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She stopped under a street light. “I don’t get into cars with strange men.”
Reilly stopped, too. “That’s going to make getting to the restaurant difficult.”
Nell offered him a crooked smile. She didn’t want to alienate him. She just wanted to keep things on her terms. On her turf.
“Not if we walk,” she said.
He rocked back on his heels, surveying the street, three- and four-story apartments over storefronts protected by iron bars and sliding grills: a used bookstore, a TV repair shop, a thrift store with a baby swing in the window. On the corner, the Greek market had closed for the night, the fruits and vegetables carted inside, the wooden shutters pulled down to the counters.
“You know someplace to eat around here?”
“I know a lot of places,” she said. “Do you have a problem with walking?”
He looked at her, his eyes blank, his mouth a tight line. And then he flashed another of his easy smiles.
“Not if we walk slowly. I’m basically a lazy bastard.”
Nell sniffed. She’d been on her feet all day. “I’ll try not to jog.”
“Then lead the way.”
She was very conscious of the grate of his shoes against the concrete, the whisper of her rubber soles. The gutter was littered with last fall’s leaves and last week’s trash. Bare trees raised black branches to the light. A car prowled by, its stereo thumping. A woman called. A television spilled canned laughter through an open window. By a Dumpster between two buildings was a furtive movement, quickly stilled; something, human or animal, foraging in the dark.
Nell shivered and pulled her cloak tighter.
“What’s with the Red Riding Hood getup?” Reilly asked.
“What? Oh.” She glanced down at her long red wool and then over at his safari jacket. “Fashion advice from the crocodile hunter?”
“Hey, my jacket’s practical. Lots of pockets.”
“My cape is practical, too.”
“No pockets,” he pointed out.
“It’s warm.”
“So’s a down parka.”
“Warm and recognizable,” she amended.
“Is that important to you? Being recognized?”
She didn’t want him to think she was after publicity for herself. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“It can be,” she answered carefully. “Sometimes if I’m working late, or I have to go out at night, the cape is useful. Like a uniform.”
“Because you might be asked to help somebody.”
Nell hesitated. “Yes.”
“Or because it keeps you from getting shot at?” he asked, and she stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk.
“Easy,” Reilly said, his hand coming up to cup her elbow through the red wool.
“Not usually,” Nell muttered.
When she looked over, he was smiling.
Nell tightened her grip on her bag. The printouts inside weighed on her shoulder. She had to be careful what she said around this guy. The sleepy smile was deceptive. The agreeable pose was a lie. The disinterested air was an act.
Whatever she thought of Joe Reilly personally, he was obviously good at his job.
And that made him dangerous.
Chapter 2
The bartender at Flynn’s knew Nell by name. He waved her to a booth at the back and drew her a Harps without asking.
Sliding into the booth, Nell watched Reilly lever himself awkwardly onto the dark vinyl bench opposite. His legs bumped the center pedestal. His mouth tightened.
Concern stirred. Purely professional concern. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He glanced around. “Nice place.”
So he didn’t want to talk about himself. That made a change from most of the men she knew.
His sharp reporter’s gaze took in everything. Flynn’s was a neighborhood establishment, with a long polished bar, a wide-planked floor and a wall lined with bottles. Foil shamrocks and limp crepe-paper streamers hung from the TV, week-old relics of St. Patrick’s Day. Fiddles and drums played through the speakers. The air was wreathed in cigarette smoke, sharp with the scents of hops and malt, rich with frying potatoes and grilled onions.
Nell’s mouth watered. She’d skipped lunch again today. She inhaled, closing her eyes in pure appreciation.
Her pint clinked on the table.
“What’ll you have?” the waitress asked Reilly.
“Club soda,” he said. “Thanks.”
Nell opened her eyes. He wasn’t drinking.
Which meant, of course, that he was working.
Which meant that she better pay close attention, or he was going to gobble her up like a side of home fries.
“I’m sure you have questions,” she said.
“A couple.”
“I left the statistics in my office.” Except for the ones in her purse. Stuffed with papers, it burned against her thigh. “But I can give you general information on the demographics of our patient base.”
A muscle moved at the corner of Reilly’s mouth. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to order now or later.”
“Oh.” That kind of question. Flustered, she scanned the menu. “Fish and chips, please.”
Reilly handed both menus to the waitress. “I’ll take the steak. Medium rare.”
