“Oh, get the stick out of your ass and sit down, would you?”
“The stick in my ass is surprisingly comfortable just now.” He’d been studying her face, calculating, speculating. And he knew. “You went to see Ricker.”
“What are you, psychic?” Then her eyes popped wide and she was up and running again. “Hey, hey, hey, you promised.”
“No. I didn’t.”
She caught up to him in the hallway, considered trying to muscle him to the floor, then decided to go for his weak spot. She simply wrapped her arms around him.
“Please.”
“He put his hands on you.”
“Roarke. Look at me, Roarke.” She laid her hands on his face. The look in his eyes was murder. She knew he could accomplish it, hot or cold. “I baited him. I’ve got my reasons. And right now, I’ve got him shaken. The flowers were just a dig at you. He wants you to come after him. He wants it.”
“And why shouldn’t I oblige him?”
“Because I’m asking you not to. Because taking him down is my job, and if I play it right, I’m going to do that job.”
“There are times you ask a great deal.”
“I know it. I know you could go after him. I know you’d find a way to get it done. But it’s not the right way. It’s not who you are anymore.”
“Isn’t it?” But the rage, the first blinding rush of it, was leveling off.
“No, it’s not. I stood with him today, and now I’m standing with you. You’re nothing like him. Nothing.”
“I could have been.”
“But you’re not.” The crisis had passed. She felt it. “Let’s go in and sit down. I’ll tell you all of it.”
He tipped her face back, a finger under her chin. Though the gesture was tender, his eyes were still hard. “Don’t lie to me again.”
“Okay.” She closed a hand over his wrist, squeezed there in silent promise where his pulse beat. “Okay.”
chapter seven
/> So she told him, running through the steps and movements of her day in a tone very close to the one she’d used in her oral report to Whitney. Dispassionate, professional, cool.
He said nothing, not a word, stretching out the silence until her nerves were riding on the surface of her skin. His eyes never left her face and gave her no clue to what he was thinking. Feeling. Just that deep, wicked blue, cold now as Arctic ice.
She knew what he was capable of when pushed. No, not even when pushed, she thought as her nerves kicked into a gallop. When he believed whatever methods he used were acceptable.
When she was finished, he rose, walked casually to the wall panel that concealed a bar. He helped himself to a glass of wine, held up the bottle. “Would you like one?”
“Ah . . . sure.”
He poured a second glass, as steadily, as naturally as if they’d been sitting discussing some minor household incident. She wasn’t easily rattled, had faced pain and death without a tremor, had waded through the pain and death of others as a matter of routine.
But God, he rattled her. She took the glass he offered her and had to remind herself not to gulp it down like water.
“So . . . that’s all there is to it.”
He sat again, gracefully arranged himself on the cushion. Like a cat, she thought. A very big, very dangerous cat. He sipped his wine, watching her over the crystal rim.
“Lieutenant,” he said in a voice so mild it might have fooled another.
“What?”