Hello, Darkness by Sandra Brown Page B

beneath the table for Paris. She nodded her thanks to him and sat down. She was still wearing sunglasses. Dean could barely detect her eyes behind the dark gray lenses. He hated to speculate as to why she never removed them.
    “I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you to come back downtown,” Curtis said to her.
    “I got here as quickly as I could.”
    In unison they all looked at the wall clock. It was coming up on twoP .M. None needed to be reminded that twelve hours of Valentino’s deadline had already expired.
    The detective motioned to the third man in the room. “This is John Rondeau. John, Paris Gibson.”
    She leaned forward and extended her hand across the table. “Mr. Rondeau.”
    As they shook hands, he said, “A pleasure, Ms. Gibson. I’m a huge fan.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “I listen to you all the time. It’s a real honor to meet you.”
    Dean drew a bead on the officer, whom he had met only minutes before Paris’s arrival. Rondeau was young, trim, and good looking. A weight lifter, from the looks of his biceps. His face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he gazed at Paris. Plainly, like the rookie Griggs, Rondeau was instantly infatuated with her.
    Dean suspected that Sergeant Curtis was, too. They’d gone to lunch at Stubb’s. The Austin landmark, famous for its barbecue, beer, and live music, was only a few blocks from police headquarters. They’d walked.
    During the lunch period there was no band playing in the amphitheater beneath the live oaks out back, but hungry state capitol personnel and downtown office workers lined up by the dozens to order cuts of smoked meat slathered with fiery sauce.
    Opting to not wait for a table, he and Curtis had ordered chopped beef sandwiches and had taken them out onto the wood porch, where they stood in the shade to eat.
    Dean had expected Curtis to ask him about Paris, but he’d thought the detective’s approach would be subtle. Instead Curtis had dug into his sandwich, then asked him bluntly, “What’s with you and Paris Gibson? Old flames?”
    Maybe it was Curtis’s candor that made him such a cracker-jack investigator. He caught suspects off guard. Striving for nonchalance, Dean took a bite of his sandwich before answering. “More like water under the bridge.”
    “Lots of water, I’m guessing.”
    Dean continued chewing.
    “You don’t want to talk about it?” the detective probed.
    Dean wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    Curtis nodded as though to say, Fair enough. “You married?”
    “No. You?”
    “Divorced. Going on four years.”
    “Kids?”
    “One of each. They live with their mother.”
    “Has your wife remarried?”
    Curtis took a drink of iced tea. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    They’d left it at that and moved the conversation back to the case, which actually wasn’t a case yet, but which they feared would become one. But now Dean knew that Curtis was single, and the detective never let pass an opportunity to treat Paris to some show of chivalry.
    Paris elicited that kind of attention from men. In all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her play the coquette. She didn’t simper. She didn’t flirt or deliberately draw attention to herself or dress provocatively. It wasn’t anything she did. It was something she was.
    One glance at her and you wished you had a long time to study her. Her figure wasn’t voluptuous like Liz’s. In fact, hers was rather angular and boyish, and she was taller than average. Her hair, light brown streaked with several shades of blond, always looked slightly mussed, which was certainly sexy, he supposed. But that alone wasn’t enough to rouse male interest.
    Maybe it was her mouth. Women got painful collagen injections to achieve that pout. Paris had come by it genetically. Or was it her eyes? God knows they were pretty damn spectacular. Blue and fathomless, they invited you to dive in and splash around, see if you could