The District. Carol Ericson

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      “Idiot.”

      “How was South America?”

      “Hot and humid.”

      “I heard your team brought down a pretty high roller down there.”

      “We did all right. I heard you’re making your mark on the serial killer unit. Dream come true, huh?”

      She stopped fussing with her napkin and planted her elbows on the white tablecloth. “Can we just get this out of the way so you’ll stop taking jabs at me?”

      “Am I jabbing?” He knew damn well he was. It was the only thing keeping him from pulling her into his arms and kissing the smart aleck from her.

      “You’re too manly to play coy, Eric. I told you then, and I’m telling you now, I did not get into a relationship with you to get your father’s story.”

      “But you wanted the Brody story.”

      “Joseph Brody’s story has always fascinated me. I’m not gonna lie. But I had no intention of writing a book about your father.”

      “The notes?”

      “Were notes. Something about your father’s case always bothered me. I don’t believe for one minute that he was the Phone Book Killer.”

      He pinched the bridge of his nose and when the waiter returned with his drink, he tossed back half of it. The smooth heat rolled down his throat and radiated throughout his chest.

      “I’ve heard this before, Christina, but Ray Lopez told a different story.”

      She snorted. “If you had been in your right mind back then, you wouldn’t have given Ray’s story—any of Ray’s story—a second thought.”

      She grabbed his hand, upsetting her waterglass. “I was your woman, Brody. I never would’ve betrayed you like that. The only reason you believed Ray over me was because of Noah Beckett. You were wrong about Noah, too.”

      The pain that sliced through his temples had him reaching for his glass. This time he downed the rest of the scotch and his eyes watered.

      “I should’ve saved Noah.”

      “You followed the protocol for kidnappings. Noah would’ve met the same fate with anyone else at the helm.”

      “I was at the helm.” He jabbed his chest with his thumb. “I should’ve known better. I was a kidnap victim myself. I should’ve done better by Noah. I should’ve done better by his parents.”

      “Just because you were a kidnap victim, didn’t mean you had some magical power to save all other kidnap victims.” Her nails dug into his forearm. “You did your job to the best of your ability, and the Becketts knew that.”

      “It wasn’t good enough.” He waved the waiter over. “Another scotch, please, and another napkin for the spilled water.”

      “Would you like to order now?” The waiter’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and Christina.

      “I’ll have a Caesar salad and the steak, medium rare.”

      Christina ordered the salmon, and the waiter backed away from the table as if afraid to turn his back on them.

      She pleated the napkin on the table. “If Noah’s case hadn’t come to its tragic end at the same time you found my notes, I know you would’ve given me a chance to explain, Eric.”

      He slumped against the banquette and rolled his glass between his palms. “Maybe you’re right. The book never did come out, and you never married Lopez.”

      Her eyes popped open. “Marry Lopez? What gave you that crazy idea?”

      “Lopez.”

      “And you believed him?” She grabbed the glass from his hand and took a gulp. Coughing, she slammed the glass back down on the table.

      “It made sense at the time.”

      “At the time, you were in crazy town.” She sniffed and dabbed a corner of the napkin under her bottom lashes.

      She was right. He’d been out of his mind with grief and anger after losing Noah. When he’d turned to his fiancée for comfort and support, he’d found her notes about his father and his family and a nosy reporter feeding him lies.

      Over the past few years, he’d had time to think about it all. It did seem pretty far-fetched that Christina would get into a relationship with him, agree to marry him, sleep with him—all to get the goods on his family tragedy to write a killer book.

      She stuck out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Can we call a truce while we’re working on this case together?”

      “Sure.” He clasped her fingers, still chilly from mopping up the ice water. “I think I can even manage an apology. I overreacted to seeing those notes—bad timing all around.”

      She squeezed his hand. “Me, too. I should’ve never kept...that from you. I figured if I told you I had been researching your father’s case, you’d think I was a creepy stalker.”

      “Truce.” He dropped her hand and held up his own.

      “So you’re done with the well-aimed barbs?”

      Truth was, he’d forgiven her a while back when he’d been on his leave of absence and was able to think clearly about the situation. It helped that no book had come out, and he hadn’t heard anything linking her to Lopez.

      And the barbs? Self-preservation against her charms. Just because he’d forgiven her didn’t mean they should resume their engagement. She’d kept things from him, and he didn’t like secrets—had grown up with too many of them.

      “No barbs, well-aimed or otherwise.” He pushed the rest of his drink aside and tore into a roll. The tension he’d been holding in his shoulders all day had slipped away. She’d been right about that, too—get everything out in the open.

      They had a job to do.

      Their food arrived and between bites, they discussed her cases and his task force in South America.

      If someone had told him two years ago that he’d be sitting across the table from Christina laughing and sharing stories, he never would’ve believed it. The time off had done him good. Talking with his brothers had done him good.

      As he signed the credit card receipt, Christina pinged his glass of scotch, sending ripples through the amber liquid. “Are you leaving this? By my calculations, that’s about eight bucks sitting in that glass, eight bucks the Bureau isn’t paying for.”

      “I’m good. Do you want the rest?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “Only if you toss it in with some sweet liqueurs and mixers and stick a colorful umbrella in it.”

      “Uh, no.” He folded the receipt and stuck it in his pocket. “Are you ready?”

      “Kindred СКАЧАТЬ