Conor’s voice yanked Louisa from her daze. She blinked. Perhaps coming here was a mistake. She’d underestimated the impact seeing him would have on her. Maybe it was the strange and terrible circumstances that had first put them together in Maine, or the uncomfortably similar connection that had brought her here today, but Conor Sullivan had unsettled her from the moment she first saw him. She looked away.

Louisa studied the tavern, taking a few seconds to rein in her composure. Deeper than it appeared from the street, the interior of Sullivan’s was dominated by a rectangular bar. Three flat-screen TVs, tuned to different muted sporting events, hung from the walls. A few dozen tables and booths crowded most of the remaining area. A scratched and dented piano occupied the far corner. Duct-taped to the floor, electrical cords snaked across the ten-by-ten empty space next to it. They likely hosted a band on busy nights.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely lady?” a deep voice asked.

Conor led her to the bar and introduced the burly redheaded bartender as his older brother, Pat. She knew he had a younger brother and sister as well. Louisa gave Pat a distracted smile and said, “Hello.”

But her attention returned immediately to Conor as if pulled by an elephant-size magnet. An ancient gray Rolling Stones T-shirt clung to his sculpted torso. Equally worn jeans and motorcycle boots showcased lean hips and long legs. She’d come here for answers, not to gawk, but the worn fabric clung to the sculpted muscles of his chest. Look him in the eye. She raised her gaze.

Well, that didn’t help. Under shaggy black hair, his turquoise eyes were sharp with the intelligence and humor that disconcerted her more than his impressive physical attributes. Lines fanned out from his eyes. As usual, his strong jaw was shadowed with several days’ beard growth. Did the man own a razor? The overall effect was lean, utterly masculine, and completely different from any man she’d ever known.

She blinked.

“Why don’t we sit down?” He guided her to a corner booth. “Are you hungry?” His words were serious, but his eyes were practically grinning at her. Did he find her reaction to him amusing?

“No, but thank you.” She saw the pictures of that poor girl’s corpse every time she closed her eyes. She doubted she could swallow food.

The comparison of his courteous manners against his edgy appearance threw her further off-kilter. There was an old-world, knightly honor about Conor Sullivan.

Oh Lord, all that romantic nonsense was ridiculous. An overactive imagination was a hazard of spending hours alone with artifacts and contemplating their origins. She should have pulled her nose out of her books now and then and spent more time with people in her youth.

Focus!

“Coffee, soda, beer?”