The bartender had just set a bottle of Stella Artois and a bowl of suspiciously dusty peanuts in front of Jason when the chair across from his own was dragged away from the table and Kennedy sat down.
And even after the last forty-five minutes of bitter reflection and self-recrimination, Jason’s foolish heart still jumped around in his chest like an eager puppy when his master walked in the door. It was maddening.
Kennedy stared austerely across the table.
“Hey,” Jason said. “Isn’t this past your bedtime? Isn’t staying up late liable to interfere with the way you catch bad guys?”
Kennedy was unamused. “What are you doing, Jason?”
Jason winked. “I’m having a beer, Sam. I’ve had a very stressful twenty-four hours, and I need a little time to process. What are you doing?”
“Following you.”
Jason thought about his walk from the hotel and hoped he had not been muttering and mumbling to himself as he stalked along the moonlight streets. If he’d realized Kennedy was following him…
He said mockingly, “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”
It was hard to tell with the pirate’s cave lighting in there, but he thought a tide of color rose in Kennedy’s face. His eyes kindled with irritation. “You’re not carrying. You’re not armed. I noticed at dinner.”
True. Jason had not worn his pistol to dinner. He had not planned on going anywhere afterwards but up to his room. “Bodyguard detail. That’s below your paygrade.”
Temper made Kennedy’s eyes looked electric blue. “This is not smart. Wandering around unarmed and getting drunk is not useful.”
“Probably not. But don’t worry. I’m not going to get drunk. I’d still be drinking Kamikazes if I planned on getting drunk. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not careless or reckless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You think it, though.”
Kennedy’s voice dropped. “I don’t think you’re careless or reckless. I think you might feel you have something to prove, and we both know why that is.”
“Here we go again. Our greatest hits. Because you think I froze eight months ago in Kingsfield.”
Kennedy’s gaze did not waver. “Yes. I think you froze in Kingsfield. But you didn’t freeze the other night in Santa Monica. And it doesn’t sound like you froze last night.”
It was probably meant as some kind of concession, but Jason barely heard it. In Santa Monica and last night at Shipka’s cottage, no one had been firing at him.
“That might be part of it too,” he said thoughtfully.
Kennedy frowned. “What might be part of what?”
“Your belief that I’m going to get killed in the line of duty. Maybe that’s part of your reluctance to get any more involved with me. You lost one boyfriend. Maybe you think it’s contagious.”
Again, it was probably the light—that gruesome shade of fish-scale green—but Kennedy seemed to lose color. He said softly, “Jesus Christ, Jason. I don’t think you’re going to get— Why the hell wo
uld you even say that?”
Jason shrugged. “I think it might be a factor.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not. Leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals.”
Jason smiled. He’d had exactly the right amount to drink. He was still cognizant, still coherent, but his inhibitions were blowing in the wind. He felt a beautiful freedom from both his normal reticence and the restraints of his professional relationship with Kennedy.
He said casually, “Speaking of psychoanalysis, Dr. Jeremy Kyser has been writing me.”
He’d had the childish wish to shock Kennedy out of his superhuman control, and his wish was granted.
“What?”