by RC Boldt
He takes a sip of wine before setting it aside, running the pad of his thumb along the glass’ base. “At certain times, I think I see a little of myself in you.” His voice drops lower, to a softer murmur. “And damn if I don’t want to know exactly what makes you tick.”
My fingers tighten around my wineglass while tension floods my veins. No, you don’t. “What you see is what you get.” Tone exuding nonchalance, I silently beg for him to let it go.
I knew agreeing to come to dinner with him was a mistake, but I gave in to the urge because there’s a quality about him that calls out to me. His lightheartedness and how he can flip the switch and turn on his attention have me envious. I wish I had that capability.
But they extinguished any remaining fragment of the blithe, carefree nature I’d once had.
One edge of his lips tips up, and his gaze locks with mine. The gleam in his eyes tells me it was the wrong thing to say. By saying it, I practically waved a red flag in front of a bull. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Lifting his glass, he regards me thoughtfully. “Here’s to a breakthrough after a ton of hard work.”
I raise my glass and gently clink it to his before lifting it to my lips.
We sit in companionable silence for a beat, the flickering light and shadows from the fireplace cast over us.
“Is Ian a family friend?”
When Lattimer smiles this time, I realize his smiles have differing qualities. Some are softer, gentler, while some are brighter. This particular one holds a deep affection. It’s not simply humorous or polite.
With practiced ease, he slowly swirls the wine in his glass, his attention cast on the moving liquid. “He’s considered family.”
When he doesn’t expand on that, I do something completely out of character.
I prod.
“I sense there’s a story there.”
His eyes flick up to mine, and it nearly robs me of breath. The saying that eyes are the portal to the soul could be viewed as some poetic bullshit, but I’ve always believed it.
After all, I should know. I’ve stared into dozens upon dozens of monsters whose eyes hold no trace of anything aside from pure evil.
I can’t deny that I’ve encountered bastards who could pull the wool over the most cynical and untrusting individuals, because there are certainly some who can carry on an innocent façade like no other.
Lattimer’s eyes, however, possess a depth of emotion I’m not entirely used to witnessing. It’s as if he’s permitting me to see a different side of him. He’s masterful at hiding this layer, which leads me to believe he can be equally as skilled at hiding something else.
Proceeding with caution when it pertains to this man would be wise.
“My mom has this tendency…” He hesitates briefly, one edge of his mouth hitching up. “She takes in kids who are often forgotten or discarded. You know how they’ve had that No Child Left Behind act for education? Well, my mom uses that mindset for everyday life.
“She’s opened her home to a handful of kids who hit rough patches in life. Kids who had no one to turn to and nowhere to go. She helps them find their way. Gives them the support they need.
“Ian was one of the kids she took in. When he got himself back on track, he swore he’d make it a point to thank her.” His free hand gestures to the restaurant. “He named this place in her honor.”
Words imbued with pride and affection, his voice is low and husky, features pensive with a hint of underlying remorse. “Mom’s always been a nurturer, and it’s impossible for her to turn her back on anyone when they hit a rough patch in life.”
He averts his eyes, taking a sip of his wine. A trace of vulnerability creeps into his expression, appearing to duel with the shadows from the flickering fire.
“She sounds like a wonderful lady.” The words spill past my lips, but before surprise and dismay can edge their way in, Lattimer’s gaze collides with mine.
Warmth radiates from his words, his voice turning gravelly, as if his words are being dragged straight from his heart. “She is.”
Lattimer has deeper layers than I gave him credit for. Disguising them with quick smiles and witty remarks, he successfully distracts others from peering closer. Where I use my ingrained aloofness and resistance to opening up to people, he partakes in a different method.
Our appetizer arrives far quicker than expected, and it breaks the silence hanging between us.
He spears a shrimp with his fork. “So, tell me more about Dr. Alexandre. Where are you from? How’d you get your start?” His hand stutters in bringing the shrimp to his appetizer plate, and his eyes suddenly take on an intensity I’ve not witnessed before. “Is there a Mr. Alexandre?”
