Quintic (21 page)

Outside his
team, Chris knew he was a pain in the ass to work with, but no way
did he apologise for it. And, excluding for the murder charge,
Central never had a problem with his attitude. Only results
mattered, and Chris and his team got fucking results. But, from
time to time, some jerks would show up and start bugging him. They
flaunt terms like audit, performance reviews and so forth.
Bullshit. Those wasted hours angered him, and the team had learned
to stay out on his way at such times. Today, even Bridget and LeRoy
(his second-in-command whom he paid so he’d stick by his side!)
were nowhere to be seen.

H
e was alone but for the three
pricks who kept rattling his cage, fussing about the same trivial
details the guys before them and the ones before had fussed about.
He cursed under his breath, and his fists tightened as his patience
thinned, his answers getting shorter until they got. He was not
going to lose it, he willed himself, boiling inside but keeping it
in. Poker face. Cop face. Control as always.

A guy from
Central, Communication Agent or some shit, showed up right before
lunchtime. Chris recognised Bridget’s contacts at work. Not a
lawyer, Central wasn’t about to send another lawyer around, no
fucking way. Chris had met the Comm before; the guy was OK with the
political shit.

Comm took
them to lunch, some fancy French
place,
where Chris had to sit through the meal listening to the Feds’
dull, cheap macho talk, the jerks trying to impress him and the
Comm with all the action they saw out there. Yah right.

The
Fed trio ordered expensive stuff such as lobster
bisque and Rockefeller steak. Chris wasn’t big on French food’s
thick creamy sauces, but he had no hesitation admitting his
all-time favourite dish was French. Two slim legs, round, perky
breasts, medium-size but so fucking sensitive to the touch, eyes
that grew darker when angry or aroused, a big smile, and a mouth
that spoke with a slight French accent when angry, sad, scared or
excited. A French appetiser-entree-dessert combo he never got tired
of having. Intoxicating taste. He growled a curse under his breath
again, getting pissed once again.

Chris
glared as the guys drank French wines (Patricia
would have approved), heavily, and prayed they would leave after
lunch. No such luck. The afternoon dragged on, and as Comm was
there to hold the local end of the conversation, Chris was now
staring at them mutely. Central should be happy; he had not thrown
anyone out yet. Exercises in control, fucking hard
practice.

When weeks
came
to an end, the team wanted to write
reports and update their files before leaving for the weekend.
Hence, his deserting guys started showing back around three. At
some point, the Feds, perhaps feeling outnumbered, finally hauled
ass out of his office.

“
Thank you
for your time and collaboration,” the Comm guy said before leaving
with the Feds. The Brass jerks did not thank him.

“
Boss, can I
have
−”

“
Give me a
minute here, Ham,” Chris barked as he retreated to his office. He
paced, returned some calls and looked over some documents. Not
ready to talk to the team yet. Not without being a jerk.

One by one,
the guys left, waving or nodding as they passed his office. At
quarter past five, only Ham and Reid remained. They were arguing as
usual.
Fuck, not now!
Same fucking annoying nonsense as if they had
been brother and sister. He had acted as a referee in their fights
more than once, but he had had it for today, and he stormed out of
his office to stand between them, stone face. The shooting match
stopped abruptly. They both knew him well enough. The face meant he
was pissed, and they were going to have it.

Patricia
unknowingly saved them when she arrived unannounced. Not an
unprecedented event, but she had not done so lately.

“
We need to
talk
, Big guy,” she angrily snapped at
him.

What now
?
“Wait your turn, Pussycat, I have something to
finish with the guys first. Go wait in my office.” Damn sexy having
her wait in his office. He was going to throw the two kids out and
have her all to himself. Unfortunately (yet predictably), the
waiting part didn’t go too well with her.

“
No. No way.
We need to talk. Now.”

She had
spent her day
doing who the fuck knew
what. The downside? When she worked on a story, her imagination had
a tendency to run wild. On the plus side? They had talked the
waitress case over the evening before, and she had been OK with the
discussion. They still needed to review her report on Lemieux,
though. Downside. But, plus, way plus, they had made love last
night. She had been a tad tipsy, but he had liked (when did he not
like her?)

Too many
variables
, so no way could he tell the
end result. He gave up trying to guess what her annoyance was all
about. Still, he needed to cool off some before talking to her. If
not, their discussion might not be polite nor subtle. She wasn’t
listening, and he couldn’t,
wouldn’t
just follow her in his
office yet. Stand still.

Chris and
Patricia
stood face to face, blue
frowning eyes to black glaring ones while Reid and Ham looked
between them. All four stood immobile in the middle of the room,
waiting for someone to make a move. The building grew quiet around
them. They remained suspended in time for what felt like long
minutes but couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.

Patricia
broke first.
“OK. Fine. You’re in charge.
What about I talk to Hamilton while you finish up with Reid? I
won’t take long. Then you can talk to him.”

Say what?
“No way. You talk to
Ham, I want to be there.” No way was he letting her alone with the
guy. Ham was head over heels about their kiss even if the jerk was
pretending not to be by screwing every fucking female he
could.

“
I know
you’re the boss. You’re the big guy in charge.” He rolled his eyes
at her. That didn’t stop her any. “Indeed, the man in charge. Of
the team.” She rubbed it in. “You alone put the guys in charge and
give everyone cases.” Where was she going with this? Did she want
another cold case? “You gave Lemieux’s case to Hamilton here, so
now Hamilton is in charge, isn’t he? And when you’re in charge,
you’re in charge.”

