Love & Loyalty by Tere Michaels Read Free Book Online Page B

mouth.
    “And bought more than just enough to get you through dinner and breakfast.”
    Jim's mouth snapped shut.
    Griffin laughed.
    By the time the beers arrived, Jim had ratcheted down from sweating and stressed to a near enjoyment of Griffin Drake.
    And admitted to himself he wouldn't mind entirely if this turned into a date.

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    Tere Michaels

    Chapter Seven

    Griffin Drake was in trouble. Not the kind of trouble where you call for help—the kind of trouble where you make a sign of the cross and jump right in.
    Detective Jim Shea, all six feet four, steel-jawed, and eyes the color of blue that he couldn't think of something creative for… God, what kind of writer was he? Right, the kind who was sitting across from a subject, a part of a larger puzzle, all but drooling in his crème brûlée.
    They weren't talking much; Detective Shea clearly didn't do this very often.
    Griffin didn't either, but he was a natural talker, a social butterfly who dispelled every notion of the solitary, uncommunicative writer. He did like to drink, however, but he tried not to drink alone.
    Which explained how the bottom of the wine bottle came up so soon.
    “You want something else?” Griffin asked, well aware they hadn't touched the Kelly case or anything else beyond small talk about their respective cities and sports. He was already thinking of excuses to do this again—and to make this evening last a bit longer.
    “Uh, I should probably have a pot of coffee.” Jim Shea wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and rested it back on his lap. On the one hand, it was a natural movement; on the other, Griffin wanted to massage the tension out of his shoulders. “And not drive afterward.” He looked regretfully at the empty wineglass and the almost empty second beer. “Not a smart move.”
    “I'd offer to drive, but you'd just have to pull me over,” Griffin said, adding and strip search me in his head. “Let's have coffee, then…maybe take a walk?
    Clear our heads.”

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    Jim nodded, looking around for the waiter. Griffin got an excellent view of that chiseled profile and movie-star jaw. If this guy weren't so stiff, he'd make a wickedly hot leading man.
    Raul materialized, and Jim ordered a pot of coffee (black, of course).
    Griffin ran his hands through his hair—then discreetly rubbed off the sticky gel on the napkin in his lap.
    Classy. He was a class act. And grateful this place was so damn dark.
    “Thanks,” Jim said suddenly, like a burst of sound he had been working up to. “For this dinner and, uh, not talking work. It's a nicer night than I imagined it being.”
    Griffin looked at the detective in surprise. He smiled, entirely pleased with himself.
    “My pleasure. I planned on working you to death over cheap diner food, but this is much nicer,” he teased gently, leaning his elbows on the table.
    “Seriously? I'm really glad I gave you a decent birthday dinner. You deserve it.” Jim's handsome face didn't reveal much agreement. He just looked embarrassed—like he wanted to disagree, but that would be rude.
    “Come on, man, stop giving me that look. I used my writer Google fu, and frankly I'm stunned you didn't have a bunch of people throwing you a big party.”
    Jim's eyes dropped.
    “Well, thanks. That's nice of you to say,” Jim said stiffly. The coffee appeared before either of them could crawl under the table.
    Griffin watched him pour his coffee, and his palms itched. The French wine, the night, the dark—it made him stupid ballsy.
    “Why don't you believe that?”
    “Huh?”
    “Why don't you believe what I said? From what I can tell, you're well liked.
    Respected. Successful. You're not hurting for money or looks.” He gnawed the 46
    Tere Michaels

    inside of his mouth when that last word slipped out. “I'm not sure why I should feel bad for complimenting you.”
    Jim stirred his coffee aggressively. When he gestured with his spoon, tiny droplets of coffee flying across the