Page 43 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)
CHAPTER
ONE
The primal thump, thump, thump of the bass guitar pulsed through Jules Adler, as unwanted and unnecessary as a second heartbeat.
She contemplated her reflection in the restroom mirror, re-applying lipstick, tucking a strand of short, golden-brown hair behind one ear, powdering her nose—whatever it took to delay the inevitable.
For courage—or, at the very least, endurance—she tugged the small silver locket that held the photo of her little sister out from her royal-blue blouse, rubbed her thumb over it, kissed it lightly, and then dropped it back into place.
When she couldn’t procrastinate any longer, Jules zipped her bag closed, yanked open the door, and headed out into the hot, crowded, noisy pub.
Although she did cast a longing glance in the direction of the rear exit as she passed by, she forced herself to keep going instead of pushing out into the back alleyway and fleeing the premises.
Her mission, which she had definitely not chosen to accept, was to find the man whose face matched the one on her phone screen.
The photo her friends Kelli and Brie—whom Jules had every intention of banishing from her life the second she could politely extricate herself from this fiasco of a blind date—had sent her an hour and a half ago.
Their way of blindsiding her with the fact that they had set up an online profile and agreed to this little rendezvous without her knowledge.
The dance floor was crowded and the tables, packed tightly together in the small space, mostly full.
No one appeared to be here alone. Jules frowned.
Not wanting to appear eager, or even remotely interested—since she absolutely wasn’t—she’d shown up fifteen minutes late.
Was her so-called date planning to arrive even later? Rude.
Jules would give it thirty more seconds, and then she would take his absence as a sign that this wasn’t meant to be.
Not that she needed another sign. The fact that she had not and would not in a million years have initiated this little meet-cute, that her former friends, fed up with the fact that she had removed herself from the market a year ago—with good reason—had done it for her, was not making her any more receptive to the idea.
Twenty seconds.
One more scan of the room, and then she was out of?—
Jules’ gaze fell on a man dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, sitting in the far corner of the room, chair tipped back, arms crossed over his chest, head resting against the wall behind him, his eyes closed.
A hoodie? On a first date?? Oh no, no, no, no, no. Do not let that person, who couldn’t make it any clearer that he was even less happy to be here than she was, if possible, be the man her friends insisted was her ideal mate. Even they couldn’t be that far off. Could they?
She wasn’t able to see his face clearly across the room, although another quick glance at her phone suggested that the broad shoulders and short, dark hair were a match. Of course, a lot of guys could fit that description.
Out of sheer desperation, Jules took one last look around the room.
With no other males sitting on their own, she drew in a deep, exasperated breath through lips pressed tightly together as she started for the corner.
The sooner this farce started, the sooner it would end.
In an hour—hopefully less—she could be back on her couch in her jammies watching the Pride and Prejudice mini-series she loved for the umpteenth time and downing handfuls of popcorn.
When she reached the table, Jules stopped next to it and checked her device once more.
Her heart sank. Definitely the guy. Dante de Marco.
Which wasn’t a pretentious name at all. Jules cleared her throat, and he opened his eyes.
Although he wasn’t quite chewing on a toothpick, the guy could not look less interested in anything in the vicinity. Including—maybe especially—her.
Heaving another sigh, Jules turned the device toward him. The live band was still blasting out some heavy metal song, so she leaned a little closer and raised her voice. “Dante?”
The man had the gall to release a similar sigh before pushing away from the wall, the front legs of his chair thudding to the floor. “Yep. Jules, I assume?” He twisted his arm to glance at his watch. “I was about to leave.”
Meaning her night would have gotten exponentially better if she’d delayed coming out of the restroom five minutes longer.
Check your attitude, Jules. Brie’s admonishment when Jules had protested being forced against her will into participating in this debacle or risk all-out ostracizing from her friends barged its way into her mind.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Traffic.”
His response to that admittedly less-than-genuine apology was a wave of his hand toward the empty chair across from him.
Since he didn’t appear inclined to pull it out for her or even perform that half-stand thing that a man with a modicum of respect or good manners might have, Jules yanked it away from the table herself and flopped onto it.
