I flopped onto the bed.

“You about ready for dinner, Sherlock?”

For a second I thought I’d dozed off and was dreaming. Then I looked to see that I had on nothing and, knowing Jagger, he probably could see through the wood door.

I flew up from the bed, grabbed the closest things I could-my jogging shorts and tee-stuck them on and walked toward the door.

When I opened it, Jagger looked at me. Was that a grin?

“What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?” I held the door and leaned against it, not inviting him in. Hopefully he couldn’t see the pile of my belongings on the floor-because then there’d be questions with embarrassing, I was sure, answers.

He leaned closer. “Or something.”

I pushed at his chest so he wouldn’t come in. “You’re not making any sense.”

He gave me the once-over. After my toes uncurled, I allowed myself to be ticked. Guys.

“Men don’t have to make sense, Sherlock.”

There was a grin. Jagger was in some kind of mood!

I actually laughed. “True. Look, about dinner-”

“There’s a great local place I want to go to. Portuguese. You up for Portuguese?”

I almost said Sure, but instead my sanity returned and I said, “No.”

“Okay. You pick.” He tried to step inside, all the while looking at my outfit.

Maybe the colors didn’t match, but there was no need for him to stare like that. Men in all black were not exactly fashionadas. Sexy as hell, yep. “What I meant was, I’m not picking anything and stop assuming I’m going out to eat with you every night. I have a life.”

I’d never noticed any hint of being taken aback in Jagger, but right now there was a teeny, tiny hint in his eyes. Jagger was surprised that I was busy.

Good!

He moved closer.

I stepped back.

Wrong move. Before I knew it he was in my room, noticing the pile of clothing and about to say something.

I waved my hands in the air. “Don’t even ask. I’m busy. Reorganizing.” I tried to turn him to push him toward the door, but he didn’t budge. Not that that surprised me.

“Busy?”

I let out a long sigh. “Okay, Jagger. As if you didn’t know, I have a date. Yes. A date with Dr. Neal Forsyth, Goldie’s surgeon.”

“And you’ve gone through your entire wardrobe several times and came up with red shorts and a purple tee.”

It wasn’t a question, but I started to explain, but only managed to dig myself deeper. “I’m going to be late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He did turn, and over his shoulder said, “You might want to rethink the underwear issue.”

When the door shut, I yanked off my clothes.

No wonder he was staring.

Oh…my…God.

I’d settled on black slacks, a white top (thanks to Lydia today) and as much silver jewelry as I’d brought with me. When I stepped back from the bathroom mirror, I pronounced myself done. Goldie’s past makeup techniques had made a world of difference for my looks. Very natural. I loved it.

It was then I realized I hadn’t had any makeup on when Jagger’d “surprised” me.

I sighed and thought, So what is new?

The announcer on the radio said it was nearly seven. I decided this small room was nowhere for Neal to come get me so I hurried to get my wallet, cell phone and a tissue, stuck them in my pockets and went outside my room to go downstairs.

Jagger’s door was open. He sat with his legs up on a cushioned ottoman and looked directly at me over his sailing magazine.

Then he gave me a thumbs-up.

I flew down the stairs in delight until I got to the bottom. A thumbs-up to go out on a date with someone else? What nerve!

“I hope old Samuel haunts you tonight,” I mumbled.

The front door swung open. I half expected Neal to be standing there but would have actually been surprised that he would shove the door so. Instead…there was no one.

Yikes.

In my head I offered an apology to Sam, telling him to do what the heck he pleased even if it meant hanging all my clothes back up. Before I could shiver at the thought, Neal, in fact, did appear, looking very suave and handsome in navy slacks, an off-white silken shirt, and I’m sure very expensive sunglasses.

We looked like two flight attendants.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s Goldie?”

He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me down the porch stairs and said, “Perfect. He’s a perfect patient. Doing all that he is supposed to do.”

“No bleeding?” I couldn’t help myself. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Damn it.

He chuckled. “None. Normal swelling. Normal temp. Normal vitals, Nurse Sokol. Your patient is recovering nicely and Miles is only inches away.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He leaned over, kissed my cheek and whispered, “No thanks needed.”

When I went to step into Neal’s black Porsche, I noticed the curtains in the upstairs room, Jagger’s room, move.

Hm. Samuel or Jagger?

“So this is the church where the Kennedys got married,” Neal said as we pulled in the parking lot of the unpretentious St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Church on the corner not too far from the center of town.

Neal held the door as I walked in. “Oh, my,” I whispered. “You can almost feel their presence and picture them walking down the aisle.” I stepped inside the seats and knelt down.

Neal joined me.

When I bent my head to say a quick prayer for Goldie, I noticed Neal doing the same. Hm. Nice guy. Good looking. And spiritual?

Stella Sokol would be stuffing almonds in lacy fabric for bridal shower table favors if she knew this.

Truthfully, even I was impressed with the doc.

We did a little walking tour around Bowen’s Wharf, which was filled with shops and eateries-and also where I’d shared a meal with Jagger last night.

Damn.

Wish those reminders didn’t pop up at such inopportune times. Neal was the perfect gentleman. Actually he reminded me a lot of Nick the freelance investigator, whom I’d dated a bit. And Neal certainly knew his way around this swanky town. He gave me a bit of culture along the tour.

“Slavery was actually very popular in this seaport,” he said, sipping a glass of very expensive wine once we’d stopped for a drink.

Good thing because the brick and cobblestone walks were getting to my feet. What on earth made me wear heels?

“Wow. Slavery. Huh? Stuff like that really fascinates me.” I sipped on my wine, which Neal had insisted I get instead of beer. Not that I minded, but I wondered if Neal was the possessive male type. At first glance I’d have said no. But there were little hints.

However, after a self-imposed dating drought, a wee bit of possessiveness felt nice. Someone cared. Someone had taken the time to take me out. Yes!

We finished up, walked toward the marina section and back to Neal’s car.

“We’ll take Ocean Drive out past Fort Adams State Park. I’ll show you Hammersmith Farm too.” He again guided me by placing a hand on the small of my back.

I sighed.

“Isn’t that where Jackie Kennedy grew up?”

“And the Kennedys’ reception was there.” He opened the door, I got in, and after I’d buckled up, he shut the door. How cute.

The drive was beautiful, especially when we got halfway out and the ocean popped into view. Neal continued his tour with all the local folklore then stuck on a Sting CD and paid attention to the road.

For a few seconds I thought I’d doze off in sheer relaxation.

Then I realized why I was there. Not there in Neal’s car on a “tour” but there in Newport on a case. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and forced myself to say, “I see a new receptionist has been found to replace Ian.”

Neal’s hands tightened on the leather steering wheel.

Damn. It had to be painful for all the employees at Highcliff to accept that one of them had been murdered.