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She blows out an exhale, so uncharacteristic that I sit up with alarm. “I honestly thought Preston Tate would find a way to charge me for his father’s death,” she says simply.
“But you didn’t…” For one horrible moment, I’m hit with the realization that I know nothing about this woman, yet I’ve not only given her an alibi, but I also might be harbouring a criminal.
And then it passes because, while I have no doubt Cady Quinn is capable of committing such a crime, I saw her face when that policeman asked about Tate, and I don’t think the woman is that good of an actress.
She didn’t kill him, and I believe he was alive when she left the room. And I’m sticking with that.
“You didn’t,” I finish in a firm voice.
“That’s a lot of faith in a woman you barely know.”
“I know that you wouldn’t let me step foot out of that store in that hot pink shirt, so that says a lot to me.” Her laugh is like seeing the sun after days of storms. “What is this Preston dude’s problem?” I ask.
“The last thing he is, is a dude. He’s a…”
“Asshole?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“He came on to you, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
I flick my hand. “Look at you. Who wouldn’t come on to you?”
She huffs a smile. “He did give it a good shot. And failed to catch my interest because he’s an asshole.”
Clara arrives with a tray of champagne flutes and a bowl of almonds for me. I take both and hand one to Cady. “What’s a good shot?”
“You mean what Preston did? Tried?”
“Sure. I’ll use that as a what-not-to-do.”
“Another what-not-to-do is spy on me in the changing room.”
I wag a finger at her. “Aha! You took the first look, and there was no spying from me. I was just standing there. Hoping, maybe, you might forget to close the curtain. And then—hey!” Cady tries to hide her smile behind the rim of her glass. “So? How did he shoot his shot?”
“First strike was that he used his father. I had several conversations with Noam about Pres, about what a good man he was, how any woman would be lucky to catch him. One time, he guilted me into going out with him.”
“Ah, so you gave him a shot. Softie,” I chide.
“Idiot,” she corrects. “I agreed to a drink; he arranged a private table at Noreen’s. Another one of Noam’s restaurants. He named them after his wives. Not only did he use his father’s name to get the place, but he also raided his personal wine cellar. It was a nice wine,” she muses.
“Bit overkill, but what went wrong?”
“I sat down; he made some cheesy toast. And then he leans over the table and announces that he never leaves a woman unsatisfied.”
The way her amber eyes twinkle makes me wonder if she’s teasing. “But I say that…”
She holds up a hand. “When I asked him how he satisfies them, his response was that he fucked them into submission. That they had no energy to complain.”
I frown. “That doesn’t seem—that seems painful.”
“It was. Not that I let him anywhere near me. I went along with it and pretended to be impressed, and asked him what his idea of foreplay was.”
“Please tell me you recorded this.”
Cady shakes her head. “I’ve blocked most of, but the gist was he had no clue how to satisfy a woman with foreplay or straight fucking.”