Thank goodness she’d only spent twenty minutes choosing her outfit and applying makeup before heading out of her apartment.
Even at that, about eighteen of those had been wasted, judging from the absence of a flicker of interest in the dark-brown eyes of the man across from her.
Given the stubble on his cheeks and his frat-boy outfit, he’d spent at least nineteen minutes less than she had getting ready for his date with her.
“Want a drink?” Dante jerked his head in the direction of the bar.
Although Jules wasn’t a drinker, she had never wanted to say yes to that question more in her life. She did need to keep her wits about her while hanging out with a strange man, however. Besides, his glass appeared to be half filled with Ginger Ale. “I’ll have a Diet Coke.”
“Of course you will.”
Was eye-rolling a vibe? If so, this guy had it perfected. Without another word, he shoved back his chair and strode across the room.
Wow. Jules tugged the phone from her pocket, sent a text to her friends that even through cyberspace was guaranteed to scorch their little eyeballs, then shoved the device into her pocket again.
What was the shortest amount of time she could put in here before making some lame excuse and escaping?
And what could she tell him, that her no-longer-living grandmother was in the hospital? That her non-existent cat was sick?
While she was in the process of deciding, a glass of cola hit the table in front of her. Jules frowned as she swiped at the splatters on the arm of her jacket. “Uh, thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” Dante dropped onto the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he cocked his head. “Friends or family?”
Jules had grasped the handle of the frosted glass and lifted it halfway to her mouth, but she set it down without taking a drink. “Excuse me?” She had to practically yell to be heard over the music.
“You clearly don’t want to be here any more than I do, so who coerced you into it?”
She almost laughed. I mean, the guy wasn’t wrong. After the last dozen or so dates she had been on—before she called a moratorium on any others—his honesty was almost refreshing. Annoying and insulting, but still, refreshing. “Friends,” she admitted. “Or, after tonight, former friends.”
The barest hint of a wry grin crossed his lips. “I’m planning on disowning my three older sisters the second I get home as well.”
Jules managed a weak grin herself before taking a drink and then setting the glass on the table and wrapping her fingers around it. “Since we’re here, let’s at least get the requisite questions in. What do you do?”
Dante hesitated a second, running a thumb over the condensation on his glass, before saying, in a voice so low she read his lips more than heard the words, “I’m a cop.”
“Really.” Jules hadn’t seen that coming. She leaned against the back of her chair and scrutinized him, her lips pursed. Was he telling the truth? “That wasn’t in your profile.”
“Not something we typically splash across the Internet.”
Warmth prickled across her neck at the duh in his voice. “Right. That makes sense.” So, he may or may not be a cop. What did it matter if he was lying? After tonight, she didn’t plan to see Dante de Marco—if that was even his real name—ever again.
An awkward silence fell over the table. Seriously, did the guy have no idea how to hold a normal conversation?
He took a sip of his drink as though he was so apathetic about what she did that he couldn’t summon the energy to ask without a hit of sugar and caffeine first. After a few more seconds of heavy silence, he leaned forward, both arms resting on the table. “So. What do you do?”
“What do you think I do?” Jules always asked, intrigued at what people might say. To date, not a single person had ever guessed right the first time.
Dante offered her a slow, perusing look—the most attention he’d given her since she had walked up to the table.
His dark-eyed scrutiny sent a jolt through her that caught her completely off guard.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Jules. Get a grip.
Even if the man was totally her type of tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome—the one thing her friends had gotten right—his looks couldn’t begin to make up for his appalling behavior and off-putting personality.
Although nothing changed in his expression, when he spoke, his voice held a hint of amusement, as though he was utterly aware of the effect his scrutiny had on her. “I don’t know, tailor?”
Jules raised her eyebrows. “Tailor?” She kept her voice neutral, although part of her was tempted to screech the word. “What about me would make you think I was a tailor ?” Who was a tailor these days, anyway? Where was this guy from, 1810?
“I don’t know.” He flapped a hand in front of her. “You look like you know about… clothes.”