She stared down into the puddle of coffee while Liam finished his omelet with undiminished appetite. Finally, she looked up. “I’m not sure what just happened,” she said. “But I have a feeling it was my fault.”

“All I know is, one minute I was talking to you, the next minute I had an uptight, bitchy stranger in my face, wearing a Nancy mask.”

“Sorry.” She blinked back a startling rush of tears.

“Don’t be,” he said. “Come on, Nancy. Indulge me. Eat some of your sandwich. Please.”

Oh, for God’s sake. What did she have to lose by obliging him, anyhow? She picked it up and took a bite. His dimples flashed.

They talked, carefully and politely, about neutral subjects. She managed to eat almost three quarters of her sandwich, which made him happy. When the bill came, he snatched it from her hand and looked personally offended when she tried to pay. Wow. She’d never met one of those guys before, although she’d heard that they existed in the wild.

After they left the diner, Liam opened the truck door for her, climbed in, and started the engine. “So where’s the jeweler?”

The paperwork was buried in the rubble at Lucia’s house, but the name, Baruchin’s Fine Jewelers, was burned into her mind. A consult to her BlackBerry located it as a couple of towns away. The time it took to drive there was spent in conversation that was calculated to keep her calm. It wasn’t working. She got more distracted as they drew nearer.

They pulled up in front of the storefront. The metal sliding doors were down. Closed, on Saturday at noon. Prime shopping hours. Everything around was open and bustling. Odd.

Nancy’s neck prickled unpleasantly as she got out of the truck. There was a small restaurant, Tony’s Diner, next door. Nancy headed in and slid onto a stool at the counter. Liam joined her.

A middle-aged lady sporting a high red bouffant came over with a coffeepot. Nancy smiled and held out her cup. “Yes, please. I have a question. I need to speak to the jeweler next door about a delivery. I was wondering how long they’ve been closed. Is he on vacation?”

A splash of hot coffee slopped out of the pot and onto Nancy’s thumb. She jerked back with a gasp. The bouffant lady’s face crumpled. She set her coffee down, covered her face, and fled into the kitchen.

Nancy glanced at Liam. He was frowning. She sucked on her scalded thumb. “That’s not a good sign,” she said.

“Sure isn’t,” he agreed.

After a minute, a bent, scowling elderly man with bushy white eyebrows, wearing a paper cook’s cap, came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. He scanned the counter and headed straight for them. “You folks was askin’ Donna about Sol Baruchin?”

Nancy nodded. “I don’t actually know Mr. Baruchin personally,” she said, a little nervously. “I needed to ask a professional question—”

“Old Sol’s dead,” the old man said heavily. “He got murdered.”

The cold, weighty silence seemed to grip the whole room. Everyone was frozen, listening. Not a spoon clinked.

“M-m-murdered?” Nancy echoed, in a tiny, shaking whisper.

“When?” Liam asked.

“Last night, sometime. Him and his wife and his mother-in-law, all three. Christ, the mother-in-law was bedridden. Musta been ninety, ninety-five years old. Goddamn animals. I got this cop buddy, comes here for breakfast. He tipped me off about it. Frickin’ horrible mess.”

Nancy covered her mouth with her hands and tried to process this information. It wouldn’t seem to go in. Everything was blocked.

“Sol’s been having breakfast and lunch in this joint every day for the last thirty-five years,” the old man said dully. “Donna’s all broke up. Christ, it’s hard enough at my age, with friends dropping like flies from heart attacks and strokes, without some sick bastard murdering ’em. So, anyhows.” He shook his head, his wrinkled mouth compressed into a grim, bluish line. “Sol’s shop ain’t gonna be open anytime soon, miss.”

She tried to answer him politely. Nothing came out.

Liam smoothly filled the gap for her. “Thanks for the information,” he said. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” The old man turned and shuffled back toward the kitchen, his shoulders bowed.

Nancy lurched out into the street, desperate for a gulp of air, but it was even worse out there, with the murdered Baruchin’s shuttered shop staring at her morosely from behind heavy, gray, metallic eyelids. The effect was chilling. “Let’s get away from here,” she gasped.

“Where to?” Liam unlocked her door, hoisted her in.

“Anywhere,” she said.

Liam took her at her word. He was rattled himself by old Tony’s bombshell, and as soon as he pulled out onto the street, he was on autopilot, his mind racing. He was actually surprised when he found himself pulling up under the big maple that shaded his own driveway. Whoa. This was going to be tricky, in her present mood.

Nancy looked around herself, as if waking up from an unpleasant dream. “Where are we?”

“My house,” he said.

Her gaze cut nervously away from his. “Oh. I didn’t even see where we were going.” She twisted her hands and stared at the water that trickled down the windshield. “That poor guy,” she whispered. “And his wife, and her mother, too. God. How awful.” She looked back at him, her eyes haunted. “It’s not a coincidence.”

He hesitated for a long moment, unwilling to freak her out further, but honesty prevailed. “No. What happened to Lucia was bad enough. And after the break-in, the necklaces, the letter, and now the jeweler killed, I don’t know. I’m no expert. But it doesn’t smell good.”

They sat there in the rainy gloom, watching the drops of water coursing down the windshield, the waving green foliage surrounding them. He reached out for her hand. It was as cold as ice. He chafed it.

“Come in,” he urged her. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

She stared down at her hand, clasped in his, but did not pull it away. “I’m the opposite of your ideal woman,” she blurted.

His jaw clenched. “I know,” he said.

“So, um, where does that leave us?” she asked quietly.

He looked up at the dripping trees, the heavy clouds. “At the moment, it leaves us parked outside, in a truck, in the rain.”

Her face turned deep, warm pink. “You want me to come in?”

“Only if you want to,” he said. Hah. He lied. He wanted her to come in more than he wanted his next lungful of oxygen.

“I hardly know you,” she whispered.

“We can fix that,” he suggested. “Come in for a cup of tea. Tell me about yourself.”

“That’s very nice of you. But it’s not a good idea to have a first date in one’s own private space,” she said primly.

He started to grin. “Is that what it would be? A first date? Doesn’t breakfast count?”

She looked flustered. “I don’t know. Second date, then. What would you call it?”

He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “I’d call it a cup of tea.”

Nancy wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t think breakfast counts. It wasn’t premeditated. And a first date—that is, um, any first encounter—should take place on a mutually agreed-upon neutral ground,” she told him. “A public place, like a bar, or a restaurant. And just a drink, not dinner. Just to see how it goes.”

“Oh. Is that how it’s done?” He pressed a kiss against her fingers. “Tea’s a drink, right? And I really think breakfast counts as a date.”

“No,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “No way. We’re nowhere yet. Breakfast doesn’t count. Intention is everything.”

“Now that is the God’s own truth.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. It was as soft as he had imagined.

She made a low, inarticulate sound. He was dazed by the warmth of her, the downy softness. The delicate details.

He leaned forward, in tiny increments, until their faces nearly touched, and commenced a slow, careful dance of advance, retreat. Feeling her breath against his cheek, stroking her jaw. Tracing that elegant jut of delicately sculpted cheekbone beneath her smooth skin.