Free Skinwalker by Faith Hunter

good at social interaction; in fact, I totally sucked at it, but the presence of Rick made the afternoon feel sociable, companionable—a good-looking guy, a good meal . . . But work was work, and I figured it was an appropriate time to see if Rick LaFleur was going to be helpful in my investigation, or just a distraction. I wanted to use his local knowledge and contacts, and that superseded any interest in him in a nonbusiness way. Or so I told myself.
    Trying for a light tone, I said, “So, bad boy, blight on the family name. Want to tell me why you came to my house and introduced me to Antoine’s delicacies? I’m guessing it wasn’t because you saw me on the street and fell head over heels in love at first sight.”
    He glanced at me through the dark lenses once, and I could almost feel him thinking things through. When he stuck his thumbs into his jeans pockets, I figured he had come to a conclusion. He slanted a look at me over the tops of his glasses, his head tilted down, eyes tilted up, considering. It was a well-rehearsed gesture and it set off my play dar. The Joe was a player. The realization was surprisingly disappointing.
    â€œI asked you to lunch to see if we could work together.” He pursed his lips, considering his words. “But something about you bothers me.”
    I allowed a smile to start, letting him see a hint of derision in it, but not enough to decide if I was deriding him, or myself.
    â€œI got to tell you, lady, you scare the pants offa me and I don’t know why. And you scared Antoine. I saw it in his eyes.” He pushed his glasses back in place, hiding his expression. “ Nothing scares Antoine.”
    I kept my light tone. “Your pants are still on. Antoine’s still alive. I’m unarmed. I haven’t killed and eaten anyone. Around here.” I let my smile twist a bit and added, “Yet.” Rick chuckled. “So why am I scary?” I finished.
    â€œI wish I knew. You witchy?”
    â€œNot a witch,” I said, “no.”
    â€œDidn’t think so. You don’t ”—he considered and discarded several words—“you don’t feel like that. But lady, you’re not human.” It wasn’t a question. It was more in the nature of an accusation. And it hit too close to the truth.
    I turned on my heel and headed back downriver. “Thanks for the invitation and for the introduction to Antoine.” I didn’t thank him for the lunch because I had paid for my own.
    â€œHey, hey, hey. Don’t run away mad.”
    I turned around, walking backward down the concrete boardwalk, and pulled off my glasses so he could see my eyes. “I’m not running away. And I’m not mad. I’m just not the kinda gal who likes to play games. You watched my house last night, smoking a cigar, hiding on the stoop across the street.” His brows rose and he pulled off his glasses too. Which was only polite and made me see him in a slightly kinder manner. Only slightly. “You make semiaccusations and dance around questions, but you don’t ask, you just prod and poke to see what I’ll do. You take me to a friend who just happens to have some kinda witch magic and get him to read me”—I let some of the anger I felt about that show—“which just ticks me off. So, you see, I’m not mad. I just got better things to do with my time.”
    â€œAnd that right there”—he raised an index finger as if making a point—“is what scares me about you.” When I stopped and cocked a brow, hands on my hips, sweating in the heat, he said, “Any other woman would have spent the next ten minutes trying to convince me she wasn’t mad. Even if she was. You? You just tell me off. While you walk away. Calm and cool as all get-out. And lady, gals don’t usually just walk away from me.”
    My smile twisted hard and I started walking again, backward, aware of