around down here, looking at everything, at everyone.

They'd have to set the rules first. Lunch, yes. Fabulous prizes, no. Not with her car currently hostage at the mechanic's.

Probably a smarter idea to make that a nice walk through one of the parks away from retail outlets.

They'd work it out.

Gauging the time, she turned away from the water and didn't notice the solitary man lift and aim one of the cameras in her direction.

At Swifty's a shamrock dotted the
i
in the name on the sign. The stained glass panel in the door was a rather beautiful Celtic knot design. The doorknob was brass, and the outside walls were done in a dull stucco yellow, a shade she remembered seeing in postcards of Irish villages. Hanging pots dripped with airy flowers and green, green vines.

Little details, she thought. The man paid attention to little details.

When she stepped inside, it was as she remembered from her single previous visit. A big, burly bar set the tone. This was not the venue for airy ferns and apple martinis. But if you wanted a pint, or a glass of Irish, conversation and music, belly right up.

Leather booths were deep and cushy, the tables dark, polished wood. Shadow and sparkle played from the colored glass shades of hanging lamps, while a red-eyed turf fire simmered in a quaint little stone hearth.

The mood was warm welcome.

At one of the booths, its table loaded with drinks, sat the musicians. A girl with a shock of red-tipped black hair sawed a bow over the fiddle strings with a speed and energy that made the movement as blurry as the music was clear. A man old enough to be her grandfather pumped out rhythm on a small accordion. A young man with hair so pale it reminded Phoebe of angels' wings piped out the tune, while yet another set down his pint glass, picked up his fiddle, and slid seamlessly into the song.

Happy, Phoebe thought. Happy music, happy chatter under it. Cheery lights and color, with clever little touches sprinkled through. Old tankards, a bowen drum, bits of pottery she imagined came from Ireland, an Irish harp, old Guinness signs.

“There you are, and right on time.”

Even as she turned toward him, Duncan had her hand in his. That smile of his, she realized, it had a way of making her forget she didn't really want to be there.

“I like your place,” she told him. “I like the music.”

“Sessions nightly. I've got us a table.” He led her to the one in front of the quiet fire where she could sink down on the cozy little love seat.

Take the moment, Phoebe thought again. “Best seat in the house.”

“What can I get you?”

“Glass of Harp, thanks.”

“Give me a minute.” He moved over to the bar, spoke to the girl running the near end. A moment later he came back with a glass of golden beer.

“Nothing for you?”

“I've got a Guinness in the works.” Those soft blue eyes zeroed straight in on hers. “So how are you?”

“Well enough. How about you?”

“Let me answer that by asking if you've got a stopwatch on me.”

“Sorry, left it in my other purse.”

“Then I'm good. I just want to get this out of the way, so it doesn't keep distracting me. I really like the way you look.”

“Thanks. I'm okay with it myself most of the time.”

“See, I've had you stuck.” He tapped a finger to his temple, then paused to flash a smile at the waitress who brought over his pint of Guinness. “Thanks, P.J.”

“You bet.” The waitress set a bowl of pretzels on the table, gave Duncan a wink, Phoebe a quick once-over, then carted her tray off to another table.

“Well,
sláinte.
” He tapped his glass to Phoebe's, sipped. “So, I kept asking myself were you stuck in there just because of Suicide Joe or because I thought you were hot. Which was my second thought when I saw you, and was probably inappropriate given the circumstances.”

She sipped more slowly, watching him. That tiny dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he grinned just drew the eye like a magnet. “Your second thought.”

“Yeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she's going to fix this.”

“Do you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”

“No. Maybe. I'll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It's just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew what you were doing—a really hot woman who knew what to do. So I wanted to see you again, maybe figure out how come you're stuck. I know you're smart—also a plus—not only because of what you do, but hey, Lieutenant, and you seem young for that.”

“I'm thirty-three. Not so young.”

“Thirty-three? Me, too. When's your birthday?”

“August.”

“November. Older woman.” He shook his head. “Now I'm sunk. Older women are so sexy.”

It made her laugh as she tucked up her legs, shifted a little toward him. “You're a funny guy.”

“Sometimes. But with serious and sensitive sides, if you're counting points.”

“Points?”

“There's always a point system in this kind of situation. He's clean. She has breasts. Points added. He has a stupid laugh, she hates sports, points subtracted.”

“How'm I doing?”

