“My responsible girl.”
“I am responsible. So we go in, and I’m doing my mental checklist. He gets a bottle of wine, asks if I want a drink. I think why not, so we sit down, have a glass of wine and an actual conversation. Then when I’m driving home, I think it sort of—weirdly—felt like a kind of date. Do you think it was?”
“It’s hard to say, since I wasn’t there.” Obviously intrigued, Olivia angled her chair a little closer. “Were there advances?”
“No. No. Nothing like that. It was just a drink and conversation. But, like I said, an actual conversation, which isn’t his usual mode. Why bartending, and from me, did you ever want anything but the family business? You know, that exploratory sort of conversation you have on a first date.”
“It’s been a few decades since I had a first date, but I do remember.”
“There was a vibe, even though it was just casual after-work conversation.”
“He’s a very attractive young man.”
“Sure. They’re all attractive.”
“And are you attracted?”
“Physically? I’m a straight woman and he’s gorgeous, so of course. He can be blunt and broody, and I normally wouldn’t find that attractive, but it’s offset by something, I guess, kind. He doesn’t just walk me to my car—something he could pass off to someone else even when he’s around. He waits until I’ve driven away. It’s just an extra minute, but it’s considerate.”
“He’d have been raised to be a gentleman, to respect and value the people who work for him. He’d go out with Mick sometimes, hang with Steve in the shop.”
Olivia looked toward the woodshop, tucked into the trees at the back of the property.
She’d given his clothes away, changed his office, but she’d never been able to clean out his woodshop.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Miles always struck me as an old soul. Something in the eyes.”
“He’s got great eyes.”
“Mm-hmm. Would you be interested if he was?”
Morgan thought yes, then qualified. “Probably not smart to go there, is it? I do work for him. Not directly, but he’s one of the big bosses. I guess it was just nice to sit down and have a drink with a good-looking, interesting man. It’s been awhile. A really long while.”
“You should get out, meet more people your age.”
“Oh, Gram, I meet people all the time. Comes with the territory. I just haven’t met anybody I want to sit down and have a drink with. Right now? I’m okay with that. I’m feeling like me again, even with everything that happened, even with checking the damn tire pressure every night, I’m feeling like me again.”
* * *
Gavin Rozwell, now using the name Charles P. Brighton, strolled the French Quarter. He enjoyed the nightlife, the idiot tourists, the ridiculous drunks, and the ease of walking from the luxury of his hotel suite to shops, restaurants, music venues.
A man such as himself could blend so easily in the crowds.
He’d gone back to clean-shaven and had let his hair grow considerably. He’d dyed it a strong red as, in his experience, people would notice the mane of red hair and not much else.
If anyone were to ask, he’d come to New Orleans to research his novel, to allow himself to become absorbed in the culture, the ambiance of New Orleans.
Charles P. Brighton was a pompous ass, another character Rozwell enjoyed playing.
But despite his appreciation for the Vieux Carré, and the amusement of playing a pompous ass （with a tidy trust fund）， he felt—as Charles would say—considerable ennui.
The last kill—RIP Robin—had left him oddly dissatisfied.
She’d been the perfect mark. Attractive, accommodating, trusting. With the loans he’d taken out on her house, accessing her bank account, what he’d netted on her spanking-new Hyundai, he’d cleared just over seventy thousand.
It had all been so easy.
Too easy, he thought now, strolling with his takeaway rum punch. No challenge whatsoever to play a woman so eager to start a relationship. And in Robin’s case, she hadn’t had close friends. The sister, yes, but they hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets.
She’d been prime for his skills, Robin had, and turned into a disappointment.
She’d nearly bored him brainless with her delight in his attention. While he’d been happy to kill her—at last—there’d been no crescendo, no rush.
It wasn’t only about the money, after all. The money provided the lifestyle he wanted and deserved. But the kill? The kill brought him to the buzz, the bang. It offered the glory he could live on for weeks, even months after.