Pretties in Pink

7. Hallie

7

HALLIE

I stared at the phone. He’d bring a banana? Was that a reference to my peach joke—the one I’d regretted making as soon as I pressed send—or was it a euphemism for something entirely different? I couldn’t be totally sure, and my brain was struggling to function properly this afternoon. Caffeine withdrawal was a b***h, and so was I. I just couldn’t help it. After I’d snapped at Knox, Dan had threatened to tie me down and pour espresso into me if I didn’t lighten up.

When Prestia suggested dinner, I’d caught myself smiling for the first time all day. But the smile had quickly faded when I wondered what exactly dinner would mean. Not a date, surely? We didn’t have that type of relationship. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. We didn’t have a relationship, full stop. Did we? My palm prickled with the memory of his day-old scruff. During that conversation, the background had faded until it felt as if we were the only two people in the Grindhouse, the only two people in the world.

I couldn’t afford a repeat of that. My sanity wouldn’t take it.

But Prestia was right—we had to eat—and meeting him in a restaurant was certainly preferable to, say, a cosy tête-à-tête in his apartment, an option I absolutely, definitely hadn’t contemplated. So I’d called Giovanni at Il Tramonto and asked for my favourite table, which was tucked far enough out of the way to have a private conversation and public enough that I wouldn’t be tempted to stroke the good detective, a move that wouldn’t even have been a consideration until the events of yesterday. It was official: I’d lost my freaking marbles.

And now I had another problem. What was I meant to wear for a non-date at a reasonably upscale restaurant? Jeans seemed too casual, and a dress too…well…dressy. On a normal day, and by “normal” I meant one where my mind wasn’t begging for caffeine and Detective Prestia wasn’t hammering my synapses, I’d have simply worn a pair of smart pants, but because I’d gone crazy, I saw Bradley coming out of the second-floor kitchen with an empty vase and called him over.

“What’s up, doll?” His face fell. “Is it the new drapes? You didn’t like them?”

“What new drapes?”

“In your apartment. I hung them with Izzy on Monday.”

That was how preoccupied I’d been—I hadn’t even noticed. “Oh, those new drapes. They’re amazing.”

“You don’t think the colour’s too much?”

“Not at all.” What colour were they? Whatever, it didn’t matter—we were stuck with them now. “Uh, what should I wear for dinner at Il Tramonto with a guy who isn’t really a friend and isn’t really a business contact and definitely isn’t a date?”

“If he isn’t any of those, then why are you going?”

“He’s kind of an…informant, I guess?”

“Is he hot?”

“What sort of a question is that?”

“He is hot! You’re blushing. On a scale of skinny jeans to little black dress, how sexy is he?”

“Forget I asked, okay?”

“I never forget a thing.” Bradley put down the vase and fished a glittery notepad out of his purse. “See? I write notes. Now, I think you went more scarlet than rose, which means he’s lickable if not edible, so let’s go with a dress.”

What had I done?

“Maybe I’ll just cancel.”

Bradley gasped in horror. “Cancel? You can’t do that. He’ll be soooo disappointed. Do you have shoes? I’ll bring shoes as well. You’ll be here for a couple more hours, right?”

“Yes,” I said weakly. No point in denying it. He’d hunt me down wherever I went. Honestly, I didn’t know why it took the US so long to find Osama bin Laden—they should have just started a rumour he’d committed a crime against fashion and Bradley would have dragged him into Bloomingdale’s by the beard.

“Fandabidozi. I’ll fix your hair when I get back too.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“What isn’t wrong with it? Did you even use the coconut conditioning pack I left in your bathroom?”

“Uh, no?”

He tutted to himself and strode off, muttering. Okay, so there weren’t many jobs that came with free makeovers as a perk, but some days, I simply didn’t have the energy to deal with Bradley, and today was one of those days.

What a time to give up caffeine.

“Hallie… Mi amore.” Giovanni shooed the maître d’ out of the way and air-kissed me on both cheeks. “You look bellissima. Your date is a lucky man.”

