sipped her coffee and tried to figure out what in the world Russ was talking about. She wasn’t having much luck, so she contented herself with admiring his cuteness while waiting for him to explain himself.
There was a lot of cuteness involved, so she could be looking for a while. He was delicious, like a caramel wrapped around a crème filling. Strong jaw, a baseball cap over his light brown hair, eyes the color of dark chocolate before it melts. Broad shoulders, visible even through his navy winter coat. Hard chiseled muscle beneath a jersey-gray T-shirt. Jeans that had hugged his crotch when he’d walked toward the table. Large hands that could benefit from a good moisturizing lotion, and an earnest expression that was incredibly sexy.
Laurel’s whole body went hot and sensitive, moist, like she’d spent too long in a steamy shower.
“Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve been exchanging e-mails with a man who’s using my name. Trevor Dean is a con artist, he rips women off. First he meets them—some online, some around town—then he gets them to trust him.” Russ shifted a little, but met her gaze head-on. “He sleeps with them, moves in with them, then cleans them out. The PD has been investigating him for theft and fraud.”
Laurel’s lovely thoughts of seeing Russ strip to Bruce Springsteen music evaporated. Theft and fraud? Had she misread his lips? “What?”
“Theft and fraud.”
She took a fortifying sip of her third mocha latte. So much for her wild and wanton plans. “How do you know it’s him I’ve been chatting with?” And exchanging personal thoughts and feelings, and most embarrassing of all, a little sexy flirtation.
She’d told that person she hadn’t had sex in six years. He had probably turned right around and tagged her e-mail address as “dumb blonde ripe for the picking.”
“We found your name and this appointment among the personal things he left behind at his last victim’s house.”
Laurel couldn’t decide if she was more embarrassed or disappointed. Disappointment was edging out embarrassment by a horny head. But she couldn’t admit that to Detective Dream Boat. “This is very embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. Be glad you found out now.”
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t put on pink underwear in anticipation.
And worst of all, she’d really liked the guy. He was funny and thoughtful, always free with a smiley face in his e-mails. Laurel felt her cheeks pinken, until they probably matched the hue of her scarf. Her mother always said she was too nice, that she’d offer to help a serial killer learn how to tie better rope knots.
That was a ridiculous exaggeration, but maybe she was too trusting. It had never even occurred to her to doubt that Russ Evans was Russ Evans.
The Russ Evans in front of her gave her a stern, paternalistic look. “And you shouldn’t be giving out your personal information online, you know. The world is full of crooks and weirdos. And never, ever agree to meet anyone in person like this again.”
While she had just come to that conclusion herself, it made her feel like a disobedient child to have him say it. She couldn’t stand it when people patronized her, especially not when she could think of better “p” words Russ could do to her. “I’m in a public shop. Nothing could have happened to me here.”
His eyes rolled back and his lip curled. “Give me a break. There’s one guy working here who probably has more hair than brains. Someone could pull a gun on you, wave it at the clerk, and haul your ass out of here in about thirty seconds, no one to stop him.”
Well. That was a cheery thought.
“And don’t be so trusting, Laurel…you haven’t even asked to see my ID. I might not even be a cop, for all you know.”
Oh, God, he was right. She didn’t know if he was a cop. She didn’t know anything, really. Maybe he was the con artist, but was talking her into believing he was a cop. Confused, she primly held out her hand. “ID please.”
He nodded in approval, extracted his wallet from his pants, and handed it to her. “Never trust anyone.”
Laurel thought that was a sad tableau to live by, but she flipped open his wallet and studied the Cleveland Police Department badge. She glanced at his address, 350 W. 135th, on his driver’s license and noticed that the BMV headshot didn’t do him justice any more than the high school picture had.
Both her mother’s and his warnings resounded in her head. “How do I know what you’re telling me is the truth?” she asked, running her finger over the raised surface of his badge.
Russ’s mouth dropped open, then he laughed. “I guess you don’t. You could call the police department and ask to speak to me to confirm I’m a detective, or you could ask for my boss. He could vouch for me and the investigation.”
“The only problem is, I wouldn’t be able to hear his answer.”
Now Russ looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”
He looked so embarrassed, she rushed to reassure him with a smile. It made her uncomfortable when her deafness made other people uncomfortable. “I wasn’t criticizing you or trying to make you feel bad. I was just being honest.”
But he didn’t smile back. He was studying her, resting back in his chair, large fingers playing with the napkin resting on the table. Laurel stopped smiling, deep regret dousing over her. This man, this very attractive and cautious man, was not who she’d been talking to.
And she had rushed up to him, so excited to see him, eager to meet him, grateful he hadn’t stood her up. How totally mortifying.
Maybe even worse, Russ Evans wasn’t her naughty little secret anymore, her reason to sneak off to her room and check her e-mail, hoping for a message from him. The man she’d been chatting with, he had been sweet and flirtatious, interested in her—or so she had thought. And none of it was real.
That man was a con artist, probably out to steal her money, and the real Russ Evans wasn’t the least bit interested in her.
Oh, God, she wanted to go home and eat a brownie.
“Well, I’m going to leave then,” she blurted. “Thanks for your concern, I hope you catch the guy and everything.” Laurel bent over to pick up her bag, purposely lingering facedown so she couldn’t see Russ’s answer.
It was a trick she had often pulled as a kid, closing her eyes when she was being punished so she couldn’t see the lecture. Eventually her mother had started cracking her on the butt when she did that to force her eyes open. But Russ Evans didn’t know her, or that her avoidance was intentional, and she just wanted to get out of that shop without further reprimands from him.
But when she sat back up and turned to pull her black peacoat off the chair, Russ touched her arm, held it. She looked at him, wary.
“Did Dean give you any clues about who he is or where he lives? What interests him?”
Laurel extracted her arm from his hand and shoved it in her sleeve, not wanting to think about all the things Dean had said, because that meant she had to remember all the gushy, naive, personal things she had written in return. “I don’t know. He said things like he was you. He was a cop, went
