She found that odd. Would he meet her? Did she care? Never one to lie to herself, she figured the answers were yes and yes. Why did this guy appeal to her? He was probably at least fifteen years older than she was, and not her usual type. Then she realized what might be the basis of the attraction. Taggart was sort of an anti-Quinn. Where Quinn was duty-bound and relentless, Taggart didn’t mind whiling away a morning over coffee and a racing form in a bar. Taggart would gamble his money; Quinn chanced every other kind of gamble but didn’t like the odds of house games. Taggart was slim and graceful—even languid—in posture and attitude; Quinn was lanky but powerfully built, stolid, calm, and intense. Taggart dressed stylishly and was neatly groomed; Quinn always looked like what he was—a cop in a suit—and his hair looked uncombed even when it was combed. While Taggart was elegant and classically handsome, Quinn was somehow homely enough to be attractive.
