“Oh, shit.” Daphne let her head fall forward, her forehead hitting the bar with an audible thunk that made the whiskey in Nick’s glass bounce. “He’s here,” she said without moving. “I should never have told him to man up. Now he’s hell-bent on proving to me that he is.”
No doubt whom she meant.
Nick understood why Marcus had a thing for Daphne. A lot of the guys did. She had a killer body, long black, wavy hair and a damn fine face. Plus, she could outshoot most guys in the department. But she wasn’t going to hook up with Marcus, and it would be a hell of a lot easier on everyone in the immediate vicinity if he’d accept this.
“Hey.” Marcus pulled up a stool on the other side of Daphne. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, as she raised her head and pushed the hair back from her face impatiently.
“I was.”
“Why are you here?” Nick inquired, before Daphne could skewer the guy.
“I saw your truck outside.” Marcus raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Corona, please. With a lime.”
“Are you sure you don’t want one of those sixty-four-calorie light beers?” Daphne asked politely.
“What does that mean?” Marcus looked down at his flat stomach, as if wondering if she was suggesting he was fat. Not fat. Just a wiener, but Nick hoped she didn’t tell him that. Not when they needed his assistance—although he did seem totally impervious to insult.
“We were kind of having a private conversation,” Nick said.
“Oh. Well I didn’t mean to butt in.” Marcus’s voice was clipped. “I just thought we were kind of a team.”
“We are a team,” Nick said wearily. They needed him, as annoying as he was. “So why don’t you tell me about this groundwork you’ve laid.”
Daphne took a drink of her beer and a few drops fell onto the front of her blouse. As she brushed them away, Marcus’s eyes followed the movement like a tracking beam.
“What groundwork?” he asked, glancing away from her chest.
“You said at the cooking lesson that you’d laid groundwork,” Nick reminded him.
“I hope to lay some groundwork,” Marcus corrected.
That wasn’t what he’d said, but Nick wasn’t going to argue fine points. He laid a palm on the bar and leaned closer to the accountant. “I do not need help with the getting into Tremont Catering part. I need help with the files after I get them. That is your job.”
Marcus smirked. “You aren’t the only one who can indulge in covert operations.”
Covert operations? Daphne frowned at Nick, who rolled his eyes skyward. It beat choking their teammate.
“Look,” she said, turning her attention back to Marcus, “we all have our jobs. Yours is behind a desk, and that’s fine. When I told you to man up, apparently you got the wrong idea.”
“No, sister,” Marcus said, pointing a finger at her. “You’ve got the wrong idea. About me.” “You’re an accountant,” Daphne said patiently. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Do not patronize me,” Marcus snapped. He sucked in a long breath that made him look as if he were going to explode. But instead of launching into another verbal assault, he exhaled sharply and headed toward the door.
“Hey,” the bartender called. “Want your beer?”
Marcus stopped and fumbled for his wallet.
“I’ll get it,” Nick said.
“You can just go to hell.” Marcus flipped a five onto the bar and then jammed his wallet back into his rear pocket before walking out.
“He’s off his rocker,” Daphne said when the door shut behind him and the other patrons turned their attention back to their drinks.
“But he’s part of the team,” Nick said darkly, picking up his beer again. “And he’d better not screw up my investigation by going rogue.”
GABE WAS COOKING eggs when Nick stopped by to see him on Sunday afternoon as usual.
“Want some?” he asked, holding up the pan. He had a towel tucked into the front of his baggy slacks as a makeshift apron, making him look very much as if he knew what he was doing.
“No,” Nick said, noticing that there wasn’t enough to share. “I just ate. You go ahead.”
Gabe slipped the eggs onto a plate and sat at his small table, the towel still in place. Nick sat opposite him.
“So you got something out of the lessons,” Nick said with a touch of I-told-you-so in his voice.
“Yeah and so did you.”
“Meaning?”
Gabe snorted. “You can continue to deny it, but you were watching the teacher.”
Nick’s mouth tightened. He hadn’t been looking at Eden for the reasons his grandfather seemed to think he was.
Besides, his granddad wasn’t around him enough to know whether or not he was looking at women. He’d looked. A few times. But he hadn’t felt ready to act.
“You don’t need to feel shifty about it,” Gabe said. “It’s been two years since Miri passed away.” During which time Nick had buried himself in his work.
“I don’t feel shifty about it.” Well, maybe he did, but not for the reasons Gabe thought.
His grandfather shoveled eggs into his mouth, then reached for the salt. Nick put his hand on the shaker first. “Remember what Lois says.”
“Screw Lois.” But Gabe abandoned his attempt to raise his blood pressure. “Hey, they’re planning the casino night. It’s on the fifteenth.”
“I’ll mark it on my calendar.” Nick had been to every one of the semiannual casino nights since Gabe had taken up residence in Candlewood. Family came and participated, and Nick was the only family Gabe had in town, since his son and wife, Nick’s parents, now lived in Las Vegas.
Gabe smiled in a predatory way. He loved to gamble. “I’m going to clean up, you know. Buy a new recliner.”
“You have enough money to buy a recliner now.”
“But it’s more fun to win the money gambling.” He cut his eyes sideways. “Which brings me to another issue.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “An issue?”
“Yeah. My wallet disappeared. At the cooking lesson, I think.”
Nick stared at the old man for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. “This isn’t a ploy to get me talking to Eden Tremont, is it?”
“Hell, no. If you don’t have the balls to talk to her without an excuse—”
Nick raised his hand, interrupting. “Sorry. It’s just that…” I don’t believe you, you old coot. “I’ll see what I can do about your wallet. Did you have any cash in it?”
“A few bucks.”
“Credit cards?”
“Keep ’em in the strongbox.”
“ID?” His grandfather was no longer allowed to drive, and hated having an official ID card instead of a license.
“Strongbox.”
“Then all you lost was a couple bucks.”
“And the wallet, which I wouldn’t mind getting