A knock.
She set down her coffee, walked to her door, and looked out the peephole to see Quinn. She opened the door for him—and had to fight not to stare.
He stood there, looking impossibly sexy in a dark gray cable knit sweater and butter soft jeans, his thick red hair damp, his beard trimmed short, the bruise on his cheek beginning to fade. “Mornin’.”
Seriously? He was one man she couldn’t touch and he just had to show up at her door looking like a Celtic god, all rugged and manly. He even smelled good, damn it, the herbal scent of his soap and shampoo mingling with the salt of his skin.
She struggled for words, pheromones having apparently short-circuited her brain. “Er … good morning.”
He entered, saw her computer. “Hard at work, I see. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’ve had some toast.”
“Och, that’ll no’ get you through the day. It’s time you had a proper fry up.”
“A fry up?”
“A full Scottish. Come. It’s time for a wee bit of culture.”
Elizabeth went with Quinn to the restaurant downstairs. A young man in a white shirt led them to a table, where Quinn ordered breakfast for both of them.
“Coffee, please,” Elizabeth added.
“Tea for me.” Quinn waited until the server had walked away. “You want to get surveillance cameras?”
She nodded. “I started doing a threat assessment for us this morning. Two things stood out for me. The first is that whoever killed Jack is truly dangerous. Jack served in special forces and worked as a security guard, but he died without a fight.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Aye. I cannae fathom it.”
“The second involves the guy who followed us. If Jack’s murder were a random event, what motivation would the thief or thieves have to follow you? Their best bet would be to hole up somewhere, not to chase you through Glasgow.” Elizabeth changed the subject as the server approached with their beverages. “Does it always rain here?”
“Near enough.” Quinn waited until the server had walked away. “You’re thinkin’ there’s more to it.”
“It’s all about motivation.” She tried to explain. “Let’s assume that the killer, the man who broke into Jack and Ava’s house, and the guy who followed us last night are all the same person. If Jack’s murder were random, why would the killer risk being caught just to ransack his house and steal his laptop? He’s looking for something. Why else would he risk a confrontation with police by stealing a car and following his victim’s best friend through town?”
“Criminals are stupid. Trust me on that.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “Does a man who killed an SAS veteran with one slash, rushed you on the stairs, and escaped both you and the police seem stupid?”
Quinn’s brow bent in a frown. “Naw.”
A family of four sat at the table beside theirs, forcing them to talk about other things—sight-seeing, Scottish history, and whether Elizabeth should get herself a proper pair of wellies, which, she learned, were what Americans called rain boots.
“It’s no’ goin’ to stop rainin’, and if we’re out muckin’ about at Dumbarton Castle, you’ll want dry feet, aye?”
“Aye,” Elizabeth said, mimicking his accent to tease him—a small and insufficient way of getting back at him for looking so damned hot.
Then the server brought their food.
“Thisis a fry up.” Quinn pointed to the different things on her plate. “Sausage, bacon, tomato, black puddin’, tattie scones, grilled mushrooms, beans, and eggs.”
“So, ‘fry up’ is slang for ‘heart attack on a plate’?” The mingled scents made Elizabeth’s mouth water. “What is black pudding?”
“It’s blood sausage.”
Elizabeth stared with revulsion at the two dark patties beside her eggs, her expression seeming to amuse Quinn. “Is there actual blood in it?”
“Aye, pork blood, oats, barley, spices…” He chuckled. “You’ve never heard of blood sausage?”