In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (12 page)

Rachel regarded him for a second, and a faint touch of pink
colored her cheeks as she reached for her own water glass. "Sorry.
I didn't mean to pry."

As she lifted the goblet, the bottom caught the edge of her
plate and tipped toward her. Nick grabbed for it, his hand closing
over hers as he steadied the glass. The sloshing water stabilized
... but he couldn't say the same for his pulse. At the feel of her
slender fingers beneath his, his heart began to thud in an odd,
erratic rhythm.

"Sorry again" Her color deepening, Rachel tugged her hand
out from under his and set the goblet back on the table with
exaggerated care. "I don't know why I've been so jittery lately."

"A strange experience with a doll may be one of the reasons"
Nick wound some linguini around his fork and speared a shrimp,
trying to get his pulse under control.

"My jumpiness predates that incident by weeks. A sense of
anxiety just hit me out of the blue one Saturday morning" A
sudden frown marred her brow, and a flash of regret echoed
in her eyes. "I shouldn't have told you that. It sounds almost
as weird as the doll story. And I'd prefer you think of me as a
normal person instead of some loony."

"Trust me. I don't think of you as a loony. We all go through
stressful periods. Have you been under a lot more pressure
than usual?"

"No. That's what makes it so weird"

"Maybe you're too busy. Between teaching and painting murals, you must not have much downtime"

She toyed with her fork, conceding the point with a slight
lift of her shoulders. "I do lead a busy life. In addition to work
and murals, I also have quite a few private piano students. And
I play the piano during high tea every Sunday." She named the
upscale hotel.

"Sounds like you're stretched a little thin. I suspect you could
use a vacation"

"That would be nice. But it's not likely to happen soon. How
about you? I'd be willing to bet no grass grows under your feet.
I imagine your job is pretty taxing, yet you mentioned rehabbing a house?"

Rehab was a subject he felt comfortable talking about. Plaster, paint, drywall, flooring ... all safe topics. "Yes. It's an old
Federal-style brick built in 1852. Before I bought it, the bats and
cockroaches had called it home for ten years"

"Wow. That's ambitious"

He chuckled. "My friends have less flattering ways to describe
it. But despite all the dire warnings, it's coming along great. The
only problem is, I doubt I'll have much of a chance to enjoy it. I
expect I'll be looking at a transfer about the time it's done"

"Do you move often?"

"Every few years. I don't usually mind heading to a new office,
but this house will be tough to leave"

"I can understand that, after all your work' Rachel buttered a
piece of bread and sent him a curious look. "May I ask why you
took it on, knowing you'd have to leave it behind?"

So much for safe topics. They were moving into "no trespassing" territory again, and he proceeded with caution. "I buy a
house wherever I'm assigned. Nothing quite this elaborate, but
always a fixer-upper I can rescue and pass on at a reasonable
price to a young family that might not otherwise be able to afford
a house. For some reason I was blessed with a natural talent for
rehab, and I get a kick out of making silk purses out of sows'
ears. Although I have to admit plumbing isn't my forte' Nick
ended his response on a lighthearted note in the hope Rachel
would smile in return and change the subject.

No such luck.

"That's an incredibly generous gesture:" Her eyes softened in
admiration, and the pleasing, warm glow that radiated through
Nick was similar to the feeling he got when he sold a house to a
deserving young family. But stronger. Much stronger.

Clearing his throat, he shrugged, unsure how to respond to
her praise. "It's a nice hobby. Sawing and hammering are a great
way to relieve job stress. I get as much out of it as anyone."

"I suspect the young families who benefit would disagree."

Rachel leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him. He could
almost hear the wheels whirring in her brain and braced for
whatever she might come up with next. Despite his initial doubts during her visit to the FBI office last week, there was nothing
wrong with this woman's mental capacity.

