Free Irish Stewed by Kylie Logan Page A

it, the last thing I needed was a media audience. I made sure we were far from the front windows before I turned to him. “I can take care of myself. Which means I could have told her myself that I had nothing to say.”
    “You did tell her, and you handled it well.” How Declan could stand there and smile when my blood pressure was about to shoot through the roof was a mystery to me. “I forgot you had the whole Hollywood thing going for you. Apparently, you’ve stared down the paparazzi a time or two.”
    “Or three or a dozen or a hundred times.” I didn’t need the reminder of my former life. Not when my current life was turning out to be so complicated. When we looked over the crime scene earlier, I’d left my coffee cup on one of the tables, and I snatched it up and again walked far enough away from the windows to be sure Kim couldn’t see us, even with her nose pressed to the glass. I held the coffee cup in both hands against my chest. It wasn’t much in the way of a shield but only an idiot could miss the symbolism. I doubted very much that Declan was an idiot, but just in case, I thought it only fair to tell him, “I don’t like pushy men.”
    “Neither do I,” he confided. “Though I do confess I have something of a soft spot right about here”—he laid a hand over his heart—“for pushy women.”
    I bit back the reply I was tempted to hurl at him and matched him smile for smile. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not a pushy woman, isn’t it?”
    “Jury’s still out on that.” He laughed and his eyes sparkled with way more mischief than anyone should have been ableto muster at that time of the morning. “I’m not about to pass judgment, because I don’t know you well enough. Not yet, anyway.”
    I puffed out a sigh of frustration. Or maybe I was just trying to catch my breath. “You’re exasperating.”
    “And you’re intriguing.” He took a couple steps back, the better to look me over as he had a time or two before. This time, just like those other times, heat raced up my neck and into my cheeks. “When are we going to have dinner together?”
    I hesitated. But then, being blindsided will do that to a girl.
    “I’m free tonight,” Declan said.
    I shook myself back to my senses. “I’ve got to go to the hospital tonight. To check on Sophie.”
    “Tomorrow, then.” He turned and headed for the door and called back over his shoulder, “Unless you still think I’m a murderer!”
    “I never said you were a murderer. I only said it was a possibility. And I didn’t agree to dinner,” I added. I shouldn’t have bothered. By the time I got to the front door, Declan was already out on the sidewalk and ignoring her when Kim Kline scrambled over, tape recorder in hand.
    “Pushy and exasperating,” I grumbled.
    That is, right before I smiled.
    Just in case Declan might see, I spun away from the door.
    And spun around again when there was another tap on the window.
    This time when I grumbled, it had nothing to do with the handsome gift shop manager. I opened the door a crack. “Really, Ms. Kline, there’s nothing I can tell you about Jack Lancer and even if there was—”
    Like a bolt out of the blue, an idea hit. I was being perfectly truthful; there was nothing I knew about the dead TV star.
    But that didn’t mean Kim Kline didn’t know plenty.
    I swallowed my words, and when I opened the door I took a step back so she could walk into the restaurant. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked her.
    Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten the pledge I’d made to myself the night before: I would stay far away from the cameras, and there was no way I’d let myself be quoted and thus end up with my name plastered in the newspapers and on the Internet.
    “This is off the record,” I told her before she could open her mouth and say a word. “If you promise not to quote me—”
    “You’re an anonymous source.” Kim actually crossed her heart with one finger. “I