The latter question is burgeoning with hesitation and curiosity, and the way he watches me sends an unfamiliar warmth spiraling through me.
I choose to answer as succinctly as possible. “I’m from all over. It’s a long, boring story. And no.”
A laugh rumbles from him, and it catches me off guard. “A woman of few words, as always.” From anyone else, it could be construed as a criticism. The way he says it, though, is as if he’s been greeted with something familiar that he loves.
With his face lit up with amusement intermixed with affection, my heart stutters at how handsome he is.
Dammit. I can’t afford to have a stupid crush on a guy. Especially not him. I don’t even know if I can trust him, for fuck’s sake.
A thought suddenly strikes. What if I played nicer? He’s shown an interest in me, but whether it’s organic or if he’s simply trying to ply me in some way is still undetermined.
I can use his interest to see if I can get answers. To see if he’s been compromised and is working with the same bastards I’m trying to eliminate.
The idea takes root, quickly blossoming in my mind. I’ve seduced monsters before, so this wouldn’t be much different.
I ignore the faint echo of a voice in my mind warning me that Lattimer will be trickier than all the monsters combined.
Chapter 34
Landon
I haven’t had this good of a time at dinner with a woman in…shit. Probably ever. She’s so goddamn smart and witty without even trying.
A light flush paints her cheeks, and I’m not sure if it’s from the wine or warmth from the fire. For some reason, it makes her seem more approachable than usual.
“Come on, at least let me top you off. It’s not like we’re driving, right?” I raise the nearly empty bottle of wine. “It’d be terrible to make me drink it all alone.”
With a derisive sound, she cuts her eyes to mine. “Anyone ever tell you you’re persistent as hell?” Her voice holds a different quality than usual. A touch of huskiness and a tone that makes me wonder if she’s flirting.
“That’s what makes me good at my job.”
I know I sound cocky as hell, but it’s the truth. If I gave up at the first sight of trouble or when things didn’t go my way, I would’ve never made it this far.
She glances around the restaurant, and for a split second, I get the feeling she’s casing the joint. But then her gaze locks with mine, and her attention on me makes me feel like I once did back in high school. When I laid eyes on the girl I ended up proposing to.
Dr. Kennedy Alexandre is the first woman to have my fucking stomach flipping in years. This woman who’s brilliant and hardworking, and so damn closed off.
There’s more to her than she lets on. I sense it. But aside from that, she’s a hero. She continuously helps kids by ensuring the fuckers who hurt them get put behind bars—and she does it all with her brand of expertise and science.
“Speaking of your job…” She traces a fingertip along the rim of her glass while regarding me with interest. “What made you choose the FBI?”
My jaw tightens instinctively, but I keep my features impassive. When her eyes narrow a fraction, I wonder if she caught my reaction, but she waits me out.
It’s a question I’ve received countl
ess times, and it never fails to churn up memories I’d rather not revisit.
So, I do what I always do and skirt around it, revealing only a portion of the real story.
“My dad died when I was a junior in high school, and I…didn’t take it well.” Guilt still ekes past all my barriers to sucker punch me in the gut, and I turn my focus on the flickering candle on the table. “I’d asked him to pick me up a damn bottle of Gatorade on his way home from work so I’d have it for practice the next day.”
I grit my teeth before forcing out in a monotone, “It was late, and he’d walked into a little corner store to grab it. It turns out, it was the wrong place at the wrong time. Two assholes came in with guns to rob the place and got greedy and demanded his wallet.
“Apparently, he hadn’t handed it over fast enough, and they killed him and the store clerk. Everything was caught on the store’s surveillance.”
Soft fingertips graze over the top of my hand before her warm palm covers it. When my eyes cut to hers in surprise, she jerks her hand back, appearing rigid like she hadn’t meant to offer me comfort. Clearing her throat, she asks, “Did they ever find them?”
