“Been?” I prompt, not at all discombobulated that I’m forcing her to share something she wants to keep secret.
This is my job. Whether it occurs in the ER or a concrete cell with steel bars, this is what I do. I interrogate people. It is one of the reasons I love my job. You can learn a great deal about someone when they are placed in a hostile environment. I guess that is why I jumped into the elevator when I did. I wanted to put myself in the pressure cooker, to prove the inane thoughts I’ve had about Regan the past five years were just that—inane.
All I discovered is that years haven’t matured me. I’ve been as reckless and idiotic the past six weeks as I was in the field five years ago.
Regan locks her massively dilated eyes with mine. She seems to be evaluating whether to tell me the truth or not. She reaches her conclusion quickly. I don’t know if it is a good or bad thing. Even more so when she discloses, “I think someone is following me.”
My throat dries. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling,” she whispers with a shrug.
“How long have you been suspicious?” I try to remove the interrogation from my tone. It is a woeful waste of time. I am an agent as much as I am a man.
My father was an agent. His father was an agent. Even my younger brother is an agent. The only members of my family not associated with the Bureau are the ones missing dangly bits between their legs. That isn’t by choice. My great grandfather was set in his ways, which means his father was set in his ways. . . Can you see the pattern emerging?
I secure my first breath in what feels like months when Regan stammers out, “Around five or six weeks.” –That’s how long I’ve been tailing her— “But before that—”
“Before that? There’s a before?” I interrupt, my tone as low as my mood is nosediving.
Forgetting about the washcloth I’m holding to her brow, she nods. “Yeah. The first time was years ago.” She sounds as if she is in pain. I don’t know if the cloth nipping at her fresh stitches is the cause or painful memories.
There is only one way to find out. “You said the first time. How many others have there been?”
Regan screws up her nose as her eyes flicker. “Three or four,” she casually murmurs, as if it’s perfectly normal to be stalked.
“Threeorfour, Regan? There is no in-between. It is either one or the other.”
I don’t know why I’m scolding her. I’m not angry at her; I just have no better way to disperse the anger incinerating my veins to black ash. I either yell or go on a rampage. Yelling seems the more appropriate response for two strangers who only met hours ago.
“Jeez. Calm down, Elevator Man. The vein in your forehead is throbbing so fast, it looks seconds from bursting.”
Regan laughs, aiming to ease the tension teeming between us. It works—somewhat. Her laugh suits her perfectly. It is husky and sweet, brimming with wicked naughtiness. It could only sound more pleasurable if it were happening because she is happy—not sad.
Once my anger has lowered from a boil to a simmer, Regan asks, “What did you say you did for a living?”
I smile, admiring her attempts to interrogate me. It takes gall to question anyone, much less a man you’ve just met. “I didn’t. There wasn’t a chance between you giving me my marching orders and us bumping heads.”
She arches her uninjured brow, revealing she’s well aware I hadn’t disclosed my field of expertise.
“I work in accounting.” My words are barely audible.
Lying has never been my specialty. My career requires the occasional mistruth, but I’ve never straight-up lied in my everyday life before. Although Regan shouldn’t be included in the very small list of people I class as friends, the number of times she has entered my thoughts the past five years has placed her there.
I searched for her for months after the incident at Substanz. My investigation wasn’t conducted on behalf of the FBI. Every tri-state visit, license plate scan, and hours spent scrolling thousands of images of women matching her description was done on my own accord. I needed to know she was okay—that she wasn’t a byproduct of an industry she didn’t belong in. That isn’t something I’d do for anyone. I did it for Rae because I cared about her.I still do.
“Accounting?” Regan’s spiked tone returns my focus to the present. “You’re an accountant?”
“Yes, I’m an accountant.” I say my words slowly, as if she is hard of hearing. It gives them an edge of honesty. Not much though.
I warned Theresa during my placement interview no one would believe the cover she selected. She said it wouldn’t be an issue. She’s an idiot. The only way I could pass as an accountant would be if my sole client was a steroids company.
When Regan’s lips twitch as if she heard my private thoughts, I glare into her eyes, daring her to release the giggle she’s barely harnessing. She reins in her laughter—barely!
Lucky, as the only brainwave I could summon to stifle her giggles involved my mouth sealing over hers. Since I'm currently on the clock, and kissing a target is a big no-no in my industry, that would end badly on all accounts.
“What about you? What do you do for a living?”
Regan's reply is interrupted by me carefully cleaning a smear of blood above her right brow. I don't know if her delay arises from me touching her wound or because I am touching her. I hope it is the latter.
