Here’s a little chunk of Money, Honey
Liz leaned against the doorjamb of the kitchen and watched Patrick putter in her kitchen. The guy moved with such a fluid, masculine grace that he made putting on a pot of coffee look like some kind of high-class performance art.
“Anything missing?” he asked without turning to her. She jumped guiltily, lost in the poetry of watching him, then pulled herself together.
“No. Some tampering with the alarm system, of course, and a pro tossed the place, but nothing’s missing.” She moved into the room, sank onto a stool at the high counter that constituted the eat-in portion of the kitchen.
He poured water into the top of the coffee machine with a steady, methodical flow. “This kind of thing happen often?”
“Nope. I’ve been with the Bureau eight years now and this is a first.” He hadn’t yet met her eyes, but Liz folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward to give his back a searching look. She wished he would look at her, damn it. She wanted to see his eyes. “Doesn’t surprise me, though.”
“Why’s that?” he asked as the first fragrant drips of coffee sizzled into the carafe.
“Don’t screw with me on this, Patrick,” she said wearily. God, she was sick of pretending. Villanueva had been inside her house, for God’s sake. She knew it, and Patrick most likely did, too. The difference was she was under orders to keep her secrets. He wasn’t. “First your sister’s place gets broken into, then mine. Not a robbery, though, just a search. A thorough, methodical, professional search. Both occur in the two weeks since you got here, both victims are known to be your relatives or acquaintances.”
He still hadn’t looked at her, and she desperately wanted him to. If he looked at her, maybe she could see what he was thinking. What this meant to him. What she meant to him.
“As of this moment, I’m officially done politely accepting lame excuses about paparazzi. Somebody followed you to Grief Creek, Patrick, and the only questions I have are who and why.”
He spread his hands on either side of the coffee machine, bowed his head and leaned in. Talk to me, she pleaded silently. Just trust me with this. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you. She was practically leaning over the counter with the effort to reach him on some level, but when he finally turned to her, there was such rage twisting his face that she jerked abruptly back.
“Why do you do this?” he snarled, with nothing like his usual upper-crust drawl. This was fury, raw and primitive, and it hammered at Liz along with a vicious slap of self-disgust. God, she thought, there she went again, trying to pull thorns out of lions’ paws. As if she didn’t know by now to steer clear of wounded predators.
“Do what?” she asked, careful to keep her voice cool and neutral.
“This job.” He spat the word like it was toxic, and a fresh wave of unwelcome hurt rolled through her at his contempt for the work that meant everything to her. “For Christ’s sake, Liz, there could have been a killer in here tonight. And you just traipse right in with your high heels and your gorgeous dress and your gun and all that beautiful, fragile skin. Skin that isn’t bulletproof, no matter what Quantico’s told you. Why the hell do you do it?”
“You’re concerned about my job? Being too dangerous?” She stared at him in wonder. “Remember the time Lenny Andrusco tried to take me apart like a Barbie doll? Guy had to weigh a good three bells. Charged like a bull once he finally figured out we were wired.”
Patrick nodded tightly. “I remember, Liz.”
“Then you should also remember how you stepped aside while I took his ass down.” She leaned in, gave him a good, hard stare. “You weren’t overly concerned about the dangers of my job then. So why now?”
He shoved an impatient hand through all that rumpled black hair. “Andrusco was about as bright as your average second grader, Liz. He was big and pissed but he wasn’t dangerous. This is different. This is—” He broke off, shook his head.
“This is what?” Liz asked softly. “Tell me what this is, Patrick.” Please.
He shook his head. “You should have stayed on the porch.”
Disappointment pooled heavy in the chest, but Liz folded her arms and cocked a hip. “Some jerk breaks into my house and I should let you kick his ass?”
“Yes.”
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Susan is offering free copies of Money, Honey
This book is available from Berkley Sensation. You can buy it here
