Page 21

“Get it together, Mabel,” I whispered to my reflection, catching myself humming “Fly Me to the Moon” as I adjusted an errant curl. “This is just dinner to discuss the case.” The lie tasted sweet on my tongue, easy to swallow but impossible to believe.

I met Dash downstairs five minutes later, my pulse fluttering when his eyes traveled over the blue dress in unhurried appreciation. We took his car for the short drive to the restaurant, the silence between us comfortable yet charged with anticipation.

The Salt House was a white clapboard building nestled among ancient live oaks dripping with Spanish moss just before the expressway that led into Charleston.

Twinkling lights wound through the tree branches, casting golden pinpricks against the deepening twilight sky.

The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the salt breeze off the water.

A hostess with a neat blond ponytail greeted us at the door. “Welcome to The Salt House. Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” Dash said. “A quiet table if you have one.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at Dash and gave him a flirtatious smile. “We have patio seating available. Right this way.”

She led us through the dimly lit restaurant and out onto a pergola-covered patio. The roof was covered in trailing jasmine and the tables overlooked the water. The soft light of a candle glowed from each table.

“Enjoy,” the woman purred at Dash, placing leather-bound menus on the table and lingering longer than she should have.

Dash never glanced at her, but instead held out my chair for me, his hand briefly grazing my back, and waited for me to sit down. That simple touch sent sparks shooting across my skin like electricity finding a new conductor.

“This is beautiful,” I murmured, relieved to be outside and away from any prying eyes. I’d seen at least three people I knew on our walk through the restaurant.

“You look…different,” he said, the word carrying unexpected weight.

“Different good or different bad?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious, spreading my napkin to give my hands something to do besides fidget.

“Different good,” he confirmed, a slight smile playing at his lips. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in that color before.”

“I was saving it for a special occasion,” I replied, then immediately wanted to kick myself. “Not that this is a special occasion. You want to talk about murder and the case. I just mean, I don’t get out much so I wanted to wear it.”

“Why do we wait for special occasions for the things we want?” he asked. “Why not wear the dress because you want to? Or drink the expensive wine that’s meant for a celebration?”

“Are you a sheriff or a philosopher?” I asked.

“Being a cop means knowing a lot about human behavior and how people think,” he said.

A sommelier appeared with the wine list. “Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink?”

“What wine do you suggest for celebrations?” Dash asked, his gaze never leaving mine.

I saw the humor there, but also something more—something deeper and darker that I had no idea how to handle. I was way out of my league with a man like Dash Beckett, and girlish fantasies weren’t going to cut it.

“I have the perfect selection,” the sommelier said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

After he’d gone, Dash raised his water glass, the crystal catching the candlelight. “To unexpected partnerships.”

I hesitated and then picked up my glass and clinked it against his. “To finding the truth.”

It was only moments before the sommelier returned to the table and filled our glasses. The wine was velvet on my tongue, dark cherries and spice and something deeper, more mysterious. I took a second sip, feeling the tension of the day begin to loosen its grip on my shoulders.

“So what was your impression of Brooks?” Dash asked, his voice pitched low for privacy. “You’ve not mentioned your visit with him today.”

“My impression is that he’s been carrying the weight of Elizabeth’s death for nearly thirty years,” I replied. “And that he’s lived with fear for just as long. His whole career was built on a foundation of silence and secrets.”

Dash nodded, his expression darkening. “Men in power get very comfortable protecting each other. Break that pact, and the consequences can be severe.”

“Is that why you’re so interested in this case?” I asked, leaning forward slightly. “Because of corrupted power?”

Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow passing over deep waters. “Partially,” he acknowledged, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. “I’ve seen what happens when the people meant to uphold the law decide they’re above it.”

There was a story there—something personal and painful—but before I could probe further, the server returned with a platter of antipasti that could have fed half the island. We spent a few moments selecting olives, cheeses, and cured meats while discussing the next steps in our investigation.