"I'm thinking your childhood was either idyllic and you want
to create that same experience for others, or it was far from ideal
and you want to support young parents who are trying to make
a good life for their children"

Nor was there anything wrong with her insight or deductive
reasoning. Plus, she was considerate. She'd commented, not
queried, lobbing the conversational ball into his court. He could
deflect it-or keep it in play. She'd left the decision up to him.

As Nick debated his strategy, he suddenly thought of the
countless prayers he'd uttered asking the Lord to let a special
woman grace his life. Maybe Rachel Sutton was destined to be
that woman.

If he took the next step.

In his gut, Nick sensed he was at a crossroads. In the past,
whenever a woman he was dating started to probe about his
past, he'd retreated. His evasive maneuvers had become instinctive, and they were on the verge of kicking in now. But if
he chose that route, he sensed he'd be closing the door with
Rachel. Because no woman would consider linking her future to
a man who shut her out. Whose pride kept him from revealing
mistakes as well as triumphs. Who was afraid to trust her with
the secrets of his heart.

Not that he was ready to lay out his whole sordid history. It
was too soon for that. Yet Rachel had shared much of her past
with him tonight, talking openly about her mother, the traumatic
accident that had left her with a permanent limp, her rejection by
adoptive parents, her foster upbringing. And she'd answered his
questions about faith-a very personal subject-with candor.

All he'd offered her in return was a single enigmatic comment about an influential cop and one tiny insight into his rehab
projects.

It wasn't enough to sustain an evening, let alone lay the
groundwork for future evenings.

As the silence between them lengthened, Rachel flashed him
a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and placed her empty
salad plate on top of her dinner plate. "I hope you left room
for dessert-unhealthy though it is. But I have to say that's the
cleanest plate I've ever seen:"

She stood, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as he started to
rise. "It doesn't take two to put on the coffee and cut the cake. Why
don't we have dessert in the living room by the fire?" She reached
for his plate but froze when he placed his hand on hers.

"My childhood was the latter, Rachel. Far from ideal:" He
stared at the empty plate in front of him as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Nick" Empathy softened her words.

"I don't talk about it much"

"I don't talk a lot about my past, either. It brings back memories I'd prefer to forget. Especially the medical stuff. But all the
things that happened to me thirty-plus years ago are what made
me who I am. To understand me, my friends need to know some
of that history. I share on a selective basis"

Her meaning wasn't lost on Nick. Touched, he tipped his head
up to search her face. She flushed under his scrutiny; an endearing trait, one he valued for its rarity. And for what it implied.

"If you're still interested in my cop story, I'll tell you some of
it over dessert"

Her lips lifted into a smile. Genuine this time. "I'd like that.
Make yourself comfortable and I'll be back in a minute"

Nick wandered into the living room to the fireplace. He
shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, trying to
decide how much he wanted to share. But Rachel didn't give
him a chance to ponder that question, reappearing so fast Nick
wondered if she'd rushed the dessert preparations out of fear
that if she left him alone too long, he'd change his mind.

And she wasn't far off the mark. His feet had already grown
cold despite the warm, cheery fire mere steps away.

As she transferred the coffee and cake from the tray to the
top of the trunk in silence, the irony of his situation wasn't lost
on him. Last summer, when Mark had been using his house
as a hotel, he'd given his friend a hard time about not acting
on his feelings for Emily. He'd encouraged him to dive into the
emotional stuff and be open about how he felt. To count his
blessings that someone like Emily had come into his life. He
even remembered boasting to Mark that he paid attention to
feelings and wasn't afraid to talk about them, and suggesting
Mark follow his example.

Now he was learning firsthand how difficult it could be to
apply those principles.

"I brought cream and sugar. Do you use either?"

At Rachel's comment, Nick left the fireplace and joined her
on the couch, keeping a safe distance between them. "No. Black
is fine:"

"Strong and straight. How come I knew that?" She smiled at
him as she added two teaspoons of sugar to her own mug, plus
a generous portion of cream.

"The same way you pegged me as a one-inch-thick-steak
kind of guy?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Touche. That faux pas should have
taught me never to jump to conclusions or make sweeping generalizations based on stereotypes" She took a sip of her coffee
and set the mug on a coaster. Picking up her cake, she sent him
a speculative look. "Having second thoughts about sharing the
cop story?"

