Regan’s shoulder touches her ear when she shrugs, but before a syllable can escape her lips, Josie says, “Oh golly gosh, you did?! That was so kind of you.” Her voice is extra high and laced with sweetness. “I tried to bribe the waiter for the label, but he said it was from a private vineyard and not for sale. Do you know what vineyard it’s from? The waiter hinted it was in the north of France but was unaware of the property’s title.”
Josie's niceties douse the fire in Regan's eyes. As I am sure many women have done to her, Regan judged Josie's slim frame, generous breasts, and traffic-stopping face as meaning she was snarky, cold, and a downright bitch. She couldn’t be farther from that description if she tried.
Josie is the friendliest woman I’ve met. Regrettably, that weakens her appeal even more. I don’t want a woman who will fight me at every turn, but I need one strong enough to stand at my side and fight alongside me, not cower in the corner the instant things get tough.
I am on the road constantly. I miss Christmases, birthdays, and every other special occasion you can imagine. If you’re relying on me to be your backbone, you're depending on the wrong man. Josie understands this. Her family has been a part of the Bureau for as long as mine. That is why our date is ending on amicable terms instead of me splaying her against the elevator and sampling her mouth as vigorously as I wish I could Regan's. She doesn't want me to be her backbone any more than I want to charge Regan with a crime.
The inappropriate thoughts screaming through my head double when I return my eyes to Regan. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes brimming with uncertainty. She wanted Josie to come out swinging so she’d have an excuse to hit back even harder. Instead, she got an ally, not the enemy she was hoping for.
"Ah. . . the wine is from a friend's vineyard in the south of France. His production is for private use only. He doesn't need the money nor the praise. He's well stocked with both."
Regan’s reply pisses me off. Don’t ask me why. I’m just stating things as I see them.
“Oh poop. I’d love to gift a bottle to my grandfather for Christmas. He adds to his extensive collection every year. A privately labeled bottle would make a wonderful addition. Are you sure your friend can’t spare a bottle or two?” Josie begs, her tone as polite as her beseeching eyes.
Regan shifts her eyes to me, wordlessly pleading for me to throw her a lifeline. I could, but then she’d never learn the consequences of her actions. I offered her salvation years ago; she threw it back in my face by siding with another man.
After glaring at me in silent warning my lack of assistance won’t go unpunished, Regan directs her focus back to Josie. “If you pass me your phone, I’ll give you my number. I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Josie nods before rummaging through her purse. Her hunt for her phone lasts mere seconds, but it is long enough for the energy bristling between Regan and me to morph from warm to catastrophically hot.
Not all Regan's liveliness is sexual, though. She's more mad than turned on. Me, on the other hand, I’m far from angry.
Josie squeals like a school girl when Regan hands her back her phone with her details saved in the contacts. “Thank you so much. My goodness—you have no idea how excited he’ll be.”
Regan freezes like a statue when Josie throws her arms around her shoulders to give her a quick hug. “I’ll be in touch later this week. Tell your friend money is notan issue. I know people in high places." A frisky wink accompanies her comment.
Regan laughs as if she thinks Josie is sweet. In reality, she’s mortified. I understand her awkwardness. I’ve not once witnessed Regan with any female friends in the months the Bureau has had Isaac under surveillance. This is as foreign to her as my desire to hand in my credentials two months ago.
I didn't want to leave my position, but the way I handled things with Regan that afternoon was unprofessional. If any of the men I had under me in my last position acted as I did, I would have torn them to shreds.
Obviously, I didn’t learn a thing from my last expedition into the unknown. My stupidity is even more noticeable when I ask, “Did you dine alone tonight, Rae?”
“Yes,” Regan grinds out. “Do you have a problem with women dining alone?”
“Not at all.” You can hear my smile in my words. I love her sassiness. It warms both my belly and my heart. “I was just going to have a quiet word with your date about personal security. It’s late. He should have escorted you to your car.”
I allow my eyes to voice the last half of my statement:even more so with what you told me the last time we talked.
Much to Theresa's dismay, I looked into Regan's claims she was being improperly watched. My search was thorough, but I didn't unearth any concrete evidence. Theresa brushed off my concern as if Regan is unaware of the attention she gains when she enters the room. I'm doubtful appreciative glances were the cause of Regan's claims. You can't be as attractive as Regan and not be used to handling admirers. She knows she's beautiful, and the fact she isn't ashamed about it makes her even more attractive. I love her confidence. It is one of her most stellar attributes.
Although Theresa demanded I drop my investigation into Regan's stalker case within hours of starting it, she has no say on what I do in my downtime. Regan's case is still open—but it isn't being run by the FBI. It’s personal, which means it won't close until a suspect is arrested.
Regan's annoyed huff returns my focus to her. She has her hip cocked and her brow bowed. There's the stubborn, determined woman I've dreamt about every night the past two months. Whether she is running away from me or toward me, she is forever featured in my dreams.
Unappreciative of the smirk crossing my lips, Regan snarks, “Didn’t our last foray teach you anything? I can take care of myself, Mister Fancy Pants.”
Josie’s eyes fall to my jeans before they return to their bounce routine they were undertaking before Regan dropped my nickname.
“Do you like my jeans? Another JC Penney creation.” I barely hold in the rest of my reply:they’d look even better on your bedroom floor.
Regan’s eyes roll skywards. “Not particularly. But I guess if that’s all anaccountantcan afford, they’ll have to do.” She growls my false field of expertise. “Your shoes, though. . .” A gasp of disdain finalizes her lie.
The giggle Josie is unable to stifle hums in my ear. She’s loving Regan’s feistiness even more than she adored the pricy bottle of wine she gifted us.
“The jeans are my fault,” Josie admits when the heat firing between Regan and me becomes too great to ignore. “I told Alex to dress casually. We were supposed to meet Mark at a bar. When he cancelled last minute, our plans changed.”
“Mark?” Regan queries, her inquisitive as excessive as mine.Who the hell is Mark?
