Free Designed for Death by Jean Harrington Page B

knew I’d be sure to recognize him right off, which I did. Unlike last night, today his deep, resonant voice held something extra, a hint of humor. I liked that. I liked it a lot. Jack always had a note of mischief lurking in his voice. It was a delightful quality. I missed it, and right now I sure could use a laugh.
    My knees wobbled a bit. In case they gave way, I plunked down on the edge of the sofa.
    “Who is this?” I asked.
    “The guy with the ugly condo.”
    “Oh, it’s not so bad. You already have two important essentials.”

    “I do?” He sounded disappointed.
    “Yes. A place to put your drink down and your feet up.”
    He rewarded me with a chuckle. “The place looks like a motel room. We need to work on it.”
    The we wasn’t lost on me. Or the reference to a motel room. “I’ve sketched some ideas for you to look at.”
    “Great. Just what I hoped you’d say. St. George at seven?”
    True, I liked his voice, but Rossi’s warning popped up out of the blue. Don’t trust anyone. Planning to drive to the Foxy Lady with Simon last night had been foolhardy, a mistake I wouldn’t repeat.
    I let a pregnant pause linger before saying, “St. George is fine. I’ll meet you there at seven.”
    For the second time in one day, I hung up first. A good feeling, the power position. But the elation didn’t last long. Who was I kidding? I had to get to the Government Center and let a vampire suck out a vial of my blood.

Chapter Nine
    “Were you afraid to drive with me?” Simon asked.
    Seated across from him at one of St. George’s intimate little tables, I pinned him with a wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-you-mean stare. “No. I go to business meetings alone.”
    His conspiratorial smile signaled he could keep up the charade that this wasn’t a date or drop it. But I wasn’t ready to concede a thing.
    I rested my portfolio and purse next to my chair and glanced around the dimly lit room. Recessed lights picked out marine antiques artfully set against teak paneling—ships’ figureheads, wheels, compasses, binnacles—still, St. George was one dark restaurant, so reminiscent of Boston on a frigid night, I shivered.
    “Quite the atmosphere,” I said as our server, a middle-aged woman in no-nonsense black slacks and starched white shirt, left after taking our drink orders, a Ketel One martini for Simon, a house Chardonnay for me.
    “Well, it’s dark, anyway.” He laughed.
    The tiny oil lamp in the center of the table cast interesting shadows onto his face, sculpting its planes, emphasizing his cheekbones. He caught me staring at him and pushed the lamp closer to me. My turn to cast interesting shadows across the table. I hoped my face was up to it.
    “Tell me something,” he said, scrutinizing me in the lamp light.
    I eyed him warily. Someone else who wanted to know all about Jack? “If I can. What do you want to know?”
    “The story of your life.”
    I laughed. “As lines go, that one rates an A plus.”
    This was supposed to be a business meeting. I was about to bring that up when our drinks came. We clinked, and he said, “I mean it. Tell me about yourself. Why interior design, for instance?”
    I gave a mental shrug. Okay, he’d asked and I’d be talking business after all. Sort of.
    Between sips I said, “My mother died when I was eight years old. I think my career started then, trying to make my father happy. He was a cop, one of Boston’s finest. My grandmother lived next door to us in Dorchester and taught me how to cook for him. Simple things at first. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, grilled cheese sandwiches.”
    “You must have been an adorable little girl. All that curly red hair and those…”
    I narrowed my eyes to slits. “Those what? Freckles?”
    “What I said was you must have been adorable.” He leaned over the table, his dark eyes gleaming. “You still are.”
    “Slick, Simon, very slick.” I pretended to frown, but comments about my freckles were nothing new. I’d been