The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [87]
“Nice day,” he opened.
“Lovely.”
“They have this every year. Apparently.”
“So I understand.”
“There will be fireworks at nine.”
“I have to leave before then.”
“So do I.”
They stood side by side, watching the band, the dancers, anything but each other.
“Charlie tells me you’re a lobbyist. For the energy industry.”
“Yes, I blow up scenic mountaintops for coal removal.”
A joke? She stole a glance at him to see—and then it was hard to look away from his clean, sharp, perfect profile. Charlie said he always wore suits, but today he had on slacks and a red polo shirt. Loafers. She came up to his jaw. The setting sun picked out glints of gold in his dark hair, which was cut perfectly.
The first time they’d spoken—when he’d called her on the psychic line to tell her to stay away from Charlie—she’d gotten the strangest feeling about him, that he was suffering, that something from his past had a hold he couldn’t break. But nothing like that was coming from him now, and all she felt was chilliness and discomfort.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked.
“Yes, quite near. That was—” She broke off, pretending she had to cough. She’d almost blown it there; she’d been about to say, “That was a surprise, finding out Charlie and I live so close to each other.” I’m Krystal, she reminded herself, not Romy. She wished Oliver would stop asking questions.
He was looking at her strangely. “So you live in the neighborhood ?” he pursued.
“Almost. I have a little house in Kensington.” Did that sound wistful? She’d been trying not to think about her house.
“ And how long have you been a—”
“Would you like to dance? I love this song.” What song was it? Who cared? Anything was better than telling Oliver Worth about her career in physical therapy.
EIGHT
She smelled like strawberries. Must be something she put in her hair, which was tickling his chin. Thick hair, between short and long, the color of ripe peaches. “It had to be you,” crooned the woman singer in the swing band. No, it didn’t, and Oliver resisted pulling Krystal Smith-Jones’s firm, warm body any closer. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask her, but it was better when they didn’t talk. When they talked, they had to pull back and look at each other, and then he’d become fixated on her mouth. Her full, sensitive lips, the prettiest part of her face. Except for her eyes, gray-green, not large but oddly luminous and steady....
“How”—he cleared his throat—“how long have you known my grandfather?”
“Not long. Have you always lived in the Washington area?”
“Yes. No—I went to grad school in California, and stayed out there for a few years afterward.” As he expanded on that, he realized she did it on purpose—turned the conversation back to him. Clearly she was hiding something.
“How about you?” he asked, this time without looking at her. “Where did you go to school?”
She began to answer, something about American University, but he forgot to listen as the absurd idea crossed his mind that her husky contralto sounded a bit like Madame Romanescu’s. Just then the song ended and the Skeletons jumped into a dizzy cover of “In the Mood.” Ms. Smith-Jones’s raised brows and cheeky grin were a definite challenge, and he could never resist a dare. She took his outstretched hand and he launched them, more or less simultaneously, into the jitterbug.
When it was over, they were laughing and out of breath, and around them people were clapping—for them. “That was so much fun,” Krystal said, pressing her palm to her chest. “But now I’m dying.”
“Don’t worry, the place is lousy with defibrillators.” He was joking, of course, but with his usual straight face. Something in the combination set her off—she fell apart laughing. And he felt loose and silly, and more at ease with her than he’d have thought possible. She’d lost a barrette while they were dancing; he found it for her under a table, then had the pleasure of watching her put it back in, bright