"You've intrigued me." He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
She groaned, aware of how many questions he could ask when he was interested in something. She'd seen him take out a hospital administrator with pure logic to get his way to run a procedure on her.
"Please?" she asked, embarrassed to feel tears in her eyes. "Later?"
"Only because I like you."
She rolled her eyes and wiped away the tears.
"Come inside," he said. "We could both use a drink, I think."
She followed Wynn into his home. She suspected he came from money, and a glance around confirmed it. His collection of antiques was unrivaled and perfectly coordinated, as if he'd meandered through history to hand-pick them.
Like someone who was immortal.
She missed a step. Deidre shook her head at the stupid thought. Just because she knew there was a shadow society didn't mean everyone she ran into was part of it! Wealthy people could afford to choose scarce antiques like his.
Her gaze caught on a picture of a beach house on the ocean, and she hesitated. She never did call the police about the body she found. She couldn't shake the feeling she got when she first saw the faceless corpse, that he was Logan. Even though she'd seen Logan in her apartment, before Gabriel chopped him down.
Deidre shivered, unable to move from the picture. She'd left her favorite clothes at the beach house.
"What is it, my dear?" Wynn called. He was leaning over the railing overlooking the massive marble foyer.
"Do you have plans?" she asked.
"It's the first Monday after I walked out on my job. I'm open to suggestions."
She laughed. "I have one."
"Bring your bag up and we'll go."
Comforted by her only remaining normal friend, Deidre followed him to the wing of guest bedrooms, surprised at how huge her room was. She dropped her bag off and joined him in the hallway.
"Where are we going?" he asked, pausing.
"To the ocean."
"I'll bring a jacket." He headed down the opposite hallway.
Deidre waited for him in the lobby. She couldn't help pacing. Being alone meant she started thinking again, something she didn't want to do. Wynn trotted down the grand staircase, keys in one hand and jacket in the other. He wore khakis and a short-sleeved shirt.
The highways were quiet on the Monday mid-morning, and they drove the three hours faster than she was expecting. Wynn was brilliant at small talk, distracting her and making her laugh with his dry, morbid humor. She grew edgy as they passed the town near the bungalow before pulling up the long driveway to the beach house.