“Well, shoot, honey, Oregon’s full of aging hippies,” Remy said cheerfully. “Not to mention that it rains all the time. How are you going to feel if you never see the sun?”
“The same,” she said. “I probably won’t even notice.”
Remy sighed. “I consider you my greatest failure. I’m usually an expert at fixing broken hearts, but you just don’t want to be fixed.”
“He died, Remy,” she said stonily, trying to get used to the words. “He didn’t just walk out on me. That’s a little harder to bounce back from.”
Remy immediately looked contrite, which only made him more luscious. It really was a shame she couldn’t appreciate him, Sophie thought wearily. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Of course you’re right. I keep forgetting he’s dead. But you have to know that Committee operatives make terrible partners. You’re better off without him.”
She gave him an outraged expression, and he held up his hands as if warding off an attack. “All right, cher, I know you loved him. But Malcolm Gunnison didn’t look like a man who would ever settle down—he’d been in the life too long.”
Sophie stared at him in shock. “Did you know him?”
“Why, sure. He stayed with us for two months before he headed out for Isla Mordita to go after MacDonald. Bishop was overseeing the operation with the London office. In fact, Gunnison was going to be assigned to this office when he got back. Too bad he changed his mind.”
Sophie set her coffee down. “He didn’t change his mind, Remy. He died.” Damn, she hated those words. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were true, she never could feel it in her heart.
“Sorry,” he said again. “So what are you going to do in Oregon? You’ve got so much money you probably don’t ever have to work again. Wouldn’t last me more than a couple of years, but then, I like my creature comforts. You’re more on the penitential side.”
“Remy . . .” she said in a dangerous voice.
“I know, I know,” he said, sounding not the least bit sorry.
“I have to get back to my office.”
“Why? You don’t have any real work to do.”
“I have bosses to kill in Dark Souls Three,” she said grimly.
“You and your computer games. I can’t get anywhere with that one—I think I’m more of a zombie guy. If you’re going to pick a game, why don’t you go for something a little less gruesome? Like World of Warcraft?”
“I like gruesome,” she said, shoving her hair back from her face. “And I’m about to go get me some.”
Remy moved fast, stationing himself by the door. “You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do in Oregon.”
“Watch the storms over the Pacific Ocean, drink craft beer, and read anything I damned well please, as long as it’s not written by a Russian.” Remy would have no idea what she was talking about, but she didn’t care. And then she softened. “You can come and visit me if you ever get tired of all this sunshine.”
“It rains here plenty. Don’t you remember a little storm named Katrina that did a number on this town?”
“I do,” she said, feeling unaccountably guilty. She’d been in such a cesspool of misery that she’d stopped considering all the shit other people had gone through. Lots of people lose the one they love. And it wasn’t as if he had given a flying fuck about her.
Who says I don’t like you? Those had been his dying words, and for a declaration of true love, they left a lot to be desired. It didn’t matter. She treasured those words like they were a Shakespearean sonnet.
“And frankly, I think you’re a fool to refuse your husband’s money. He didn’t leave a will, and apart from his father you’re his only heir. His father won’t touch that money, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t enjoy it.”
“It’s blood money, Remy. And I don’t need it, remember? I’ve got plenty.”
“There’s no such thing as too much money, darlin’,” he said with the solemnity such a statement deserved.
She sighed. “We’ll argue about it later. I’m going back to my office . . .” She was moving past him when he jumped in her way, startling her so much she sloshed hot coffee on both of them.
“Not quite yet, sugar buns.”
She halted, staring up at him, a stern expression on her face. “What’s going on, Remy?”
“Someone’s coming from the London office,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“So?” she said. “Why does it matter to me? They’ve had almost a complete turnover since I trained there. The only one still there is . . . Peter Madsen,” she ended on a depressed note. “Why is he here?”