At her stop, her map app shows the pub is only two blocks away. Luckily she’s brought her umbrella, as it’s pouring.
The pub isn’t the dark place she’d assumed a private detective would want to meet. Perhaps she’s watched too many American television shows. Even so, it takes her eyes a moment to adjust. The room is crowded, and as she glances around, she sees she’s easily the best dressed person in the room—in a sea of jeans and trainers, the black dress makes her stand out as she’d planned. Good. When you have to go begging, it’s never wise to appear as a beggar.
A man in the far corner of the room is looking at her, his gaze lingering. He’s the perfect image of an ex-military detective—close-cropped gray hair, white button-down, blue suit jacket—so she starts in his direction.
“Dr. Darling?” says a voice in her ear. She looks up, startled. There’s a man standing next to her, but even as she nods, he’s turning away.
“I’m over here,” he calls over his shoulder. It’s too fast for her to get a good look at his face. Without another word he walks to a booth in the back of the pub, leaving her no choice but to follow. He’s tall, but slender, with longish black hair. He’s wearing jeans and a thin black sweater with sleeves that fall past his wrists.
The man slides into the booth, leaving her to take the chair. She leans the umbrella on the wall beside him. He’s pale, with full lips and blue eyes so dark they’re almost black. A trace of stubble, not quite a beard, covers his jaw. His upper torso is heavily muscled, which surprises her because he moves as lithely as a dancer.
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his right ear, and she sees that he wears a small silver hoop in it. She tries to guess his age. The way he’s dressed, his grooming, makes her think he’s a few years younger than she is, but there’s something about his eyes and face, a world-weariness, that belies his appearance.
Either way, he’s not at all what she was expecting.
She realizes she’s being rude, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with her scrutiny. He leans back in the booth and nods to her.
“I’m Christopher. Christopher Cooke.”
“Holly Darling.”
He doesn’t offer to shake hands. Fine. Tall, strong, and handsome is a type she’s encountered many times before, and she knows how to play this. She leans forward, aware that half the men in the room are gazing at her, and gives Mr. Christopher Cooke her best smile. But before she can utter a word, he speaks.
“Your lawyer friend said that you’re trying to find an ex-lover?”
The way he says it, eyebrows raised, is slightly insulting. It catches her off guard, makes her flush. He’s managed to somehow imply both that she’s had too many lovers, and at the same time, that she’s woefully naive, as if she has no idea how difficult finding even one such carelessly misplaced lover will be. She rocks back in her seat and loses the smile. This isn’t going the way she’d planned.
“That’s right,” she says coolly. “We share a daughter, and she’s disappeared.”
“Your lawyer didn’t mention a missing daughter in our telephone call. Does he know?”
She ignores this. “The person I’m trying to find—her father—I think he’s involved in her disappearance. I’m sure of it.”
He looks at her with considerably more interest.
“Your lawyer didn’t mention that, either.”
“It’s not his job to know everything,” she says, with a silent apology to Barry. “His job was to prescreen you. And frankly, based on the conversation so far, I’m not certain he was successful.”
He’s about to reply, but is interrupted by the appearance of the waitress, who smiles at him with a familiarity that implies he’s a regular.
“Drinks, love? Or just food?” she says.
“Both, please. The usual to start. And my guest will have . . .” He turns to Holly.
“Tea for me, please,” she says stiffly. The waitress’s smile fades and she leaves.
“Drinking on the job?” Now it’s Holly’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Ah, but I’m not working yet, now am I?” He grins at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Right now I’m not working. I’m deciding whether I want to.”
She bites back the words she wants to say, takes another deep breath. If Barry thinks this . . . this bounder . . . is the best, then he must be.
The waitress returns with their drinks—a pint for Christopher, and Holly’s tea.