“Will you be going to the sports bar after work Friday?”
“I don't know yet. Maybe.”
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you.”
Still, she lingered.
He tapped the files. “This is all I needed.”
“'Kay.” She smiled at him dreamily.
He shifted his attention to his computer and went back to work on his notes about Gemma.
Finally, Riley drifted off.
Gemma had been angry that the FBI had put away her father but let the far more prolific criminal, Cedric, go free. He could see her point. But now that he'd offered her a chance to rectify that by helping put Cedric behind bars, he didn't doubt that she'd set her animosity toward the Bureau aside and agree to work on this case. As soon as she did, the two of them would be tied together, a likelihood that filled him with a satisfaction he didn't want to study closely.
Gemma was larger than life somehow. Interesting, talented with perfume, colorful.
He was greedy to see her again even though greediness was out of character for him and ridiculous in this situation. Gemma was his cooperating witness and could never be anything more to him than that.
The FBI frowned on friendships and strictly forbade romances between agents and their informants and witnesses.
Breaking that rule would mean putting his job on the line.
* * *
Gemma was not a turncoat.
The aging floorboards of her one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old house wheezed as she paced a circular track around the first floor. Kitchen, dining room, living room.
After her conversation with Agent Camden, she’d cast herself onto her work to-do list with ferocity. At closing time, she'd tried to talk Aunt Stella into dinner out. But Aunt Stella, the party pooper, had said she'd promised Uncle Arnie a romantic evening. So Gemma had done an hour and a half of desperation-fueled shopping, spending more than her allotted monthly antique-buying budget. At that point, she'd still been facing too many empty hours. So she'd gone to a kickboxing class at the gym. Sweat had run down her face, her chest had heaved, yet the class had brought her little peace.
She'd come home, showered, made and eaten a late dinner. Now there were no distractions left. She'd always dealt with sadness or pressure or worry best when she had things to do. When she ran out of things, there was only insomnia left. That, and pacing.
It went against her grain to help the FBI catch one of her family members in the act of committing a crime. Gemma loved her family deeply. In fact, her love and devotion to them had defined much of her life. If the FBI had asked for her assistance in catching any other family member, she'd have turned them down flat. Cedric, though, was the family's one very bad apple.
Her great-grandfather and Cedric's great-grandfather had been siblings. Then her great-grandfather, Paul Bettencourt, had abdicated from his family's perfume empire and relocated from France to America for love.
For generations, the American and French branches of the family had made the effort to attend reunions every three or four years. They'd alternated locations. The Americans would host a reunion in Maine, then the French would host a reunion in the French Riviera.
According to her mom, Gemma and Cedric had gravitated to one another from the start. He was only a year older than she and they'd both been active and adventurous. During reunions, they'd hunted for imaginary treasure, put on plays, battled one another at board games. She had a vibrant memory of him—a good-looking, brown-haired, brown-eyed kid—standing on top of a rock and striking a victorious pose against the sky.
By their late elementary years, she and Cedric had become pen pals when Great-Grandpa Paul had encouraged her to learn the lost art of letter writing. The letters crisscrossing the continents had given Cedric a reason to practice writing in English and given her a reason to dream that she could one day be as fashionable and successful as his side of the family.
She paced another circle. Living room, dining room, kitchen.
Her house was small—the second story contained just a bedroom and bathroom—but fabulous. Perfume was art but so were many things. Interior decorating was art, and she loved the creative way that she'd melded antiques, ceramics, flowers, paintings, and rugs inside her home.
Usually, these surroundings soothed her. Tonight? Not so much.
When she and Cedric were in middle school, they'd ceased writing letters and switched to communicating through texts. They'd chatted, joked, encouraged. They'd sent each other pictures of milestone moments.
Then, seven years ago, her father had been arrested. He’d remained loyal to Cedric, never turning on him, staying close-mouthed. It was only when Cedric's name had come out in evidence during the trial, that Gemma had understood the depth of the illegal actions Cedric had asked her father to take. She’d been brutally disappointed in her cousin and childhood friend.
Cedric had shot her one text expressing his sorrow and concern for her. She'd responded, saying that she was fine.In no wayhad she been anything close to fine. Cedric had left it at that.
