Page 103 of First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars 8)

He’d brought up the thing she most didn’t want to look at. “Not legally.” She stared into her wineglass. “I’m turning into somebody I don’t respect. One of those people so focused on the end goal that they don’t care how they reach it.”

“It’s called passion.”

She had another word for it. Unethical.

***

Coop watched her sip her wine. She wasn’t happy, and he wanted her to be. She should be.

He took a platter of meats, cheeses, olives, and summer rolls from the refrigerator under the bar and carried it to the closest banquette. She followed him with their wine goblets, steady as can be on those stilettos she detested. She hadn’t believed he’d assaulted anybody. Not for a moment. She’d been impatient when he’d pressed her about it—as if he were wasting her time by bringing it up. No one had ever had such blind faith in him. What the hell was a man supposed to do with a woman like this?

She slid into the banquette, her skirt riding up on her thighs enough for him to lose his train of thought. Even without tonight’s mascara, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her glossy cinnamon mouth was an invitation. He loved her face best scrubbed clean, but he also loved knowing that she’d bothered fixing herself up just for him.

“This feels ceremonial,” she said.

“It is. A celebration.” She’d put her investigator’s license in jeopardy doing whatever it was she’d done, and that bothered him even more than knowing he’d needed someone else to solve his problems.

“You don’t look happy,” she said.

“I’m very happy.”

“Then why are you frowning?”

“Because I’m trying not to act like the animal I am by picturing what’s under your dress. I’m not proud of myself.”

She smiled.

He set down his drink. “Let’s dance.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

She took his hand and slid out of the banquette. He led her to the floor. It was odd to realize this was the first time he’d been able to dance in his own club strictly for pleasure.

And pleasure it was. The sweet fit of her body against his own was almost painful, although he wished when he’d programmed the music, he’d avoided this off-the-charts sentimental Ed Sheeran ballad. On the other hand, it suited his mood.

“This is just weird,” she said, resting the top of her head against the side of his jaw and leaning even closer into him.

“If only you weren’t such a romantic.”

She laughed. Why did he keep worrying about leading her on when she had her feet so firmly planted on the ground and her head so far below the clouds?

They danced in silence, their hands clasped, their bodies swaying, breathing in each other’s air. The Sheeran song ended and Etta James began to sing “At Last.” He drew her back to the banquette.

She nibbled at the appetizers, taking those dainty bites that always threw him off. He needed to tell her what her trust meant to him. Instead, he asked her to take him through everything she’d done from the time the police had carted him away to their meeting with Deidre.

“I’ll give you the best first.” She told him about finding the man Mrs. Berkovitz thought was her dead husband.

“Incredible,” he said as she finished. “And how much did Mrs. B. pay you to do this job for her?”

“A hundred dollars. I was planning to take her out to dinner, but now I’m hoping I can take them both out.”

“You have a good heart, Piper Dove.”

She speared a cheese cube. “And flexible ethics.”

He rose to fetch the bottle of cabernet from the bar. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”

---