Natalie's office while I change into my clothes. Then I will be glad to escort you—in a strictly businesslike fashion—to one of the finer dining establishments in our fair town, where we might partake of a meal.” He held his hands up to ward off potential protest. “Feel free to pay for your own, Agent O'Malley. Far be it from me to threaten your feminist sensibilities. You can accept or decline this offer. I make no attempt at coercion, but, if you'll pardon my candor, you look like you could use a little meat loaf.
“For the record, I have no problem with an agent who happens to be a woman. I'm a reasonably enlightened nineties kind of guy. So you can take the chip off your shoulder and put it in your briefcase, Agent O'Malley. Believe me, there will be plenty of guys in line to knock it off, but I won't be one of them.”
Megan felt herself shrinking with each sentence. She wished fervently for a break from the laws of physics so she could melt down into the tight fibers of the carpet and disappear.
“Way to go, O'Malley,” she muttered to herself. Her eyelid ticked furiously. She reached up to rub it, took a deep breath, and swallowed what pride she had left. “I'm sorry. I don't usually jump to insulting conclusions. I don't know what to say other than this hasn't been one of my better days.”
Two years in St. Paul, seven in Minneapolis. A detective, a narc. Impressive record, especially for a woman. Mitch knew what a fight it was for a woman to make it in this business. The odds stood against women, shoulder to brawny shoulder, in the form of a fraternity as old as dirt. Equal opportunity quotas notwithstanding, Ms. O'Malley had to be tough and she had to be good. It looked as though the effort was costing her today.
Her efforts would cost him, too, he thought irritably. He ran a department and a life that were equally well ordered and calm. He sure as hell didn't need some woman charging in, waving her bra like a banner, spoiling for trouble where there was none to be had.
“If I need a sex toy, I'll consult a mail-order catalogue,” he said darkly. “Don't rock my boat, Agent O'Malley. I don't like troublemakers—whether they look good in panty hose or not.”
He drew in a breath as he stepped back from her and wrinkled his nose as he caught an odd scent. “Interesting perfume you're wearing. Cheddar?”
Her cheeks bloomed pink. “I spent half the afternoon in the cheese factory, tracking down my apartment keys.”
“You
have
had a rough day. I prescribe meat loaf,” he declared. “Maybe a glass of wine. Definitely a piece of carrot cake . . . God, I'm starving,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his flat belly as he headed for the door.
Megan followed hesitantly, trying to decide if dinner with him would be a chance to start fresh or a continuing exercise in conversational combat. She wasn't sure she had the steam left for either, but she wouldn't let Mitch Holt see that. Despite his professions of enlightenment, she knew he would be both colleague and adversary. She had learned long ago to show no weaknesses to either.
CHAPTER 3
----
D AY 1
7:33 P.M. 21°
H e didn't look bad with his clothes on, either. Just a casual observation, Megan told herself as Mitch hung their coats in the cloakroom at Grandma's Attic. He had dressed in dark pleated trousers, an ivory broadcloth shirt, and dark tie with a small print she couldn't make out. He'd combed his hair—or tried to. Tawny brown and thick, it stubbornly defied the stylish cut that was short on the sides and longer on top. He parted it on the left and had a habit of brushing it back with his fingers. Not a vain gesture, but an absent one, as if he were used to having it fall in his eyes.
Megan had made her own repairs, slipping into the ladies' room at the station. The hair got a quick brushing back into its simple ponytail. The lips got a slicking with gloss. She tried to rub the mascara smudges out from under her
“For the record, I have no problem with an agent who happens to be a woman. I'm a reasonably enlightened nineties kind of guy. So you can take the chip off your shoulder and put it in your briefcase, Agent O'Malley. Believe me, there will be plenty of guys in line to knock it off, but I won't be one of them.”
Megan felt herself shrinking with each sentence. She wished fervently for a break from the laws of physics so she could melt down into the tight fibers of the carpet and disappear.
“Way to go, O'Malley,” she muttered to herself. Her eyelid ticked furiously. She reached up to rub it, took a deep breath, and swallowed what pride she had left. “I'm sorry. I don't usually jump to insulting conclusions. I don't know what to say other than this hasn't been one of my better days.”
Two years in St. Paul, seven in Minneapolis. A detective, a narc. Impressive record, especially for a woman. Mitch knew what a fight it was for a woman to make it in this business. The odds stood against women, shoulder to brawny shoulder, in the form of a fraternity as old as dirt. Equal opportunity quotas notwithstanding, Ms. O'Malley had to be tough and she had to be good. It looked as though the effort was costing her today.
Her efforts would cost him, too, he thought irritably. He ran a department and a life that were equally well ordered and calm. He sure as hell didn't need some woman charging in, waving her bra like a banner, spoiling for trouble where there was none to be had.
“If I need a sex toy, I'll consult a mail-order catalogue,” he said darkly. “Don't rock my boat, Agent O'Malley. I don't like troublemakers—whether they look good in panty hose or not.”
He drew in a breath as he stepped back from her and wrinkled his nose as he caught an odd scent. “Interesting perfume you're wearing. Cheddar?”
Her cheeks bloomed pink. “I spent half the afternoon in the cheese factory, tracking down my apartment keys.”
“You
have
had a rough day. I prescribe meat loaf,” he declared. “Maybe a glass of wine. Definitely a piece of carrot cake . . . God, I'm starving,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his flat belly as he headed for the door.
Megan followed hesitantly, trying to decide if dinner with him would be a chance to start fresh or a continuing exercise in conversational combat. She wasn't sure she had the steam left for either, but she wouldn't let Mitch Holt see that. Despite his professions of enlightenment, she knew he would be both colleague and adversary. She had learned long ago to show no weaknesses to either.
CHAPTER 3
----
D AY 1
7:33 P.M. 21°
H e didn't look bad with his clothes on, either. Just a casual observation, Megan told herself as Mitch hung their coats in the cloakroom at Grandma's Attic. He had dressed in dark pleated trousers, an ivory broadcloth shirt, and dark tie with a small print she couldn't make out. He'd combed his hair—or tried to. Tawny brown and thick, it stubbornly defied the stylish cut that was short on the sides and longer on top. He parted it on the left and had a habit of brushing it back with his fingers. Not a vain gesture, but an absent one, as if he were used to having it fall in his eyes.
Megan had made her own repairs, slipping into the ladies' room at the station. The hair got a quick brushing back into its simple ponytail. The lips got a slicking with gloss. She tried to rub the mascara smudges out from under her
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