Nick picked up his mug. Nothing got past this woman. She
seemed as tuned in to vibes from people as she was from a
certain Raggedy Ann doll.

In truth, though, he was way past second thoughts. Third or fourth would be more accurate. But he'd already promised to
share a piece of his history. Taking a fortifying sip of the coffee,
he wrapped his fingers around the mug and held on.

"For the cop story to make sense, I have to back up a little. It
seems you and I have something in common besides jumping
to conclusions based on stereotypes. I was a foster child too"

"This is a night for surprises. That's quite a coincidence"

"I agree. Anyway, I entered the system when I was six:"

"Why?"

His grip on the mug tightened. "My mother died when I was
five, and my father was ... had issues. The state eventually took
me away from him, and I spent the rest of my childhood in a
succession of foster homes"

"No one adopted you?"

"No. I didn't have physical problems, like you did, but I wasn't
the most loveable kid. I had attitude and behavior issues that
turned people off. Those worsened as I got older. During my
freshman year in high school, I was picked up for truancy way
too often. Plus, I got in with a bad crowd that was into petty
theft, minor drugs, vandalism. There's no doubt in my mind that
if I'd stayed on that path much longer, I'd have ended up dead
down the road. Or behind bars"

"What happened?"

"Dan Foley. A new Detroit truant officer, gung ho and aggressive, who was determined to salvage as many kids as he could.
For some reason he took a special interest in me. No one had
ever done that before" The last word came out raspy, and he
took a swig of his coffee, blindsided by a sudden, choking rush of
emotion. He took a second swig as Rachel waited in her corner
of the couch, her legs pulled up under her.

"Would you like a refill?"

At her soft question, he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks" He could
use a couple of minutes to regain his composure.

By the time she topped off his mug and resettled into her
corner, he was ready to continue.

"At first I brushed Dan off. But he kept showing up. Started
talking to me. Taking me to ball games or out for a burger. He
even gave me his personal phone number and told me to call
anytime. Eventually I began to believe his concern was genuine,
that I mattered to him"

"He sounds like a remarkable man:"

"He was. I met him the September of my sophomore year, a
week shy of my sixteenth birthday, and in November he invited
me to his home for Thanksgiving dinner. That gesture, more
than anything else, convinced me he really cared. And that he
trusted me-which blew my mind. The only condition placed
on the invitation was that I had to go to morning services with
him, his wife, and his two college-age kids who were home for
the holiday. But I figured it was a small price to pay for a homecooked turkey dinner. Anyway, at the risk of sounding overly
dramatic, that day changed my life. I found a surrogate family,
and I found God:"

Rachel drew a deep breath, her forgotten cake resting on her
lap. "That's an amazing story."

Yes, it was. And she didn't know the half of it. He'd left out a
lot of the more disturbing details, sure that getting just the bare
bones out would be hard enough.

But much to his surprise, it hadn't been as difficult as he'd
expected, except for that one brief moment when his self-control
faltered. Under Rachel's warm, sympathetic gaze, the words had
come without great effort. Instead of feeling as if he were taking
a risk by sharing his past, he'd felt safe. It was a new-and oddly
freeing-experience.

When the silence lengthened, Rachel leaned forward. "How
did you end up in the FBI, Nick?"

That part of his story was easy. "I dumped my so-called friends, buckled down in my studies, and ended up winning a scholarship
to college. After I got a degree in law enforcement and criminology, I went straight to the police academy. After seven years as
a beat officer, I was accepted at the FBI academy."

"Wow. I bet Dan Foley was proud"

"He would have been:" A melancholy smile whispered at the
corners of his mouth. "He died ten years ago, a few months
before I joined the FBI. But I have a feeling he knows:" Clearing
his throat, he gestured toward her untouched cake and picked
up his fork. "You haven't eaten your dessert"