Roses Are Red (Alex Cross 6)

She put her hand on top of mine.

“It did — totally. Not tonight. Okay?”

For the first time, she opened up and told me a little about herself. She had gone to John Carroll High School in D.C. and been brought up a Catholic. She said that her background was “strict, strict, and more

strict. Lots of discipline.” Her mother was a homemaker until she died, when Betsey was sixteen. Her father had been a sergeant in the army, then a fireman.

“I used to go out with a girl from John Carroll,” I told her. “Cute little uniform.”

“Recently?” she asked. Her brown eyes twinkled. She was funny. She said the sense of humor came from her old neighborhood in D.C., and also the atmosphere in her parents’ house. “If you were a boy in our neighborhood, you had to be funny or you got into lots of fights. My father wanted a boy but got me instead. He was a tough guy but funny, always had a joke. Daddy died of a heart attack on the job. I think that’s why I work out every day like such a possessed little maniac.”

I told her that my mother and father had both died before I was ten and that my grandmother had raised me. “I work out a lot, too,” I said.

“You went to Georgetown, then Johns Hopkins, right?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes, but I was laughing. “You prepared for the meeting. Yes, I have a doctorate in psychology from Hopkins. I’m overqualified for my job.”

She laughed. “I went to Georgetown. I was way behind you, though.”

“Four years. Only four short years, Agent Cavalierre. You were a very good lacrosse player there.”

She crinkled up her nose and mouth. “Oohhh. Somebody else has been prepping for tonight.”

I laughed. “No, no. I actually saw you play once.”

“You remember?” she asked with mild astonishment.

“I remember you. You glided when you ran. I didn’t put it all together at first, but I remember it now.”

Betsey asked about my Johns Hopkins training in psych, then my three years in private practice. “But you like being a homicide detective better?” she asked.

“I do. I love the action.”

She admitted that she did, too.

We talked a little about people who had been important in our lives. I told her about Maria, my wife, who’d been killed. I showed off pictures of Damon and Jannie from my wallet.

I noticed that her voice got softer. “I’ve never been married. Two of my sisters are married, with kids. I love their kids. They call me Auntie Cop.”

“Can I ask a personal question?”

She nodded. “Fire away. I can take the heat.”

“You ever been close to settling down?” I asked. “Auntie Cop?”

“Is the question personal or professional, Doctor?” I already had the sense that she was incredibly guarded. Her humor was probably her best defense.

“The question is just friendly,” I told her.

“I know it is. I can tell, Alex. I’ve had some good friends in the past — men, a couple of boys. Whenever it got too serious, I always got out of harm’s way. Oops. There’s a slip.”

“Just the truth,” I smiled, “slipping out ever so slowly.”

She leaned in close. She kissed my forehead, then she kissed me gently on the lips. The kisses were sweet and totally irresistible.

“I like being with you,” she said. “I like talking to you an awful lot. Are we about ready to leave?”

She and I returned to the hotel together. I walked her to her room. We kissed outside the door and I liked it even more than the first time in Hartford. Slow and easy wins the race.