I appreciate that she’s not serving me the usual I’m sorry for your loss bullshit like most people. It’s a fucking platitude that’s overused and never ceases to sound stale and insincere.
“No.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, eager to move on with the story. “So, I took the juvenile cop-out option and started running with a rough crowd and got into some trouble.
“My mom works near the Boys and Girls Club and made me go there during every waking minute I wasn’t in school. I found a mentor there who helped me turn my life around. I graduated and joined the Marines right away.
“Spent four years serving Uncle Sam before heading to college, and then the same mentor from years before reached out to tell me about an opportunity with the Bureau.”
“Impressive. So, what do you do in your spare time, Agent Lattimer?” When she tilts her head to the side speculatively and says, “If I had to guess, I’d say you hang out with the guys on weekends, drinking beer and watching ESPN,” it surprises a laugh out of me.
Raking a hand through my hair, I shake my head, sobering abruptly. “I’m honestly more of a loner.” Toying with the saltshaker, I tiptoe around the truth behind it. “When I say I see a lot of myself in you, it’s the truth.
“After what happened with my dad, I cut myself off from most everyone and concentrated on pulling my life out of the dumpster. I guess it became routine, and I stuck with it. Especially when—” I stop abruptly because I sure as shit didn’t mean to divulge the rest. Dammit.
I force a casual shrug. My throat tightens, and I avert my eyes, attempting to adopt a neutral tone. “That’s why I tend to keep everyone at a distance.”
Kennedy’s brows pinch together, and I sense she knows there’s more to it but won’t cross that invisible line and ask. “I can understand that. Sometimes, it’s safer to go it alone.” Her fingers silently tap against the linen tablecloth, and her gaze turns vacant. “I don’t have friends either, because my job has me traveling so often, and I don’t have any family…”
She trails off softly before she blinks, and I get the impression she hadn’t intended to reveal that much and now regrets it.
“I get it,” I offer quickly, trying to set her at ease. “After all that, it’s just easier to keep things solo.”
Our eyes lock and hold, and I realize she seems softer somehow.
Holy shit. It hits me with the force of a sledgehammer to the chest that her normally impassive and bleak eyes are different. A spark of life is there now. I may not have been able to make her really smile or laugh, but goddamn, somehow, I’ve been granted a peek at another side of Kennedy tonight.
One I sure as hell won’t squander.
It’s what makes me say, “Being a loner might seem like a major flaw to some—like my superior, who wishes I’d work better with a partner—but it doesn’t stop me from going after what I want.”
I pause for a beat to let my words sink in, holding her gaze. Because Kennedy’s smart as hell, and she’ll pick up my meaning. “And I always get the results I want.”
I’m not just referring to my work. No…I’ve laid down a gauntlet, of sorts.
I want Dr. Kennedy Alexandre, the woman who’s enshrouded in layers. A woman who doesn’t have anyone in her corner to cheer her on and be proud of her accomplishments. A woman who’s admittedly alone in this world.
I want Kennedy, not just because she’s intelligent and hot as hell, but because there’s something about her that keeps drawing me in.
She might hide it well, but I’ve noticed the cracks in that straitlaced façade of hers. She’s attracted to me.
I plan to show her just how good we can be together.
Chapter 35
Kennedy
Three well-dressed women follow the hostess to the table across the aisle from us. One of them is very pregnant in a sleek black dress with a bright red scarf around her neck and flat-heeled black boots on her feet.
This is the type of woman who makes pregnancy look easy, her long auburn hair cascading well past her shoulders, a glowing complexion, and rosy cheeks.
The vision of her incites white-hot pain blazing through me, and the agony sinks to the marrow of my bones. My stomach forms a chasm filled with the yearning for what I can never have.
