Mostly.
But excited as he was to see Marc, he didn’t want to let his brain latch on to the fun part of the trip until they’d worked through a bit more of the work part.
“You said Lenora Birch was a machine,” he said, looking across the table at Jill.
“Robot,” she said, dunking another chip. “I said ‘robot.’”
“I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head.
Jill wiped her mouth. “No?”
“Not wearing your heart on your sleeve doesn’t mean that you don’t have one.”
Jill’s eyes locked on his, narrowing slightly. “Speaking from experience?”
He let his gaze hold hers, even though he knew it was dangerous. Even though he’d been telling himself all week that this—whatever this was—had to stop.
He took a sip of tequila. For courage. “Just because someone doesn’t talk about feelings doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“Fair enough,” Jill said slowly. “But you have to understand that another person won’t know what to do with those feelings if they’re not aware of them.”
“What if the other person is aware of them—but is just scared to death,” he challenged.
“Why would she—or he—be scared?” Jill said as they both scrambled to hold on to the illusion that they were still talking about the case.
He searched her face. “Maybe because that person isn’t quite as open—or in touch—with her feelings as she’d like to believe.”
Jill’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying that all of these people who act like Lenora Birch is a robot are incorrect? Lying to themselves?”
“I’m saying that maybe they tell themselves that she was cold and unfeeling because they can’t face their own fear that maybe she was just unfeeling toward them.”
Jill leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of margarita. “If Lenora felt strongly about anyone, she didn’t show it.”
He leaned back as well, mimicking her easy posture, even as his body was held rigid with tension. “Perhaps she tried. Perhaps they missed it.”
Jill licked her lips, but whatever she was about to say next was interrupted by the return of their server asking if they wanted another round.
“Actually, we were just on our way to dinner,” Vincent said before Jill could reply.
She snapped her mouth shut but waited until after the server walked away to get their bill before asking, “Dinner?”
He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Got the name of a place from Marco. Great food, buzzing atmosphere, but not annoyingly trendy.”
Jill didn’t even try to contain her excitement. “Any chance of celebrity sightings?”
He smiled. He knew she was going to ask that. “Marco said it’s not out of the question.”
Jill slapped at the table and made a little squeal of excitement.
“Okay, but first to the hotel,” she said, still drumming her fingers against the table and all but bouncing in her chair.
“Why?” he asked, handing the server his credit card the moment she came back to the table.
Jill gave him an exasperated look and plucked at the white blouse that was her standard “interrogation” uniform. “Um, to change. Obviously.”
Vin rolled his eyes toward the orange and red California sky. Obviously.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was unfair, really, just how exceptional the Moretti gene pool was. A fact Jill sometimes forgot, given one was her partner, one was her best friend, and the others were like brothers.
But seeing Marco Moretti for the first time in years, Jill had to admit that it was one damn fine-looking family.
Vincent’s brother had the same dark hair as the rest of them, and brown eyes like Vin and Anthony, rather than the blue of Luc and Elena. And while there was certainly no mistaking that all the brothers, well, were brothers, they each had own unique appeal going on.
Anthony was the stoic, serious one. Classic tall, dark, and handsome.
Luc was the charming heartthrob. Quick with a smile and a wink.
Vin had the gruff, rough edges of a bad boy, which was played up significantly by the ever-present leather jacket.
And Marco… Jill tilted her head as she studied him over her glass of delicious pinot grigio… Marco was the reliable one. The one you’d want as the bodyguard or your emergency contact.
He was tall—nearly as tall as Anth’s six-four, perhaps—and had the same broad shoulders of his brothers. Clean-shaven jaw, crisp white shirt…
Marc caught her staring and winked.
Jill smiled. Apparently Luc wasn’t the only brother quick with a wink.
They’d been at the restaurant for all of fifteen minutes, and two things were abundantly clear.
(1) Marc had missed his brother. And vice versa.