Lyle Murphy was more than staring at Eve. Even half a block down and on the opposite side of the street Matt felt waves of animosity eddying across the pavement, lapping at their ankles. He scanned the storefronts, taking advantage of his mirrored sunglasses and peripheral vision to look like he was giving each window a thorough examination while he memorized the Escalade’s plate and noted identifying dings.
And got his first up-close-and-in-person look at Lyle Murphy. He was tall, dressed in business casual, a long-sleeved golf shirt tucked into slacks, loafers on his feet. You could drop him into any office in Lancaster and he’d blend right in, except for his eyes. Light brown and fixed on Eve, Lyle had the eyes of a psychopath. Matt knew the look well from combat and years on the streets. It wasn’t the homeless crazy, the off-my-meds crazy, or even the I-can’t-take-it-anymore crazy. This was the subtle, evil psychopathology of a man who cared only about getting what he wanted. He’d watch Eve struggle and suffer for the sheer pleasure of it, then put a bullet in her brain when he got bored.
They’d been out of his house less than an hour, and already Eve was in the crosshairs. Every instinct Matt honed was screaming at him to get her away, to shove her behind a car like he’d shoved her into the bathtub, but that would effectively destroy everything they’d worked for so far. He fought down the emotion, forcing himself to slump his shoulders, keep his stance easy and relaxed, to play the role of Eve’s new boyfriend, a man who knew nothing about Lyle, drugs, cops, guns, who cared only about banging his hot new boss. Eve had to take the lead here. She was walking a tightrope, and had to take each step on her own. All he could do was help her balance.
“You know,” Eve said conversationally, pointing at an old-school barbershop, “if there’s an uptick in gang violence and Mobile Media pulls out, all these businesses are going to go under. It makes me furious.”
“You said he went to Aquinas, so he’s smart, and unlike most of the people we went to school with, he had opportunities. Why is he so bent on selling drugs?”
“Oh, you know,” she said lightly, and let her arm drop. “Fathers and sons.”
Matt knew a thing about fathers and sons. The drumbeat under every move he took was the one his father taught him from childhood: control yourself, control the situation.
“This feels unnatural,” Eve said. “I wouldn’t ignore him.” She turned, and her eyes widened like she’d just become aware of Lyle’s existence. She lifted her hand and gave him a vaguely cheery wave, then wiggled under Matt’s arm and looked up at him. Her smile was faked; Matt could see anger and nerves in her green eyes, but from a distance, her moves and body language were exactly that of a woman newly enthralled with a man.
Lyle never looked away.
She turned her back on Lyle and stepped in front of Matt, wove one leg between his and shifted a little to his left, keeping his right hand free. “He’s watching us, right?”
“He’s watching you,” Matt said. “Eve, this is way more—”
She went up on tiptoes and kissed him. The first brush of lip on lip was perfunctory. Then she slid her hand up Matt’s neck and kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw, and the spot below his ear. Each touch of her mouth left a hot spot smoldering on his skin, sent heat streaming down his spine.
She could have simply laid one on him, given Lyle a showy open-mouth kiss, a taunt, but she knew that the slow, seductive press of her mouth would show even more that she was completely preoccupied with Matt, that Lyle didn’t have her under his thumb.
That rip in the universe again, the odd roaring abruptly cut off as reality snapped back into place. Lyle was as still as stone, his mouth tight, the relaxed big-shot posture suddenly tense.
Matt gripped her waist and bent to her ear. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, his heart hammering away in his chest.
“I’m being me,” she said. “The woman Lyle used to know wouldn’t let him dictate terms, not in my bar, or in my personal life. I want him angry. He gets impulsive when he’s angry.”
“So do you,” Matt said. He reached up and brushed her hair back from her face, hoping like hell the move came off as attentive new lover, not a tightly leashed impulse to fist his hand in her hair and kiss her into submission. “You’re making yourself a target. Stop. Now.”
“Better me than anyone else on the East Side. I’m already a target, remember? Hit on my life? I was from the moment I walked into the Eastern Precinct.”