“We should talk to Clint Harrington,” I suggested, spearing a marinated artichoke heart. “Based on what Brooks told us, his father was deeply involved with Milton and Cromwell. And Clint knew about Elizabeth’s investigation into the development corporation.”

“Harrington’s not going to talk to us voluntarily,” Dash pointed out. “He’s one of the most powerful men in the state now. We need more leverage before we approach him. What about Milton’s ex-wife?”

“Which one?” I asked. “He’s got two. Though Dottie did say there was quite a scandal while Milton was married to his first wife, Lucinda. Apparently she lives on the mainland now.”

Our conversation paused as the server delivered our entrées—grouper piccata for me, and a steak for Dash that made my mouth water just looking at it. The food was exquisite, but I found myself more intrigued by the man across from me than the meal before me.

I’d been watching that thin silver scar on his jaw since the first day he’d walked into my shop. The way it caught the light, how it somehow made him more real than the polished authority figures I’d known all my life. My curiosity finally got the better of me.

“Can I ask you something?” I ventured, setting down my fork.

He looked up, wariness darkening his eyes like gathering storm clouds. “I don’t know,” he said. “Depends on if this is a date or a business meeting. I figure on a date you can ask a personal question or two.”

“Sneaky,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“Fine. It’s a date. The scar on your jaw,” I said, gesturing with my fork. “I’ve been curious since the first time I saw you.”

His fingers went to it reflexively, tracing the silvery path as if confirming it was still there.

Candlelight caught the movement, illuminating the slight ridges and valleys that marked where flesh had been torn and mended.

For a moment, I thought he’d deflect the question, but then he took a deliberate sip of wine and set his fork down with precision that spoke of carefully maintained control.

“I worked undercover for the DEA,” he said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean forward to catch the words. “Spent four years investigating a group of corrupt cops in New Orleans who were running a drug ring.”

My fork clattered against my plate. “Four years?” The enormity of it struck me like a physical blow—four years living someone else’s life, surrounded by people who would kill you if they discovered the truth.

He nodded, his gaze suddenly distant, seeing something far beyond our intimate table. “Deep cover. New identity, new background, new life. I was supposed to infiltrate the operation, gather evidence, and get out.”

“But something went wrong,” I said softly, the food forgotten between us.

Shadows seemed to gather around him, the scar deepening as his jaw tightened. “I was close to making a deal that would have implicated one of the ringleaders—a detective named Vidrine. We met at a warehouse by the docks. I was wearing a wire, but my backup was stationed too far away.”

His fingers traced the scar again, following the path of a memory etched permanently into his skin.

“Vidrine got paranoid. Started asking questions I couldn’t answer.

Then he pulled a knife—faster than I could react.

” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper.

“Said he wanted to see what I was made of.”

A chill raced down my spine despite the restaurant’s warmth. My hand rose unconsciously to my own jaw, fingers ghosting over smooth skin as I imagined the blade slicing through his. I could almost taste blood in my mouth, copper and salt mixing with the lingering notes of wine.

“How did you get away?” I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

“I fought for my life until backup finally realized something was wrong and stormed the place,” he said, his expression guarded in a way that told me there was more to the story—darker moments he was deliberately leaving in shadow.

“You don’t walk in shadows like that without walking out with scars. ”

The scar was no longer just a physical feature—it was the visible edge of a much deeper wound, the tip of an iceberg whose true mass lay hidden beneath the surface.

“So that’s where you’re from? New Orleans?” I asked, hungry for any scrap of information about this enigmatic man.

A smile touched his lips briefly before vanishing, like sunlight glinting off a wave before it’s swallowed by the depths. “No,” he said simply, taking another bite of his steak and effectively closing that line of questioning. “You can ask me more questions on our next date. Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me something about yourself,” he clarified, setting down his utensils and giving me his full attention. The intensity of his focus was almost tangible, like being caught in a spotlight I couldn’t escape. “Something I don’t already know.”

I laughed nervously, taking a sip of wine to buy myself time. “There’s not much to tell. I’m not exactly exciting or mysterious.”

“Try me,” he urged, waiting with a predator’s patience.