industry, auto-repair garages and the like. No, it had become fashionable, the welding shops and upholstery businesses supplanted by galleries and expensive boutiques, hair salons and intimate restaurants whose tabs rose in indirect proportion to the number of tables.
Gil hadn’t chosen one of the chichi ones, though, but a modest little pub that might well have been there the whole time. It was quiet and only half full. Privacy, Jillian thought as she glanced at her watch. They’d be able to have their conversation without having to shout to be heard. Which was fine with her. Scenes had never been her thing. She wanted answers. She wanted to know why the Gazette had gone after Robbie. She wanted to know why Gil had lied. And she’d find out.
Provided he ever bothered to show up.
Stifling impatience, she took a sip of water and set the glass precisely back in its damp ring. She’d arrived her habitual five minutes early. Now fifteen more had gone by and she itched to check voice mail, to drag out her PDA, do something productive with the time. But she didn’t. She had a personal rule about waving electronics around in restaurants. Then again, if Gil didn’t show up soon, she might just break that rule.
Or walk out entirely.
When she glanced over to the door again, though, he was there. And for a moment, her thoughts scattered. For a moment, she was back in the church at the head of the aisle and he was watching her every step. Except this time around, she was the one watching. The man had presence, she’d give him that. There was something absolutely riveting about him. She wasn’t the only one who thought so; she saw a waitress turn to stare in his wake.
Jillian just gazed, unmoving, until he was standing beside the table, looking down at her.
“Hello,” he said. She hated the fact that her pulse stuttered. He hesitated a moment, long enough that, for a breathless instant, she wondered if he was going to lean down and kiss her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he sat. “Sorry I’m late. My boss called me in just as I was leaving.”
“Trouble?”
His grin flashed, quick and white. “No more than usual.”
Just looking at him made her remember the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the intimacy of that dark, male flavor. And the man knew how to kiss, knew how to use that clever, clever mouth to turn a woman to mush.
Not her, not anymore, she reminded herself grimly.
“So how was the rest of your weekend? Breakfast with your brother, right?”
“Good memory,” she said.
“Where’d you go?”
“His house. His wife’s pregnant and on bed rest, so I brought the breakfast. We mostly just sat outside, drank coffee. And read the paper,” she added, watching him closely. “After all, it wouldn’t be Sunday without the paper, would it?”
“No, indeed. Are you a big newspaper fan?” he asked, just a touch of care in his words.
“Oh, about like average. I like to know what’s going on in town. Of course, I like it from a reputable paper, not a scandal rag.”
“Don’t like reading about Brangelina and space aliens?” He looked amused.
“Don’t like seeing people’s reputations trashed. Some of these reporters, they’re like snipers taking potshots from deep cover. They stay nice and safe while they destroy innocent people’s lives. And the editors just let them do it.”
“Not everybody who winds up in the paper is innocent.”
“And not every story written is accurate. Of course, the problem is that the jazzy stories show up on page one and the retractions show up on the bottom corner of page thirty-eight.”
“News sells.”
“Wrecking people’s lives sells,” she countered.
Gil leaned forward. “So did Woodward and Bernstein destroy lives or uncover corruption in government?”
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