She hung up the phone and stared down at the pile of bills she had been paying. Or trying to pay, as her thoughts had been more on this afternoon’s scene than what she owed Visa and the electric company. “You. Are insane. And this is a terrible idea.”
Ten minutes later she had gone through three different outfits, finally settling on a pair of black slacks and a dark red sweater, with her favorite boots with the heels that made her feel not quite so short. Jeans were fine for shelter work, but even a casual dinner with a good-looking guy seemed to call for something a little more. Or at least something not covered in cat hair.
She stared in the mirror, giving herself a once-over. A rub of blush over her cheekbones, and eyeliner and that was it. The look was casual, not too much effort, but looking good. Grabbing her keys off the hook by the door, she was in her car and on her way before she could second-guess herself.
Lily Malkin wasn’t much for impulsive actions. She felt more comfortable on her own, when she could control the situation, and not have to do anything other than what she wanted. Her father called her selfish, but among all the men she had dated—and the few she had loved—Lily had never met anyone that she honestly felt that she could relax with; that she felt could accept her for who she was.
Probably because she was never quite sure who that was. An insomniac, not-quite-cat-phobic, detail-oriented female with trust and responsibility issues, to start. In short, a mess. On her own, Lily could deal with it. Bring someone else into the equation, and there were too many variables. Too many ways things could go wrong. So control was important.
After graduating from college, she had gone into banking because she wanted a job that would allow her to interact with people, but from a safe distance, and would allow her to leave the job at the office. Being a bank teller was perfect. She had moved to Newfield after a lot of thought, choosing it for low cost-of-living and a pretty environment.
Even working at the shelter had been part of a longterm planned goal. Tired of having responses to stimuli she could not control, she had finally gone to a therapist who helped her gain the courage to stop avoiding cats, and face the discomfort. It had worked, but the process had been slow, steady, and under her control every step of the way.
She was having dinner with this man because…
Lily knew the reason. Because she couldn’t get the image of those kittens out of her mind, and he was the only way to get answers about who would do that sort of thing. And why.
If she could help him find this guy, then maybe this feeling of depression, of helplessness and failure, might go away.
It had nothing to do with the way his eyes were so dark, or intense. Really. It was all part of the long-term plan.
“And if he suggests dinner in his hotel room, you are out of there, federal agent or not,” she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her reflection looked dubious, and she laughed at herself. Right now, she was so tired she’d probably fall asleep in the middle of anything, anyway.
To her relief, he was waiting outside the hotel’s lobby when she pulled up, talking on his cell phone. He saw her and waved, then closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. He had a slim leather briefcase with him, she noted, and when he slipped into her Toyota she noted there were a number of color-coded files sticking out of it. This really was going to be a working dinner, then. Lily almost laughed again at the wash of disappointment she felt.
They were seated quickly; as expected, the little Italian restaurant wasn’t busy, and they had the corner to themselves. Patrick put the file on the table next to him and quickly buttered a bread stick. “Sorry. I’m a carb addict, if there’s one thing I can’t resist it’s fresh bread.”
“It is so unfair. Guys can eat anything and not gain a pound.” Casual, almost stupid chitchat. They were doing it to keep from thinking about what they had seen that afternoon. Or at least, she was. If she could not think about it, she could keep it from being so real. If it wasn’t real, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.
I’m sorry, kittens, she thought again, feeling the wave of helplessness move through her. There was nothing she could have done, and yet she felt overwhelmed by the feeling that she was supposed to have done something, somehow prevented this.
He protested the implied slur in her words. “Pound, shmounds. This particular guy has to keep up with the FBI regs for fitness. They don’t let us relax until after we have seniority behind a desk. That’s why we’re all so anxious to get promoted.”
She laughed, almost more than what the joke was worth. He glanced at her quickly, looked at the menu, then looked at her again, those dark eyes toned down for once. “Lily. Before we talk about anything else…I’m not a practicing psychologist, but it’s okay to be upset. What you saw…most people never run into that kind of violence, and that’s good. Nobody ever should, whether it’s directed at them or someone or something else. And when you do see it, you shouldn’t be unaffected. It’s not healthy, or human, to be unaffected. Even us tough federal-lawman types.”
She toyed with the corner of the menu, rubbing it between two fingers. “I know. It’s just…how do you sleep? After things like that?”
He gave the faintest shrug, barely a jerk of his shoulder. “I catch the people responsible. Or I do my damnedest to try, anyway. That is why I need to pick your brains. I think you can help me.”
She pursed her lips, weighing his words. “All right.”
Something she hadn’t even known was knotted inside her eased with those words. She only meant to agree to having her brain picked in exchange for dinner, but somehow it felt as though it was more.
Is this it? she wondered. Is this the thing I’ve been feeling I need to do? That easy? She doubted it. But it was something.
They placed their orders, and Lily ordered a glass of wine—“None for me,” Patrick said regretfully. “I’m technically on duty. On the plus side, that means I can expense this, so eat up!”
There was something about him, despite his practiced charm, despite his intensity, that almost made Lily forget her original discomfort. Almost. He cared about what he was doing. That made him likable. The fact that he was likable made her even more cautious. Charming men were men with agendas and ambition. Men with agendas and ambition were not to be trusted. It wasn’t any one bad experience that had drummed that into her, although it was proved, more often than not. No, that knowledge, that wariness, was born in her, it sometimes seemed.
This wasn’t a date, she reminded herself, wondering at his pleased smile at her choices. It was, as he said, a business meeting. Over food. So what if he had an agenda?
Everyone wanted something. Everyone had a secret. Even her.
“So why is the FBI investigating this?” she asked again, taking a bread stick for herself.
This time, unlike earlier that day, he answered her.
“The FBI normally gets called in for certain things. Kidnappings, bank robberies, crimes that cross state lines or involve national issues…This…isn’t really one of them.” He cracked a crooked smile. “Except it falls in that gray area of ‘might be of interest.’Courtesy of the twenty-first century and modern paranoia, just about every investigated crime gets entered into a national database. Mostly they just sit there, unless there’s something in them that triggers an alert somewhere else. In my case, I look for tags that indicate
