2 Chapter 2

As I closed it, I realized I was grasping at any excuse to interrupt my thoughts. I’dnever lost my temper because a colleague had met with a near miss, and I’d certainly never been jealous.

Why now? Why this man?

Just then my doorbell chimed. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and went to the door, pausing to peer through the peephole before opening it. No, I wasn’t expecting anyone except Mark, but it wouldn’t pay to grow careless.

Of course it was Mark standing there, and my breath caught at the sight of him, the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth deeply etched. I opened the door, and the weariness was wiped from his face, quickly replaced with his patented manic grin.

I could understand why Major Drum was uneasy whenever he came into contact with Mark Vincent.

“Come in before you frighten the neighbors, Mark. You look like death warmed over.”

His grin morphed into a scowl, but it took an effort. What had gone on with him today?Certainly it was upsetting to learn one’s home had been blown up, but his weariness seemed out of proportion to that.

But then someone had died in that explosion. Again I wondered if it had been a lover. I’d seen the way he’d curled his lip when regarding the deceased, but that didn’t mean that at some point in time there couldn’t have been warmer feelings between them.

“Go on into the kitchen; I’m sure you know where it is.”

He took a step forward, paused and looked down at his feet, then removed his shoes andsocks, which were obviously soaked through. For a moment he seemed uncertain as to what to do with his socks, but then he stuffed them into the pocket of his suit jacket.

That was…considerate of him. I reached for the duffel he carried. “I’ll take your bag up to the guest bedroom.”

“Jesus, Mann.” He wouldn’t let it go. “We’re adversaries. Don’t treat me like a fucking guest.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped. “I have no intention of getting some kind of vicarious thrill by searching through your clothes, so give me your fucking bag, go in the kitchen, and eat your goddamned sandwich. And for God’s sake, call me Quinn!”

Of course I was stunned by my verbal assault on him, but I didn’t know who was more surprised when he released his grip on his bag.

It was extremely lightweight. He’d said something about keeping a spare set of clothes in his office, but how much was in there?

I turned on my heel and went up to the second floor, left the duffel beside the bed in the guestroom, and then stopped in my own room to retrieve a pair of heavy woolen socks that I hoped would fit him. I returned to the kitchen in time to see a grimace darken his face as he took a sip of tea.

“Mark, you drink that tea with milk.”

“What?”

“Unless you’ve developed a taste for it straight?” One could drink it plain, and just because I preferred it with milk…. I felt myself flush. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“Don’t go all insecure on me, Quinn.”

“I’m not—” I had a reputation for being cool and unflappable. The Ice Man, I was called, although the younger officers who referred to me in that manner were unaware I knew of this. How was it that Mark Vincent of all people could so easily slip under that fa?ade? “Drink it however you want.”

“How do you drink it?”

I looked down my nose at him, easy for a change since he was sitting down. “I prefer it with milk.”

“Okay, fine. Have you got any?”

I was sure he knew the contents of my refrigerator as well as I did, but of course, as of this morning, I’d had no milk. I handed him the socks and went to retrieve the milk.

“What’s up with the socks?”

“Your feet will get cold.”

The expression that flashed across his face was gone in an instant, but it gave me pause. Hadn’t he had anyone in his life who cared about his wellbeing?

I thought briefly of the file I had on him. According to it, actually, no. He was estranged from his mother and hadn’t been in contact with his father’s family, or any of the men who’d entered into his life when he was a child for periods of time brief and not so brief.

How sad. He must have been hurt to cut off all ties to them.

And I knew he’d hate it with a passion if he could read my thoughts.

He took the milk, added a splash to his tea, then set the bottle aside.

“Is your sandwich to your taste?” I asked for want of a better thing to say.

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

“You haven’t taken a bite yet.”

He did so, probably larger than he’d intended, but it kept that mouth of his busy.

I turned and put the milk away.