He ought to ... what? Chase her down the hall? Give her a piece of his mind? Leave the room and refuse to speak to her when she next decided to grace him with her presence? He glanced at his stylish hospital gown, the IV dripping antibiotics into his system, and the bandages on his arms. He didn’t need to see the bandages on his leg, or the stitches in his calf. He was trapped.
He slumped against the pillows to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard another soft tap on the door. After a moment, the door eased open. “Is it safe to enter?”
“Get in here.”
Faith Malone stepped inside. Barely. The door closed, but she didn’t approach him. Instead, she leaned against the wall and studied him. She was as gorgeous as ever, even with dirt staining her knees and the edge of her shirt, a smudge on her cheek, and fire in her eyes. It would be so much easier to keep her at a distance if he hadn’t often wondered what it would be like to have her close.
She continued to stand there, iPad in one hand, Cherry Coke in the other.
Faith’s Cherry Coke issues were a safe area to pick at her. He hoped. He pointed to the bottle. “How many of those have you had today?” Would she accept the olive branch, lame as it was?
Her chin lifted ever so slightly. “This is my fourth.”
“When’s the last time you had four in one day?”
“Can’t remember.”
Luke was pretty sure that was a lie, but he wouldn’t press her. Her four Cherry Coke days were her business. Not his. And while he didn’t want to admit it, the fact that this morning’s events had driven her to a 4CC day? It did something to him. Something he didn’t like. It made him start to think things that couldn’t be true. Like maybe the FBI wouldn’t drop the ball on this investigation. Like maybe Faith would get the job done.
That she’d do it right.
Faith walked to the window and set the drink on the ledge. “I’m sorry about Michael and Jared.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he tried to nod nicely.
Faith’s black hair was straight today, and she tucked it behind her ear. “Do you feel up to talking about what happened this morning?”
Something snapped. “You’re being too nice, Faith. Why are youaskingme? You should be telling me you’re sorry for my loss, but you need to hear my version of the story and that’s all there is to it. If you’re this nice to everyone—”
“I’m not, Special Agent Powell.” Faith’s brown eyes flashed with unmasked anger. “It’s called professional courtesy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
Ouch.
Faith’s face was all angles and hard edges now. She’d told him once that her cheekbones and skin tone were from her Cherokee mother, but her temper was a gift from her red-haired Irish father.
Something told him he did not want to be on the receiving end of the tongue-lashing she was about to unleash. And he knew from past experience that he was in big trouble when she started calling him “Special Agent Powell” instead of “Luke.” What was his problem? Why was he being so antagonistic? This wasn’t a random agent. This was Faith. He knew her. He liked her. More than he should.
Maybe that was his problem. “My apologies.” He waved a hand around the room. “This place is bringing out the worst in me.”
She smirked as she sat down. “It isn’t this place. It’s the potent combination of sorrow, lack of control, and your deep-seated distrust of the FBI in general. I can do nothing to ease your grief or restore your false sense of dominion over your life. I still don’t know, nor do I care, why you despise the FBI. All I can do is choose to overlook your disparaging remarks regarding my ability to do my job, and I’m only willing to offer that concession for the next twelve hours.”
She tapped the fancy pencil on her iPad and began to write. “Now, Agent Powell, will you please start with your whereabouts this morning and walk me through everything that happened.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to defend himself. Wanted to give her all the reasons for his hatred of the FBI. If she only knew.
But she didn’t.
Faith waited, a patient half smile on her full lips. If she was seething in fury underneath that cool exterior, he couldn’t tell.
“Fine.”
He told her everything.
She listened well, only stopping him twice for clarification. Whenever they were interrupted by hospital staff, which was often, she sat without any sense of frustration or unease, and then as soon as they were alone again, she would prompt him with wherehe’d left off. There’d been no chitchat. No jokes. She’d been all business.
She glanced over her notes, then asked, “Did you see the shooter?”
