Special Agent Jon T. Patrick. He’s with the feds. Visiting us here in the burbs to help out on a case.”
“Patrick” as a surname sounded as Irish as it got. This guy, Lily thought immediately, wasn’t even remotely Irish; not unless they had packed up and colonized somewhere more exotic when history wasn’t looking. Intense black eyes looked out from deep-set sockets. Those rather amazing eyes, emphasized by a thick, short cap of black-and-gray curls above and the high brace of cheekbones below, were all you saw at first. Lips were thin, ears ordinary and skin a soft golden tan that gave her the urge—briefly—to lean forward and find out what he smelled like. Sandalwood, she thought, without knowing what sandalwood actually smelled like.
Oh. Also, oh. If she were a shallow woman, her mouth would be watering right about now.
All right, so she was a shallow woman on occasion. It wasn’t a crime.
He looked her up and down and then directly in the eyes, and the intensity of that gaze felt as though he was undressing her almost casually, as though he had the right to do so. That kind of arrogance pissed her off, so she stared back at him, daring him to continue. At least she had been discreet in her observation.
You’re not that hot, pal, she thought, now annoyed by how quickly she had responded to him. It hadn’t been that long since she’d…All right, maybe it had. That was still no reason to react like a tabby in heat.
Detective Petrosian finished the introductions quickly, as though he sensed the undercurrents. “Agent Patrick, this is Lily Malkin. Lily’s our local cat expert.”
Her lips quirked at Aggie’s words, despite her irritation. Between him and Ronnie…She wasn’t any kind of expert, really, just cheaper and easier to get hold of than any specialist they could afford to hire, even if one were available. Newfield was a small city, as cities went, and they had an equally small budget to cover a lot of far more urgent needs.
Agent Patrick didn’t seem too impressed, by either her or her credentials or his surroundings. His gaze was still on her, but it had become a polite, indifferent look, and his mouth—too thin, she decided, and not to her taste—was held flat, as though he was biting back a comment.
So much for her federal rating, she thought. He probably preferred athletic blondes. Not that he was her type either—she preferred her dates to be a little less obviously high-maintenance.
Agent Patrick did dress well, though. Or maybe that was in contrast to Aggie’s familiarly rumpled self—the gray suit and white shirt was probably issued in bulk at FBI headquarters, but it fit Agent Patrick’s tall but solid form, and his tie was not the usual power red, but a dark gray-on-gray pattern that was both stylish and surprisingly soothing.
The agent hadn’t looked away from her yet, despite his disapproval, and Lily felt the back of her neck prickle under that steady regard. He needed to blink, at least. If she had been one of her four-legged charges, she might have hissed and arched her back to look more fearsome and drive him away.
“Lil.” Petrosian was speaking again. “Lily, I’m sorry, but I gotta ask you to do something ugly.”
Her attention left the fed and narrowed to the expression on Aggie’s face: regretful, but determined. She had been right. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad, especially if a federal agent was along. Lily had no idea what she might be able to help with, at that level, but she trusted Aggie Petrosian as much as she trusted anyone. He was, maybe, the only person she truly did trust. He asked of her only what he asked, and nothing more. No hidden agendas waiting in the shadows. He had always been up front with her. Like a cat. And because of that, if he needed her to do something, she would do it. It was that simple.
Even if it meant being in the company of this Agent Rude-stare Patrick.
“All right.”
Special Agent Jon T. Patrick wasn’t usually so obvious when he checked someone out; contrary to popular opinion, the bureau did install some couth and control in their people. And his mother would have slapped him over the sofa if he was rude to a woman. But from the way this woman—Ms. Lily Malkin—was shying away from him, he’d been both obvious and obnoxious about it.
Nice move, smooth guy, he thought in disgust. But she had taken him totally by surprise.
When the detective had collected him at the airport, Patrick had expected that they would go directly to the site, since it was still relatively fresh. Instead, as he loaded his bags into the back of the unmarked sedan, Petrosian had informed him that they were going to make a stop along the way, to pick up another consultant.
Patrick bristled at being called a consultant—if he wanted to, he could have used his credentials to argue for the lead in this investigation, and the detective knew it—but instead he merely nodded and let his gaze rest on the scenery. Newfield wasn’t much to look at; the airport was just outside city limits, and they were passing the usual patch of warehouses, followed by bluecollar neighborhoods of two- and three-family houses, then into the city itself. He thought they might stop at the university, or maybe the police department.
The last thing he had expected was to find himself in the lobby of a run-down animal shelter, being introduced to a black-haired, peach-skinned pocket Venus wearing faded blue jeans and a black V-neck sweater that made you want to run a finger down the crevice…
He jerked his attention back to the woman’s face as Petrosian asked her to accompany them. Her skin was smooth, with wide-set hazel eyes, a sweetly rounded face and a chin that was just blunt enough to keep her from being cute. Malkin. An old, useless bit of information filtered through his magpie memory and into recall; an old slang term, meaning a slatternly woman, or a scarecrow. It also, ironically, had been used to mean both rabbit and cat. She had the nervous posture of a rabbit, but the sleek lines of a cat.
And Lily? Lilies had long necks, like…
Patrick shut that line of thought down, aware that his brain could sometimes go off on totally random tangents. Work related: that was good. Libido related? Less so. Keep it official. Keep it on business.
The detective didn’t explain to Ms. Malkin what was up when he made his request, and she didn’t ask for details, indicating that they had done things like this before.
Patrick was reassured by that, the familiarity and the trust, both. Consultants, in his experience, usually asked too many questions up front. That prejudiced their read of the site before they even got there, making their evaluations useless. So she was not only sexy, but smart. And, apparently, from the coolness in her hazel eyes while she looked at him, wanting nothing to do with one special agent.
Blew that before you even knew you were doing anything, didn’t you, Jon T.? He could hear his mother scolding him, across seven states and two time zones. How will you ever meet a nice girl if you scare them all off?
Yeah, yeah, Mom, I know, he told the voice. Very smooth. I’m a moron.
Not that it mattered. He was here on business. The case—ordinary enough on the surface—might be nothing more than a garden-variety cat killer howling at the moon, which he could leave for the locals. Or this guy might in fact be an embryonic serial killer just starting his progression: if so, finding what triggered him would support his own personal theory, and stopping the guy would help cement his standing in the bureau. A federal officer’s career was all about reputation: making it, and keeping it.
It was never good to alienate a local expert, however dubious her standing, this early
