Free Betrayal by John Lescroart Page A

anybody else so soon. I mean on a date.”
    “I’ve got an idea. How about we don’t call this a date or anything else? Just let it be what it is. Do you have to decide that right away?”
    “Maybe not. I just don’t want to send you any mixed signals. I’m not really with Evan anymore, but I’m…”
    “You still care about him.”
    She raised her shoulders. “I don’t know. Not answering his letters is a decision. Not having feelings about him isn’t something you just decide. I can’t say I’m there yet. And now here we are, you and me. You asked me out and I said yes. I don’t know why I did that.”
    “You were hungry?”
    “We could have gone to McDonald’s. I didn’t have to get dressed up. This feels…different.”
    “Than McDonald’s? I’d hope so.” Nolan leaned in across the table, caught and held her gaze. “Look, Tara, it’s not that complicated. I don’t know you, and the only two things I know about you are, one, that we probably disagree about the military, which we’re not allowed to talk about. And two, you’re very pretty. That’s just an observation, and risky because you might think I was coming on to you, which would put this more in the line of a date, I admit. So let’s get that off the table right now.” He straightened back up. “This is not a date. I’m way too old, and what are you, twenty-two?”
    “Try twenty-six.”
    “Well, I’m thirty-eight, that’s too much right there. I could be your father.”
    Around a small smile, she sipped wine. “Only if you were a very precocious eleven-year-old.”
    “I was,” he said, and held out his stem glass. “Here’s to precocious children.”
    She stopped, her glass halfway to his. “I don’t know if I can drink to that. I teach eleven-year-olds. If they were any more precocious, we’d need bars on the windows.”
    Nolan kept his glass where it was. “All right,” he said, “here’s to peace, then. Is peace okay to drink to?”
    She clinked his glass. “Peace is good,” she said. “Peace would be very good.”
     
     
    N OLAN PULLED INTO A SPACE in the parking lot by her apartment. He killed the engine and his lights and reached for his door handle.
    “You don’t have to get out,” she said.
    “No, I do. A gentleman walks a woman to her door on a dark night.”
    “That’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
    He sat back in his seat, then turned to look at her. “You’re trying to avoid that awkward here-we-are-at-the-door moment. Understood. You don’t have to ask me in for a nightcap. I won’t try to kiss you good-night. Even if I am finding you marginally more attractive than before we’d had such a good time. That was a great meal.”
    “It was.” But she spoke without much enthusiasm. Her hands clasped in her lap, she sat facing forward, stiff and unyielding.
    “What is it?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
    She exhaled. “Do you still have Evan’s letter?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She didn’t move. “I think I should read it. I should read the other ones.”
    “All right. It’s in the glovebox, right in front of you. Help yourself.” He opened the car door and stepped out. The night smells of gardenia, jasmine, magnolia—he’d forgotten how beautiful it could be here in California in the summertime. Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door.
    Tara sat still another second, then opened the glove compartment, picked out the envelope, swung her legs, and got out. She said, “Really, Ron, I’m okay. That’s my place, right up there, you can see it from here.”
    “Yes, you can, but it’s against my religion to let you walk up there alone.”
    She sighed. “Okay.”
    “And no funny stuff,” he said. “From you, I mean.”
    Amused in spite of herself, she looked up at him and shook her head. “I’ll try to keep myself under control.” Holding up the letter so he could see she had it, she turned and he fell in beside her—across the parking lot, up the outside