“Oh, I’m not here on a date.”

“Then who is your friend? He works for Blackwood?”

It was a fair question. Giovanni had only ever seen me here with girlfriends or colleagues, and he liked to keep up with who was who at Blackwood on account of us getting a special discount. Emmy’s lawyer, Oliver, was Giovanni’s silent business partner, and he’d arranged the deal.

“No, he doesn’t, he’s, uh…” I couldn’t tell Giovanni that Prestia was an informant. “He’s just an acquaintance.”

Giovanni gave me an exaggerated wink. “An acquaintance, sì. I will bring you aperitivi.”

“It’s not that kind of…” Oh, it was pointless arguing. One word from me, and Giovanni would believe what he pleased. “Thank you, but no alcohol for me. I don’t want to end up with a DUI.”

“Sì, sì.”

Far easier to tell people I was driving than admit the real reasons I avoided drinking. And I did have my car with me, so it wasn’t a total lie.

Prestia was already seated at the table in the corner, and as I approached, he did that whole undressing-me-with-his-caustic-soda-eyes thing again, only this time, thanks to Bradley, there were fewer clothes to remove. I’d lost the jewellery and done my best to tame my hair into a ponytail, but there hadn’t been much I could do about the dress or the shoes.

“I didn’t realise it was this sort of occasion,” Prestia said as he stood to greet me. I stuck out a hand before he could kiss me on the cheek. Better to start as I meant to go on, right? Although when he did shake hands with a bemused smile, he held on for so long that heat burned up my arm. “Should’ve worn a tie.”

He, of course, had gone super casual in faded blue jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Le Roux’s Seafood Shack, so now I had two choices—either die of embarrassment or brazen it out. And if I was going to die, I could have done that a year ago in a Florida s*x mansion.

“Do you even own a tie?”

“Several, in fact.”

“How about a proper shirt?”

A smile played over his lips. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”

It was two sizes too small, and it showed every bump of his six-pack, not that I’d been looking or anything.

“I meant with buttons and a collar.”

“Sure, I own a dress shirt. I even own a tuxedo. Want me to catalogue the rest of my closet, or are you going to sit down?”

Right. Yes, I should sit because now a man from the next table was looking at me too. Bradley had brought three little black dresses for me to choose from, and I’d picked out the one that showed the least cleavage, but it also happened to be the shortest, and the hem rose up my thighs as I sat. I’d planned to run home between work and dinner to find a pair of pants, but a client had called, and then a colleague had begun asking questions about a previous case, and there were emails, and now I was pressing my thighs together so I didn’t accidentally flash my underwear.

A part of me, the cautious part, hated wearing this outfit. Two years ago, I used to dress exactly the way I wanted, and I’d have loved everything that Bradley offered, but now I preferred to avoid attracting attention, just in case it turned out to be the wrong sort again. I could easily have followed Mercy’s example and opted for all things baggy. But the stubborn part of me knew that if I gave in to the fear, the men who’d made my life hell would win. And I refused to give the ones still living the satisfaction.

“Dainty little peach you have there,” Prestia said once I’d settled into my seat.

Really? So this was how we were gonna start? When had he checked out my ass?

“One could say the same about your banana.”

I had to credit him with having a hearty laugh, but once he straightened his face again, he nodded toward my purse.

“Touché. But I just meant you can’t fit much in there.”

Ah, right. I felt myself blush.

“I can fit the essentials.” Phone, debit card, cash, gun, tampons, knife, keys, lip gloss. What more did a girl need? “And I’m assuming we’re talking about metaphorical fruit, anyway.”

“Aw, and here was I…” He reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging over the back of the chair and produced an actual banana. And not any old banana. No, this was a monster. “Here was I thinking you just wanted to get your five a day.”