Red meat, Nell thought as the waitress’s white blouse disappeared into the darkness at the back of the bar. At least he didn’t eat it raw.
“So, what are you doing at the Ark Street Clinic?” Reilly asked.
Penance, Nell thought.
“I see patients,” she said. “I also recruit doctors, hire staff, schedule the nurses, write grant proposals and—”
“This isn’t a job interview, Dolan. I didn’t ask for your résumé. I want to know what you’re doing there.”
Nell set down her pint. There was no way in the world she was confessing the demons that drove her to shark-mouth Reilly, the reporter. But she could certainly talk about the importance of her work.
“Call me Nell,” she said. There. That sounded friendly and forthcoming. “The Ark Street clinic provides top-notch care for a segment of the city that would otherwise go untreated. We have a growing immigrant population in our area. More and more employees—especially in low-paying and part-time jobs—aren’t getting insurance through their employers. And with the recent budget cuts—”
“Yeah,” said Reilly. “I read the flyer. Very nice. What did you do before?”
“I was a trauma nurse.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. Why did you leave? It can’t have been the money.”
Nell was stung. Not just by his assumption, but by his attitude. “How would you know?”
His gaze flicked over her. “No car. Cheap watch. Old shoes.”
Even though he couldn’t possibly see them under the table, Nell curled her feet beneath the bench. He saw too much.
And actually, her job paid pretty well. But she had debts. Some of them were monetary. And the rest…She picked up her pint and took a long swig.
“Can’t you accept that some people are motivated by a simple desire to help?” she asked.
He considered that, his long fingers laced on the table in front of him. He had a surgeon’s hands, tapered, the nails neatly trimmed. “Nope,” he said.
Forget the hands. Nell frowned. “That’s a very cynical position to take.”
“Realistic,” Reilly corrected. He moved his drink aside for the waitress, who set their plates on the table. “Most people are motivated by self-interest, fear or greed,” he continued after she left. “And the ones who tell you differently cause most of the world’s problems.”
Nell stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, arrested by the discrepancy between his flippant tone and the bitter look in his eyes.
“Spoken like a frustrated idealist,” she said.
“Not an idealist. Just frustrated.” He flashed her a Big Bad Wolf grin loaded with innuendo.
Nell felt a buzz. Not a beer buzz, either. This was more like sexual static. Cheap thrills. His attitude was completely unacceptable. Too pointed. Too personal. Too sexual. But his persistence was flattering.
She straightened against the high-backed vinyl seat. She had too much at stake to let herself be diverted by the promise or the threat of sex. Even if it had been twenty-two months, five days and…but who was counting?
She made an effort to drag the conversation back to a clinical, professional level.
“You have to admit that there are caring, committed people in the world who do make a difference,” she said. “Our volunteers—”
“Don’t you believe it,” Reilly said. “More harm is done by zealots, by people with a cause, people with good intentions, people who frigging care, than all the bad guys in the world.”
She sat back. “Wow. Are you speaking from personal experience here?”
Reilly met her eyes without apology. “Yes.”
Nell dragged a French fry through the ketchup on her plate. She didn’t want to know, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to know him. But the caretaker in her recognized and responded to the flat echo of his pain.
“Who hurt you?” she asked softly.
Reilly raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to turn this interview around on me?”
Her heartbeat quickened. “I thought the purpose of this dinner was to get to know one another better.”
He watched her. “If that’s what it takes.”
There was that buzz again, that jolt, that thrill. These were deep waters. And she was about to wade in over her head.
Unless—oh, God, that would be embarrassing—unless she totally misunderstood him.
“For you to get a story,” she clarified.
“For me to get you into bed.”
Nell caught her breath. Okay, she hadn’t misunderstood.
“Gee,” she said dryly. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, studying her with those hooded, knowing eyes. “You’re annoyed. But maybe you’re interested, too. Are you interested?”
Interested, offended, tempted, threatened… She wrapped her hands around her cold mug to keep them steady. “Are you always this blunt?”
He smiled, baring straight, white teeth. “It’s one of the principles of good journalism. ‘Don’t waste words.’”
She struggled to swim against the pull of his sexuality, the warm, lazy current in her own blood.
“Doesn’t your paper have some kind of restriction against journalists having sex with their subjects?” she asked.
“Probably. If you were underage, or if I put pressure on you to sleep with me so I didn’t trash your clinic in my column, that would be a breach of conduct.”