My fingers fumble as I clumsily grab my water glass for my suddenly bone-dry throat. Lattimer must assume I need relief from the aftereffects of the spicy shrimp pasta I polished off.
Concern etches his handsome features while the candlelight flickers along his sharp jawline. “You okay?”
I dip my chin in a quick nod. “I’m fine.”
With the power of a tractor beam, my attention is drawn back to the women. The first two take their seats while the pregnant one drapes her coat over the back of her chair before sliding the long strap of her purse over it. It clings to the chair for only a second before sliding off and dropping to the floor.
The woman starts gingerly bending her knees before her friends notice, but Lattimer jumps up from his seat and quickly approaches. “Let me get that for you.” Scooping her purse off the floor, he hands it to her, and she thanks him with a grateful smile.
He points just beneath the underside of the table. “There are hooks underneath for you to hang your purses.”
The woman’s friend with long, blond hair pipes up with a bright smile. “It’s our first time here, so thank you for mentioning it.”
Eyes eating up the sight of Lattimer, the other woman with shoulder-length jet-black hair comments in a sugary tone, “That’s so sweet of you. You’re a hero in the flesh.”
Lattimer shoves his hands in the pockets of his suit pants as if embarrassed by the praise. “Not a problem.”
The pregnant woman flashes him another grateful smile. “Thank you, again.”
“You ladies have a wonderful night.”
He returns to our table and sinks back in his chair. Reaching for his water glass, he takes a quick drink.
“An FBI agent and a rescuer of pregnant women’s purses, huh?” I murmur.
Color infuses his cheekbones. As if uncomfortable with the observation, he shrugs it off with a mumbled, “Just doing the right thing. It’s what any other guy would do.”
But he’s wrong. I know that for certain. Because the other men I’ve known wouldn’t do a damn thing to help.
“Just like you.” His eyes rake over my features as if he’s memorizing them. “You do what’s right and dedicate your career to seeing it through.”
My lips tighten because even though I know he’s deflecting, he’s wrong. I certainly don’t do what’s right by legal standards. Lattimer and I aren’t at all the same when it comes to that.
I chose my surname from the author of The Count of Monte Cristo: Alexandre Dumas. Betrayal. Pain. Heartache. The main character was robbed of everything and
left with only hate to fuel his thirst for revenge.
The parallels between this story and my life are distinctive, and while my revenge might be viewed as poetic like his, I don’t operate under any delusions that when this comes to an end, I’ll be able to walk away with a clean slate.
Our server arrives at our table and places a large slice of a layered chocolate dessert in the center before setting down forks in front of us.
“I took the liberty of bringing two forks for your chocolate torte. It’s compliments of the ladies seated at the table behind me.” He gestures to the three women, and Lattimer glances over with a polite smile.
“Thank you, ladies.”
Expression wrought with nerves, the waiter clears his throat and slides a small piece of paper in front of Lattimer. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was told to also give you this.” He flashes me an apologetic look, awkwardness practically dripping off him.
With zero remorse, I peer over at it. In neat print, it says, If you’re single, call me sometime. Jessie (the brunette). Beneath it is her number.
My lungs seize for a second while I wait for Lattimer’s reaction. A milliseconds-long grimace crosses his face before he offers a polite nod and a two-fingered wave to the brunette.
Covertly, he slides the small paper to the side, near the salt and pepper shakers. Shoulders bunched with discomfort and tension radiating from him, when his eyes meet mine, I’m assaulted by the impulse to comfort him.
Sinking his fork into the dessert, he offers the first taste to me. “Shall we?”
Chapter 36
Landon
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Come on, now.” I squint at her suspiciously. “Who doesn’t indulge in dessert every now and then?” Leaning closer, my voice hushed, I add, “And a free one at that.”
Something passes over her features, but it happens so quickly I can’t decipher it. Flickers of candlelight combined with the fireplace cast shadows over her beautiful face, and I’m having a hard-ass time reminding myself this is just for work.
