High Noon by Nora Roberts Page A

in on hers. “So how are you?”
    â€œWell enough. How about you?”
    â€œLet me answer that by asking if you’ve got a stopwatch on me.”
    â€œSorry, left it in my other purse.”
    â€œThen I’m good. I just want to get this out of the way, so it doesn’t keep distracting me. I really like the way you look.”
    â€œThanks. I’m okay with it myself most of the time.”
    â€œSee, I’ve had you stuck.” He tapped a finger to his temple, then paused to flash a smile at the waitress who brought over his pint of Guinness. “Thanks, P.J.”
    â€œYou bet.” The waitress set a bowl of pretzels on the table, gave Duncan a wink, Phoebe a quick once-over, then carted her tray off to another table.
    â€œWell, sláinte. ” He tapped his glass to Phoebe’s, sipped. “So, I kept asking myself were you stuck in there just because of Suicide Joe or because I thought you were hot. Which was my second thought when I saw you, and was probably inappropriate given the circumstances.”
    She sipped more slowly, watching him. That tiny dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he grinned just drew the eye like a magnet. “Your second thought.”
    â€œYeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she’s going to fix this.”
    â€œDo you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”
    â€œNo. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It’s just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew what you were doing—a really hot woman who knew what to do. So I wanted to see you again, maybe figure out how come you’re stuck. I know you’re smart—also a plus—not only because of what you do, but hey, Lieutenant, and you seem young for that.”
    â€œI’m thirty-three. Not so young.”
    â€œThirty-three? Me, too. When’s your birthday?”
    â€œAugust.”
    â€œNovember. Older woman.” He shook his head. “Now I’m sunk. Older women are so sexy.”
    It made her laugh as she tucked up her legs, shifted a little toward him. “You’re a funny guy.”
    â€œSometimes. But with serious and sensitive sides, if you’re counting points.”
    â€œPoints?”
    â€œThere’s always a point system in this kind of situation. He’s clean. She has breasts. Points added. He has a stupid laugh, she hates sports, points subtracted.”
    â€œHow’m I doing?”
    â€œI’m not sure I’m going to be able to add that high without my calculator.”
    â€œClever, too. Points for you.” She sipped at her beer, studied him. He had a little scar, a thin, diagonal slash through his left eyebrow. “Still, it’s risky to assume I’m smart and competent—if those are included in the final total—with so little actual data.”
    â€œI’m a good judge of people. On-the-job training.”
    â€œOwning bars?”
    â€œBefore that. I tended bar and drove a cab. Two professions where you’re guaranteed to see all types of people, and where you get to peg them pretty quick.”
    â€œA cab-driving bartender.”
    â€œOr bartending cabdriver, depending.” He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear, gave the dangling silver at her lobe a little tap. The gesture was so casual and smooth, she wondered at her own quick jolt of intimacy.
    â€œEasy to juggle hours on both sides,” he continued, “and I figured I’d sock away enough to open myself a sport’s bar.”
    â€œAnd so you did, fulfilling the American dream.”
    â€œNot even close—well, the American dream part—but I didn’t earn the ready to open Slam Dunc riding the stick or driving a hack.”
    â€œHow then? Robbing banks, dealing drugs, selling your body?”
    â€œAll