“Have you eaten dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“I'm making pasta and I always make lots so that I can eat leftovers for lunches. There's plenty for you, so we'll eat together.”
“No, thank you.”
“I just got home from work and I’m hungry and I’d really prefer to eat my dinner without an FBI agent sitting there staring at me.”
“I’m on the clock.”
“Yes, but agents have to consume food at mealtimes while on the clock.”
For his sanity, it would be best to keep his work objectives at the fore. “For this meeting to be as productive as possible, I'll need to focus.”
“Eating with me will not make this meeting any less productive. C'mon. I insist.”
“No, thank you.”
She stuck her hands on her hips. “Agent Camden—”
“You can call me Jude.”
“Jude. Is the rapport between us going to be combative? Or is it going to be agreeable?”
He sized her up. “Can things only be agreeable if I accept everything you insist on?”
She laughed, which caught him off guard. She had a great laugh—genuine and a little husky.
It occurred to him that he was looking at her mouth. He lifted his attention to her gray eyes. No help there, though. They were lively and direct.
“Things are going to be combative,” she said with an upward tilt to her lips, “if you refuse to do the things I insist on when those things are easy and harmless for you to accept. Eating with me is easy and harmless.” She lifted her eyebrows in a challenging way.
She was his cooperating witness. If Dixon or Shannon saw him sitting down with her over dinner, this meeting might appear too casual and intimate for their taste. It was shaping up to be too casual and intimate forhistaste. Thing was, it didn't look like he was going to get far with Gemma if he kicked things off by declining her offer.
Cooperating witnesses and informants were all unique. They needed different things from their contacts in the FBI and an agent had to be flexible. Dixon and Shannon would understand. “All right. I'll eat.”
“Excellent. You drain the pasta and I'll set the table and get us drinks.”
“Only non-alcoholic drinks for me.”
“Oh?Shocking.” She moved like a whirlwind around the small space, her hair swinging.
He hesitated in front of the boiling pot. “Where do you keep your strainers?”
“If you rustle around in this cupboard”—she tapped a lower cupboard with her toe—“you might find one.”
Her cupboard was overstuffed, but he located a strainer and they worked on their respective jobs. He noted for the first time that she had music playing. Some sort of mellow, instrumental soundtrack.
“I thought I'd begin,” he said, “by filling you in on the backstory for my alias.”
“Actually, I'd like to learn some things about the real you first. I'm most comfortable working with people I feel that I know.”
“Learning about the real me will make your role more difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because details about me will blur with details about my alias.” He drained the pasta. “When Cedric asks you questions, you’ll be more likely to slip up.”
