Until You

"For what?"

"I'll think of something."

She turned away and started to walk off, back straight, shoulders square. He gave her a couple of seconds lead time and then he caught up to her.

"You know, Beckman, everybody's wrong about you. You're not just a spoiled brat, you're a dumb one."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why would I be working for Eva again?"

"Because the money's good," she said briskly, picking up her pace.

Conor grasped her shoulder and swung her towards him.

"Try using your brain instead of your mouth for a change. Do you really think I'd put myself in a position where I had to deal with you again?" He smiled tightly. "There's not enough money in the world to make me do that."

For the first time, he saw doubt cloud her eyes. She put her hands on her hips, considering, and he plunged ahead before he lost momentum.

"Besides, why would she want me to tail you? Are you saying there have been more notes?"

Her hair was coming loose from the braid. She put a hand to her forehead and scraped the strands back.

"Well, no."

"Listen," he said, keeping his voice brusque, letting her feel his impatience, "I had a job to do in Paris and I did it. Eva wanted you watched, then she wanted you back home. I took care of both items. End of job, end of paychecks. Understand?"

Her teeth fastened lightly on her bottom lip. He held his breath, waiting, trying to read her face as she assessed the situation, and then she gave a barely perceptible shrug.

"But if you weren't following me..."

"Hell," he said, rolling his eyes, "are we back to that?" He reached into the pocket of his shorts, dug out his cell. "Here," he said, shoving it at her, "go ahead. Phone Eva. Ask her if I'm back on the clock."

Her gaze flew to the phone in his outstretched hand, then to his face, and he worked at keeping his own gaze open and level. It wasn't difficult. After all, he was telling her the truth, as far as it went. Plus, he was one hell of a liar. Lying was a way of life in his business. Disinformation, Thurston and the Committee called it, but the down and dirty reality was that whether you called it disinformation or evading the truth, he could do it with the best of them.

It was an art he'd developed early, at St. Paul's, where telling the good sisters the truth usually earned you a crack across the knuckles and at home, where it might result in a whacking that could make you very careful about sitting down for a couple of days. By the time he'd gotten to Special Forces and then the Committee, he was more than ready to be turned into an expert. Oh yeah. He could widen his baby blues, swear on everything holy that what he was saying was the truth, the whole truth, the only truth.

"So, what are you saying? You weren't following me? You just happened to be in New York, in this park, on this path when those—those animals jumped me?"

"Yahoos," he said, with a little smile.

"What?"

"Swift," he said, "Gulliver's Travels, remember? They're yahoos. Hell, I like animals. They don't rape, they don't murder, they don't steal."

"They don't lie."

"And I'm not lying, either. I don't work for your mother or your stepfather."

"Then why—"

"Beckman, what's with you? You think you're the only person lives in this town? I have an apartment ten minutes from here. And I run. I have, for years, whenever I can." That, at least, was true. The Nautilus, treadmills, stationery bikes were all okay but there was something about running he'd always liked, the sense that you were doing something real, not just pitting yourself against a machine.

"And I'm supposed to believe that you just happened to pick this particular time and place to run?"

He gave an easy shrug. "What can I say? I guess I'm as dumb as you are, hitting the park at this hour."

She blinked and he knew he'd figured this right. All she needed was a little shove.