High Noon

saw his gaze shift down to her left hand. “Divorced.”
    “Okay. Lot of juggling, single parent, high-octane career. I bet you’ve got excellent hand-eye coordination.”
    “It takes practice.” Millions, she thought. Millions stacked on top of millions, yet here he was, nursing a Guinness in a nice little pub in Savannah, looking like an average guy. Well, an average guy with a really cute dimple and a sexy little scar, a killer smile. But still.
    “Why aren’t you living on an island in the South Pacific?”
    “I like Savannah. No point in being really rich if you can’t live where you like. How long have you been a cop?”
    “Um.” She felt blindsided. The cute, funny guy was now a cute, funny multimillionaire. “I, ah, started with the FBI right out of college, then—”
    “You were with the FBI? Like Clarice Starling? Like Silence of the Lambs ? Or Dana Scully—another hot redhead, by the way. Special Agent Mac Namara?” He let out a long, exaggerated breath. “You really are hot.”
    “Due to this, that and the other thing, I decided to shift to the Savannah-Chatham PD. Hostage and crisis negotiator.”
    “Hostage?” Those dreamy eyes of his sharpened. “Like if a guy barricades himself in some office building with innocent bystanders and wants ten mil, or the release of all prisoners with brown eyes, you’re the one he’s talking to?”
    “If it’s in Savannah, chances are good.”
    “How do you know what to say? What not to say?”
    “Negotiators are trained, and have experience in law enforcement. What?” she said when he shook his head.
    “No. You have to know. Training, sure, experience, sure, but you have to know.”
    Odd, she thought, that he’d understand that when there were cops—Arnie Meeks sprang to mind—who didn’t. And never would. “You hope you know. And you have to listen, not just hear. And listening to you, here’s what I know. You live in Savannah because there wouldn’t be enough to do on that island in the South Pacific, or enough people to do it with. You don’t discount the sheer luck of buying a winning ticket along with a six-pack, but neither do you discount that sometimes things are simply meant. Telling me about the money wasn’t bragging, it was just fact—and fun. Now, the way I reacted to it mattered, in as much as if I’d suddenly put moves on you, we’d end this evening having sex, which would also be fun. But I’d no longer be stuck in your mind.”
    “Something else I really like,” he commented. “A woman who does what she’s good at, and is good at what she does. If Suicide Joe was still working for me, I’d give the son of a bitch a raise.”
    She had to smile, and by God, she was charmed right down to the balls of her feet. But…“That’s quite a bit for one drink,” she decided. “Now I’ve got to get on home.”
    “You love your kid—that’s first and last. Your eyes lit up when you said her name. The divorce still bothers you on some level. I don’t know which, not yet. Your work isn’t a career, it’s a vocation. Cab-driving bartender,” he said. “I know how to listen, too.”
    “Yes, indeed. That’s quite a bit, on both sides, for one drink.”
    He rose when she did. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
    “It’ll be a hike. It’s in the shop. I’m catching a CAT.”
    “Jeez. I’ll drive you. Don’t be stupid, ’cause you’re not.” He took her arm with one hand, signaled a goodbye to the bar with the other on the way to the door.
    “You’re the second man who’s offered me a ride tonight.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “The first involved hopping onto the handlebars of his bike. As I told him, I don’t mind the bus.”
    “Take you just as long to walk to the bus stop as it will for us to walk to the lot down here. And I can promise you a smoother ride home.” He glanced down at her. “Nice night for a drive.”
    “I’m only up on Jones.”
    “One of my favorite streets in the city.” He strolled now, sliding his hand down her arm to link it with hers. “So’s this one.”
    And here she was after all, Phoebe thought, half of a couple wandering on River Street, hand in hand. His was warm, the palm hard and wide. The sort of hand, she imagined, that could wrench the top off a pickle jar, catch a fly ball or cup a woman’s breast with equal ease.
    His legs were long, his stride loose and lazy. A man, Phoebe judged, who knew how to take his time when he wanted to.
    “Nice night for a walk,