“I'm not sure I'm going to be able to add that high without my calculator.”

“Clever, too. Points for you.” She sipped at her beer, studied him. He had a little scar, a thin, diagonal slash through his left eyebrow. “Still, it's risky to assume I'm smart and competent—if those are included in the final total—with so little actual data.”

“I'm a good judge of people. On-the-job training.”

“Owning bars?”

“Before that. I tended bar and drove a cab. Two professions where you're guaranteed to see all types of people, and where you get to peg them pretty quick.”

“A cab-driving bartender.”

“Or bartending cabdriver, depending.” He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear, gave the dangling silver at her lobe a little tap. The gesture was so casual and smooth, she wondered at her own quick jolt of intimacy.

“Easy to juggle hours on both sides,” he continued, “and I figured I'd sock away enough to open myself a sport's bar.”

“And so you did, fulfilling the American dream.”

“Not even close—well, the American dream part—but I didn't earn the ready to open Slam Dunc riding the stick or driving a hack.”

“How then? Robbing banks, dealing drugs, selling your body?”

“All viable options, but no. I won the lottery.”

“Get out. Really?” Delighted, fascinated, she lifted her glass in toast before stretching out a hand for a pretzel.

“Yeah, just a fluke. Or, you know, destiny, again depending. I picked up a ticket now and then. Actually, hardly ever. Then one day I went in for a six-pack of Corona, sprang for a ticket.”

“Did you pick the numbers or go with the computer?”

“My pick. Age, cab number—which was depressing since I hadn't planned to still be hacking—six for the six-pack. Just that random, and…jackpot. You know how you hear people say if they ever win, or even when they do, how they're going to keep right on working, living pretty much like they have been?”

“Yeah.”

“What's wrong with them?”

She laughed again, snagged another pretzel. “Obviously, you retired as a cab-driving bartender.”

“Bet your ass. Got my sports bar. Very cool. Only funny thing, and I may lose man points here, but I figured out after a few months I actually didn't want to be in a bar every night of my life.”

She glanced around Swifty's, where the music had gone slow and dreamy. “Yet you have two. And here you are.”

“Yet. I sold half interest in Dunc's to this guy I know. Well, almost half. Figured, hey, Irish pub.”

“Hence Swifty's.”

“Hence.”

“No travel, no flashy car?”

“Some travel, some flash. Anyway, how did you—”

“Oh no, the question begs to be asked.” She wagged a finger at him. “It's rude, but it has to be asked. How much?”

“A hundred and thirty-eight million.”

She choked on her pretzel, holding up a hand when he tapped her on the back. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, that's what I said. You want another beer?”

She shook her head, gaped at him. “You won a hundred and thirty-eight
million
dollars on a lottery ticket?”

“Yeah, go figure. Best six-pack I ever bought. It got a lot of play at the time. You didn't hear about it?”

“I…” She was still struggling to absorb. “I don't know. When?”

“Seven years ago last February.”

“Well.” She puffed out a breath, pushed a hand through her hair.
Million
replayed through her mind. “Seven years ago last February I was busy giving birth.”

“Hard to keep up with current events. You got a kid? What variety?”

“A girl. Carly.” She saw his gaze shift down to her left hand. “Divorced.”

“Okay. Lot of juggling, single parent, high-octane career. I bet you've got excellent hand-eye coordination.”

“It takes practice.” Millions, she thought. Millions stacked on top of millions, yet here he was, nursing a Guinness in a nice little pub in Savannah, looking like an average guy. Well, an average guy with a really cute dimple and a sexy little scar, a killer smile. But still.

“Why aren't you living on an island in the South Pacific?”

“I like Savannah. No point in being really rich if you can't live where you like. How long have you been a cop?”

“Um.” She felt blindsided. The cute, funny guy was now a cute, funny multimillionaire. “I, ah, started with the FBI right out of college, then—”

“You were with the FBI? Like Clarice Starling? Like
Silence of the Lambs
? Or Dana Scully—another hot redhead, by the way. Special Agent Mac Namara?” He let out a long, exaggerated breath. “You really are hot.”

“Due to this, that and the other thing, I decided to shift to the Savannah-Chatham PD. Hostage and crisis negotiator.”

“Hostage?” Those dreamy eyes of his sharpened. “Like if a guy barricades himself in some office building with innocent bystanders and wants ten mil, or the release of all prisoners with brown eyes, you're the one he's talking to?”