Taming the Beast

“Great, let’s get started.” She pressed her hands to the cushion edges as if to stand, but he pressed his over them and clucked his tongue.

“I didn’t tell you my conditions yet.”

“Conditions for what? Are you seriously going to make me negotiate with you to ask a few questions about a run-of-the-mill traffic accident?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

She lowered her chin and looked at him through hostilely narrowed eyes. The local women were so good at being hostile. The rare ones knew how to be sweet at times, too.

“And…will you answer them, or is that not a part of the deal?” she asked.

“Oh.” He laughed and tapped his temple. “I believe you’re too smart for your own good.”

“No one has ever asserted that such a thing was a problem.”

“It is when you’re a meddler.”

“I’m not a meddler. I’m simply doing my job.”

“And this job means so much to you? This…” He made a dismissive flick of his hand. “This interview?”

“Well, yes, but—” She shook her head, took a deep breath, and tried again. “This interview specifically? No, one interview isn’t so important. Me doing my job competently and professionally is what’s important. Protecting my reputation is a priority.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She did another of those graceful shrugs. “Fallon’s not a big place. I’d rather have people think of me kindly, and if not kindly, then neutrally.”

“You care what people think?”

“Don’t you?”

“Only when they’re dangerous.” He leaned in close again, pulling in breaths near her ear, and sensed the curious swell of emotion from her. She was confused and didn’t understand him, but that was expected. No one understood him. For the most part, he was fine with that. “Most people, sweet Mary, are dangerous. Your nipples are hard.”

“What?” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned sideways away from his mouth. “Ugh.”

He laughed, genuinely, for the first time in weeks, perhaps. “You like my mouth. Don’t feed me lies and tell me you don’t. You forget what I am. I haven’t forgotten what you are.”

“The fact

that my body finds appeal in the things you say or do doesn’t mean I’m not able to rationalize that I shouldn’t act on impulses.”

“Would you act? What would you do?”

“You’re getting off-course again, Mr. Toft.”

“Andreas.”

“Mr. Toft.” She enunciated his name as though he was a schoolboy in need of disciplining, and he imagined she could do the job. He’d let her, too. Any way she wanted. He could take anything she meted out.

He wanted to push her a little more to see where her breaking points were—to see how much he’d have to say to make her act.

“I offered you a deal, sweet Mary,” he said.

“No. You offered me a chance to ask questions. I want to ask questions, and for you to answer them clearly and to the best of your ability.”

“On the record, you mean.”

“An interview. We’ll determine later what I’ll do with the information.”