“I think . . . you’re really a James Bond type of guy on some exciting international case,” she said.
“Actually, I was involved in a local homicide investigation. I ran into a spot of trouble at a dodgy pub on the pier.”
She laughed. “And then jumped in your cigarette boat and sped away, right?”
“No. Just an ordinary motorcar.”
“Okay, so how did you really manage to get that black eye?”
“Honestly,” he said, holding up his scout hand. “A bloke at the pier.”
Rachel’s pretty smile got prettier; she cocked her head to one side. “Okay, so don’t tell me. That of course leads me to believe it was a lover’s spat.”
“I should certainly hope not,” he said with a laugh.
“So what sort of international computer consultant are you, anyway?”
“Software development—banks, mostly.” He helped himself to more of that terribly decadent and astoundingly delicious cinnamon bun. “My turn. What sort of history do you study? American, I presume?”
She laughed heartily. Flynn liked that; an honest laugh. “What’s funny?” he asked, smiling.
She sighed heavenward. “There are a few people in my life who wish it was American history, but its not. I study medieval British history.”
“Really?” he asked, unfazed, but wondered how in God’s name a woman as lovely as Rachel could study something so dreadfully dull. “How did you settle on that fascinating subject?”
She laughed again, a sort of bubbly laugh that was surprisingly silky and as pleasing to the ears as her smile was to the eyes. “Because it’s . . . romantic,” she said. “You know, knights and damsels in distress and all that,” she said. Her cheeks, he noticed, had turned appealingly pink.
Still, he had a hard time seeing her buried in some musty old book. “So you think that it’s romantic that old Henry off’d the heads of his five damsels, eh?”
“Well . . . technically, Henry VIII was not a medieval king. And it was only two.”
“Two?”
“Two heads he off’d. Of six wives.”
Now it was Flynn’s turn to laugh. “There you are, you’ve discovered my secret—I’m frightfully ignorant of my heritage.” With a smile, he pushed the plate of bun toward her, of which, he noticed with chagrin, he’d eaten two-thirds. “But I’m curious—what do you plan to do with this Ph.D. in British history?”
“You and my father!” she said with a sheepish little laugh. “Congratulations, for you have just posed the sixty-four-million-dollar question, and one I can’t really answer, except to say, at present, it doesn’t look like much.”
“That bad, eh?”
“That bad,” she said with a winsome smile.
“What of your boyfriend?” Flynn asked, looking at her pointedly. The color seemed to drain from her face, and she became all wide-eyed. “The chap with the hair,” he reminded her.
“Yes, I know who you mean. But he is so not my boyfriend.”
Flynn was surprised by that. The chap was acting as if he was. “Isn’t he, really?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s just a friend. You didn’t really think . . .?”
“I did.”
“Oh no,” she insisted again, so emphatically that he wanted to laugh.
“Then if he’s not your boyfriend, that can only mean one thing,” Flynn said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“What?”
“That you are . . .” He leaned closer. “Quite unattached.”
Her cheeks turned pinker. “Well. Not to him anyway.”
Flynn shifted a little closer, his gaze on her luscious lips. “Another chap, then?”
She smiled. “Chocolate.”
“Chocolate? Is he still about? I thought he was dead and gone,” Flynn said. He could feel himself being pulled in by her effervescent smile, and he couldn’t help but recall her as she had been that damp night alone in her house, twirling about, and then later, with nothing but a towel wrapped around her, the smooth shape of her back bared to him. In the wake of that memory, he scooted his chair closer.
“Oh no, he’s very much alive,” she said, nodding. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. He follows me everywhere—he’s in my milk, in my brownies, in my cake,” she said as Flynn reached for her hand, covering it with his, letting his fingers slide up her wrist, then wrap around it, feeling the delicate bones.
“And what of your pudding?” he asked, studying her hand. “Is Chocolate there as well?”
“Absolutely, he’s there, too,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she turned her wrist in his hand. “And he sneaks in my purse when I’m not looking and wraps himself in bright red and silver tinfoils so that I can’t resist him.”
The lights flickered, indicating one of the poets would begin soon.
“That’s really a very clever idea,” Flynn murmured. “I’ll have to give it a go.”
Her laugh sounded different somehow, and when he glanced up, the smile had gone from her face. She lifted her gaze from his hand on her wrist and said, “I can’t do this.”