I’d promised myself that there wouldn’t be any more Grindhouse shenanigans this evening, but Prestia sure wasn’t making this easy. Fortunately, Giovanni chose that moment to deliver us glasses of Crodino, and I sipped the bittersweet drink to buy myself time. Something about Detective Prestia left me off balance.

“I should have checked you like Italian food,” I said, still stalling.

“I’ll eat anything.”

“That’s good to know.”

Gah!

The case. I needed to focus on the case.

“You mentioned a big juicy steak before, but now you’ve downgraded to a banana. Does that mean the Feinstein investigation isn’t going as well as you hoped?”

“I could make a meat joke there, but I’m not going to.” Thank goodness. “The investigation is…difficult. Did your peach involve a hair salon? That colour looks good on you.”

“Uh, thanks?” I was surprised he’d noticed, but he was a detective. Trained to observe and all that. “But no salon. I got my hair done at work.”

Bradley had brought his box of tricks to my desk and foiled my hair while I ran computer searches. He’d tried to paint my nails too, but I’d had to draw the line somewhere.

“At work? You have an office barber?”

“He prefers ‘stylist.’”

“I’m in the wrong damn job.”

“You could always come over to the dark side. We have cookies and a basketball court.”

“I prefer football.”

“The LA office has a football team, plus they have better weather.”

“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” Prestia glanced down at himself. “Not this T-shirt. My California T-shirt came from Big G’s Surf Store.”

“You surf as well?”

“Not since I was a kid. We moved from LA to New Orleans when I was thirteen.”

California and Louisiana—both places on my bucket list to visit. So far, my travels had taken me from Kentucky to Virginia via Florida, and I wished I could erase the Florida part from my psyche. And the Kentucky part too.

“What made you move to Richmond?” When I thought of the way he’d flirted, a hint of bile rose in my throat. Prestia wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t mean much nowadays. “A woman?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because nobody aspires to work for the Richmond PD, and the city doesn’t have the same kerb appeal as LA or New Orleans.”

Prestia kept me in suspense while he swallowed half of his drink. Add “frustrating” to his list of attributes.

“It was for a woman, but not in the way you think. My sister lives near here. Down in Chesterfield. She’s having a rough time at the moment, and she needs some support.”

“I’m so sorry. Is she… Is she sick?”

“Just sick of her soon-to-be ex-husband, and she’s stuck in Virginia while they fight over custody.”

“That sucks. So you’re here playing the good brother?”

“For a couple of years, yeah. Figured it’d be interesting to see more of this great country. Might’ve been more fun if her prick of a husband lived in New York, but it is what it is. And what brought you to Virginia? You’re not from around here either, are you?”

Oh, why had I steered the conversation down this path?

“I got offered the job at Blackwood, and I took it.”

“Don’t see many female PIs around. What made you pick that field?”

“Mysteries always fascinated me. I grew up reading true-crime books, then I got addicted to podcasts. And women can solve crimes every bit as well as men, thank you very much.”

“Not saying they can’t. Where’d you train?”

“Here. I’m, uh, I’m still training now.”

“And they’ve let you loose on the Feinstein investigation?” Prestia gave a low whistle. “Talk about throwing you to the wolves.”

“Are you saying you’re a wolf?”

“I can be. Depends on whether there’s a full moon or not. But seriously, Hallie, this is a big case.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Now his attitude was beginning to grate. Although that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—better for the heat in my veins to come from anger than from stupid, dumb lust. “And for your information, it’s not only me looking at Vonnie Feinstein. Blackwood works as a team. I’m just the one who drew the short straw and had to take you out for dinner.”

Rather than getting defensive, Prestia merely chuckled. “You’re cute when you get riled up, tenderfoot. If it makes you feel better, we can say I’m taking you out for dinner.”

“If you keep calling me ‘tenderfoot,’ we won’t be having dinner at all.”

“Should I assume that ‘peach’ is also unacceptable?”

I tried to suppress a smile. “You should.”

“Plum?”

“You can call me ‘plum’ if I can call you ‘ristretto.’”