Veil of Night Read Online Free Page A

chair.
    She took her time with the margarita, sipping slowly, probably deliberately nursing the drink while she waited, and he watched the clock hands move toward eight-thirty. But eight-thirty came and went, and no one arrived. Neither did she check the time on her watch, so she wasn’t feeling anxious about the passing time. She never looked around whenever the door opened. Huh. Evidently he was wrong that she’d been waiting for someone. Maybe she’d come in for no other reason than she wanted to unwind over a drink, just like almost everyone else in the bar.
    He thought about approaching her table, speaking to her, but even though his interest was piqued he was way more cautious with women now than he used to be. At his age, thirty-five, he wasn’t led around by his dick any longer, and he’d been through a divorce, all of which should make a man see the wisdom of not rushing in.
    The fact was, she looked expensive, and he wasn’t in the mood for an expensive complication. Women were always complications, bless their perverse little hearts. He enjoyed women for a lot of reasons, but he also enjoyed the simplicity of his bachelorhood. A man didn’t even have to marry a woman to lose his bachelorhood; all he had to do was be in a somewhat steady relationship with her, and he’d find himself structuring his free time to accommodate her. And God forbid you actually move in with a steady girlfriend; you might as well get married. He knew, because he’d tried all the variations: married, not married but living together, steady dating, semi-steady dating … it all boiled down to the same thing, meshing their lives together. For right now, he wanted his life unmeshed. Some day, yeah, he’d probably get married again, but he wasn’t in any hurry, and when he did take that step he’d make damn sure they were more compatible than he’d been with his first wife. There should be a law against people getting married before they were at least twenty-five.
    There was one other possibility for Ms. Classy, too, one that made him doubly cautious. Maybe she was a cop groupie. Some women got off on having sex with a cop. It had something to do with the uniform and the weapon, whether it was the one in the holster or the one behind the zipper, or maybe both. Some cops, especially newbies, let the increased sexual attention go to their heads, which could wreck both careers and marriages. Eric had always steered clear of that, even when he’d been in uniform. Now that he was a detective, he was looking ahead to other promotions, and he wasn’t about to let a piece of ass, even a prime piece, mess with his good judgment and common sense.
    The temptation got to someone else, though. A chair scraped back; he watched Blake Gillespie, a street cop still in uniform, approach Ms. Classy’s table. Eric controlled a scowl. It wasn’t any of his business if Gillespie tried his luck, and if she was a cop groupie, better Gillespie than any of the other guys. At least Gillespie was single. That didn’t mean Eric had to like watching another man make a move on a woman he’d spotted first, even when he didn’t intend to make his own move. Okay, so men were territorial sons of bitches. Inform the newspapers, call the TV stations, and see if anyone gave a shit.
    He watched as Gillespie made his move, with the easy smile and an invitation to join him. Ms. Classy glanced up without a change of expression, then calmly shook her head and said, “No, thank you,” before looking away as if the matter had been settled. Eric couldn’t hear what she’d said, but easily read her lips because she’d formed the words so firmly and plainly.
    Okay, so she wasn’t a cop groupie. Gillespie was a young guy, worked out all the time to pack his uniform with muscles, and he wasn’t butt-ugly, either. If she’d been looking to bag a cop in the sack, Gillespie would be sitting beside her now instead of shrugging and heading back to his own table. At