She was
babb
ling nonsense.
I intend to learn every and all the fucking
details of your relationship with Lemieux, Darling of mine.
He was always, forever in charge of all, now
more than ever because of Lemieux. He had given Ham and Charles the
addresses Patricia had written in her report, but he had left out
the rest, his way of filtering irrelevant information. Could that
be what was bothering her? But surely she didn’t want the team to
know the details.

“
Fucking
right, I’m in charge which means, Patricia. You. Go. Wait. In. My.
Office.” Couldn’t she tell how pissed he was? He was only asking
her to wait. To fucking wait for him, was that too much to ask? But
he had long learned she was not the most patient person, especially
when it came to waiting.

“
Whatever
you say
, Chief,” she snarled, the anger
in her voice matching his. She whirled around and, skipping the
wait in his office, headed for the door.

He
stood his ground. His jaws were clamped tight,
his hands in fists at his side, the day’s anger washing over him in
waves. A few seconds later, a door slammed down the hall. The
women’s toilets, or what they now considered as such, was her
hiding place of choice when something was wrong. When something
was
terribly
wrong.

“
Excuse me a
minute.” He left his two officers standing idly and half-walk,
half-ran to the ladies’ room. He heard Ham and Reid go after him,
but he was already pushing the door open.

P
atricia
barely managed to walk out of the office. Tears started falling
even before she reached the toilets. Anger. Frustration. The man
was infuriating! Why couldn’t he just go to his desk? Her day had
been hell. The taxi ride had taken all of her paper money. She had
walked up and down the dirty streets in that shitty neighbourhood
all day. Her feet were killing her. She was tired and hungry. The
bus ride back had taken forever. Her fellow passengers had stunk. A
man had drooled down her t-shirt, and when she had stepped back,
another had grabbed her butt. And now she was going to have to tell
Christopher about the car. Apologising to him was hard enough when
they were alone, asking for forgiveness in front of witnesses had
been too much.

MacLaren’s Toilet
Talk

H
e stormed into the bathroom to
find her locked into one of the booths. He knocked, perhaps harder
than necessary.

“
Patricia.
Get out. Now.
” He heard the bar slide and
the next thing he knew, she had plastered herself to him, arms
wrapped tightly around him, her head buried in the crook of his
shoulder. His arms enclosed her instinctively. He felt wetness
against his skin. Damn woman. Damndest woman. She was not the
crying type.

She muttered
something against his chest. He kissed her hair. “It’s OK, Angel.
It’s all right. I’m here.” She had been stalked, trapped on a
burning roof, shot at, without him once seeing her cry like that.
“Shush, Darling, it’s OK,” he repeated over and over. “Talk to me.”
Her crying enraged him, not at her, never at her, but at the
fucking world for making her sad.

When Ham
took a peek inside the room, Chris motioned him out with a sharp
flick of his hand. She gasped, sobbed, and took a shaky breath as
her body slowly loosened. His anger had dissolved. Her mumbling
died down.

She
rose on her toes and kissed his cheek before
gently pushing him away before he could return the kiss. Wide,
serious eyes, now green from the tears, smiled sadly at him. Her
lips quivered, but she offered a smile nonetheless.

“
I think I
need a minute.”
Take all the
time you need, Angel of mine
.

She threw
water on her face
; he handed her a couple
of paper towels. Not the first time they had been alone in the
toilets, her putting water on her face, him waiting with the
towels. Maybe the crying was to replace her gag reflex. She patted
her face long after her skin had dried.
Hiding in the towels, Angel?

After
one last deep breath to steady herself, she
threw the towels in the trash can and, straightening her shoulders
and setting her jaw, turned to face him. He leaned against the
wall, observing her, his face expressionless. Patient. Ready. She
was having second thoughts about talking to him; that much was
evident.

He
heard her sigh. She nodded once, tilting her
chin up. Ready for the next round. He sighed in turn. Fuck, she
turned him on. Both the most delicate of warriors and the most
reckless. He liked strong-minded women, and she was as obstinate as
they came. Damn fragile right now yet fucking resilient.

Emerald
green eyes. “I’m sorry
, Big guy.” Good
start but she didn’t have to be sorry for crying. “I am very
sorry,” she repeated.

OK. Maybe
she was not apologising for the crying.
Let us play a little, Pussycat.
“You should be sorry. Don’t do it again.”

She
blinked,
her eyebrows scowling with
doubt. For sure she wasn’t apologising for the crying.

Let’
s play some more, he thought,
better to have her angry than sad. “You should be so very sorry. I
think a bigger apology is in order.” She was clearly puzzled now.
Good. He was puzzled too. “I think you should tell me again how
sorry you are.”

He paused
and admired
as she stared back, her head
crooked to the right, attentive, and, judging by how she was biting
her lower lip, thinking hard.

“
Better
yet
, Darling of mine. You should show me
how sorry, how so very sorry you are.” He didn’t give her time to
anticipate his intentions. “Let me see. How could you show me how
sorry, how so very sorry you are?”

The damn
woman
had a naïve side to her that was
fucking arousing. He took a step forward and in one swift movement,
grabbed her wrists, hauled her closer by her right hand, crushing
her left to his groin. Not their first time.

She cursed
at him when he ground his hardness into her hand. “Christopher,
damn it, I’m serious here.”

“So am I, Princess. So am
I.”

She
freed her hands with a jerk and ran for the
door. He reached it at the same time she did and, his palms flat on
the wood, held it close. Her back to him, trapped between him and
the door, she tugged on the handle with both hands.

“
I’m way
stronger than you, Darling of mine. Talk to me.”