She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You were staring at your plate like something was wrong,” he said.
He’d already made a sizable dent in the banana waffle, and there was no sign of the bacon he’d ordered with his eggs. How long had she been spaced out, daydreaming about Nick Murphy’s muscles like a teenager?
“Sorry,” she said, picking up her fork. She looked at his plate. “Take back your criticism of this place?”
“Not at all. It definitely looks like Disney puked in here, but the food is amazing.”
She picked up her fork and bit back a smile. She needed to be professional, stop acting like she’d never seen a good-looking guy before.
He took a swig of his coffee. “So?”
“So what?” she asked.
“Why’d you agree to have coffee with me if it’s considered unusual?” he asked. “I assume it’s only unusual because your office has opened an investigation into my company.”
She kept her expression blank, aware that he was turning the tables, asking her questions, throwing her off-balance. “I didn’t say we’d opened an investigation.” She hesitated, then continued in an attempt to head off his next question. “But it’s fair to say my office has taken an interest in MIS due to the recent press.”
“Gossip you mean.”
She finished chewing her French toast. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Come on. None of those so-called news outlets are real news,” he said. "It’s not like the Herald printed it. Or the Post.”
It was true, and it was one of the reasons Imani had dedicated so few resources to the background on MIS. Real news outlets required substantial collaboration to print stories that could be considered libelous — documentation, witnesses on record, even if they were on record behind the scenes.
Anonymous sources weren’t really anonymous. The journalist doing the reporting had relationships with their sources, and editors usually knew who they were as well. It was the only way to protect news organizations against lawsuits that could put them out of business.
The supposed leaks about MIS had been widespread, but they’d all been disseminated by media on the line between news and gossip rag, either because whoever had leaked the information were themselves considered unreliable or because they weren’t willing to come forward. That context made the claims suspect.
“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s our duty to uphold the law in the state of Massachusetts.” She pivoted fast, wanting to get back on offense, maybe even throw him a bit. “I imagine your skills from BPD are helpful in your line of work. And Ronan’s too, from the Navy I mean.”
She hadn’t realized his expression had been momentarily open to her until he shuttered it again. “We have the necessary background to serve our clients’ security interests.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Nice.”
She was surprised when he grinned.
“You like that?” he asked.
“Short, sweet, and non-incriminating.”
“Don’t forget true,” he said.
“Is it strange living with your brothers?” she asked, trying to get him back on comfortable ground. “And Ronan’s wife now too, right?”
“Kind of a personal question, isn’t it? For an Assistant AG, I mean.”
She shrugged, and he leaned back in the booth and studied her face. His eyes bore into hers and for a long moment she was swimming deeper than she’d ever dared to go before, in a place full of mystery and shadow and beauty.
“I’ll answer some personal questions while we finish breakfast,” he said. “But only if you match me one-for-one.”
“Match you?”
He nodded. “You asked me a question, I ask you a question.”
Her gut was screaming a warning. It wasn’t just about work anymore. It was about her closely guarded secrets, about the things she sealed behind the wallpaper of her skirts and heels, her prosecutor’s face a mask that made sure she was always the one asking the questions and never the one answering them.