I can. Thanks for sending him over, by the way.”
“Sending him? Are you kidding? I mentioned murder and the man flew out of here. I barely had time to tell him where you were. God, I love all that macho protectiveness.”
“I told you, he can’t resist a good homicide investigation. It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Molly said, deciding Liza did not need to know just yet that Michael had all but invited himself into her bed tonight.
“Right. The man decided to spend his one night off chasing a killer who’s not even in his jurisdiction. I’m telling you, Michael O’Hara would not have gone anywhere near Miami Beach tonight if you hadn’t been involved.”
Molly couldn’t stop a wistful, unliberated sigh. “I have to admit I was glad to see him. It’s as if whichever side of my brain is supposed to do deductive reasoning goes into high gear the minute he’s around.”
“To say nothing of your hormones.”
“Okay. That, too.”
Liza drank the last of her wine and stood up. “You look beat. Since you can’t offer me anything juicier than speculation, I’m going home. I’ll send Brian over in the morning.”
“Just make sure he’s back here before ten. Michael’s picking us up for brunch.”
“Oh, really? Maybe I’m getting out too soon after all. Isn’t there some other little detail you’d like to share with your best friend?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face. There are no details,” Molly retorted. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”
As it turned out, going to bed was achieved far more easily than getting to sleep. She kept remembering the sight of Greg Kinsey lying dead and the sound of the heated argument that had preceded it by what must have been no more than minutes.
• • •
“Tell me about Kinsey,” Michael suggested midway through brunch the next morning, after he and Brian had filled Molly in on every detail of the soccer game she’d missed. Her son beamed as Michael lavished praise on a shot he’d made. She knew how he felt. She wouldn’t mind basking in a little of Michael’s admiration.
Michael had arrived precisely at ten, wearing perfectly pressed navy blue slacks, a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an expensive gold watch no thicker than the very masculine hairs that subtly shadowed his arms. Lord, the man was sexy, Molly had thought then and thought again now. What had possessed her to send him away the night before?
At the sound of Michael’s chuckle, she blinked and stared. “What?” she said blankly. Regretfully, she forced her gaze away from his hands and her attention away from the decidedly wayward thoughts about what those hands could have been doing toher during her long, sleepless night if she hadn’t had an attack of conscience. Or cowardice. Probably the latter, she decided with a sigh.
A knowing twinkle sparked in his dark brown eyes. “Kinsey,” he reminded her. “Tell me what he was like.”
“You mean when she found his body with the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead?” Brian asked hopefully. At eight he was fascinated with anything that made Molly squeamish. The more gore, the better.
“No, I mean when he was alive,” Michael told him, barely hiding a grin. “I pretty much know what dead guys are like.”
Brian looked disgusted. “If you guys are gonna talk about all that boring stuff, can I go play on the beach?” he asked. “I finished eating a long time ago.”
“Go,” Molly said. “You know the rules. Stay within sight and don’t go in the water.”
“And be careful crossing the street,” Michael added, glancing toward Ocean Drive’s parade of convertibles and open Jeeps filled with teens and practically shaking with the sounds of rock. “The traffic’ s bumper-to-bumper.”
When Brian had successfully navigated the street in front of the outdoor café, Molly considered Michael’s question about Greg.
“He was driven,” she said
“Sending him? Are you kidding? I mentioned murder and the man flew out of here. I barely had time to tell him where you were. God, I love all that macho protectiveness.”
“I told you, he can’t resist a good homicide investigation. It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Molly said, deciding Liza did not need to know just yet that Michael had all but invited himself into her bed tonight.
“Right. The man decided to spend his one night off chasing a killer who’s not even in his jurisdiction. I’m telling you, Michael O’Hara would not have gone anywhere near Miami Beach tonight if you hadn’t been involved.”
Molly couldn’t stop a wistful, unliberated sigh. “I have to admit I was glad to see him. It’s as if whichever side of my brain is supposed to do deductive reasoning goes into high gear the minute he’s around.”
“To say nothing of your hormones.”
“Okay. That, too.”
Liza drank the last of her wine and stood up. “You look beat. Since you can’t offer me anything juicier than speculation, I’m going home. I’ll send Brian over in the morning.”
“Just make sure he’s back here before ten. Michael’s picking us up for brunch.”
“Oh, really? Maybe I’m getting out too soon after all. Isn’t there some other little detail you’d like to share with your best friend?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face. There are no details,” Molly retorted. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”
As it turned out, going to bed was achieved far more easily than getting to sleep. She kept remembering the sight of Greg Kinsey lying dead and the sound of the heated argument that had preceded it by what must have been no more than minutes.
• • •
“Tell me about Kinsey,” Michael suggested midway through brunch the next morning, after he and Brian had filled Molly in on every detail of the soccer game she’d missed. Her son beamed as Michael lavished praise on a shot he’d made. She knew how he felt. She wouldn’t mind basking in a little of Michael’s admiration.
Michael had arrived precisely at ten, wearing perfectly pressed navy blue slacks, a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an expensive gold watch no thicker than the very masculine hairs that subtly shadowed his arms. Lord, the man was sexy, Molly had thought then and thought again now. What had possessed her to send him away the night before?
At the sound of Michael’s chuckle, she blinked and stared. “What?” she said blankly. Regretfully, she forced her gaze away from his hands and her attention away from the decidedly wayward thoughts about what those hands could have been doing toher during her long, sleepless night if she hadn’t had an attack of conscience. Or cowardice. Probably the latter, she decided with a sigh.
A knowing twinkle sparked in his dark brown eyes. “Kinsey,” he reminded her. “Tell me what he was like.”
“You mean when she found his body with the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead?” Brian asked hopefully. At eight he was fascinated with anything that made Molly squeamish. The more gore, the better.
“No, I mean when he was alive,” Michael told him, barely hiding a grin. “I pretty much know what dead guys are like.”
Brian looked disgusted. “If you guys are gonna talk about all that boring stuff, can I go play on the beach?” he asked. “I finished eating a long time ago.”
“Go,” Molly said. “You know the rules. Stay within sight and don’t go in the water.”
“And be careful crossing the street,” Michael added, glancing toward Ocean Drive’s parade of convertibles and open Jeeps filled with teens and practically shaking with the sounds of rock. “The traffic’ s bumper-to-bumper.”
When Brian had successfully navigated the street in front of the outdoor café, Molly considered Michael’s question about Greg.
“He was driven,” she said
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