Authors: Nora Roberts
“Give your big brain a little rest. Let’s sit down a minute. I’ve got a couple updates for you.”
“Updates? Why didn’t you already tell me?”
“You were involved when I first got home,” he reminded her. “Then I was distracted by shower sex.”
He sat at the counter, and since she’d already poured it for him, picked up his second glass of lemonade.
“I guess we’ll take them in order. I had a talk with Roland Babbett. The cameras I borrowed from you did the trick, caught him going into the Ozarks Suite using B-and-E tools to do it.”
“You arrested him?”
“In a manner of speaking. I have to say I liked the guy, once we got things aired and ironed out.”
He ran it through for her, but she didn’t sit. Instead, she kept her hands busy scrubbing then quartering small red-skinned potatoes.
“You told him he frightened me.”
“I may have colored your reaction a little differently than the reality of it, but I figure your pride can handle it.”
“You … prevaricated so he’d feel some sympathy toward me and less curiosity about the cameras, the gun and so on.”
“I like ‘prevaricated.’ It’s an important word, and classier than ‘lied.’”
“You believed him, too, believe he’ll just leave and not pursue his investigation.”
“I do. He’s a family man at the base of it, Abigail, and with his wife expecting their third child, he doesn’t want to risk his livelihood on this or go through the upset and pressures of a trial. His firm isn’t going to want to deal with the publicity we could generate, especially as one of their operatives saw photos of the damage on the hotel. And over that, he doesn’t like Blake or the boy.”
“But he works for them.”
“Roundabout, yeah. I work for them, roundabout, as I’m a public official. Doesn’t mean I have to like them, either.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“I made him a good deal, one he can live with. He can turn in his reports, fulfill the contract with the client, move on.”
“If there’s no more danger from that quarter, the logic you used to contact the authorities now, to move forward with testifying, doesn’t hold.”
He reached out to still her hands for a moment, to bring her eyes to his. “It does if you consider that down the road something like this may happen again. If you consider you’re never going to feel rooted here, the way I think we both want you to, until you finish this.”
“That’s true, but perhaps we could delay, take more time to …” She
trailed off when he said nothing, only looked at her. “Delay is an excuse. It’s fear, not courage.”
“I’m never going to question your courage, or criticize the way you’ve coped.”
“That means a great deal to me. I want it over, Brooks. I do. And having taken appreciable steps toward that end is frightening, but it’s also a relief.”
“Then I hope you’ll be relieved to know Captain Anson’s in Chicago. He intends to contact Agent Garrison tonight.”
“He called you?”
“Late this afternoon, on the drop phone.”
“I’m grateful to him.” She began mincing garlic, her eyes trained on her hands, on the knife, as the pressure built in her chest. “I hope she’ll believe him.”
“You picked a smart, capable, honest woman.”
“Yes, I was very careful in my selection.”
“Anson’s a smart, capable, honest man. We couldn’t do better.”
“We both made logical choices. It’s good it’s happening quickly. Delay isn’t sensible once decisions are made, so it’s best it’s moving forward quickly.”
She poured olive oil, spooned some Dijon mustard with it in a bowl. After a distracted moment, she added a splash of balsamic vinegar. “Except for my part.”
“You’ll get there.”
“I’m not confident of that at this point.”
“I am, so take some of mine.” He watched her spoon a little Worcestershire in the bowl, then some Italian dressing he knew she used primarily for marinades. In went the garlic, some pepper, a little chopped fresh basil.
“What’re you doing there, Abigail?”
“I’m going to coat the potatoes with this and roast them. I’m making it up,” she added, as she began to whisk the mixture. “It’s science, and
science keeps me grounded. Experimenting is satisfying when the results are pleasing. Even when they aren’t, the process of the experiment is interesting.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She whisked, sniffed, narrowed her own eyes, added a little something more.
Pretty as a picture, he thought, with her hair still a little damp from the shower and pulled back in a short, glossy brown ponytail. She’d put on a sleeveless shirt of quiet gray and jeans that rolled up into casual cuffs just above her knees.
One of her nines sat at easy reach on the counter by the back door.
Her face, those wide green eyes, stayed so sober, so serious, as she put the potatoes into a large bowl, poured the experimental mixture over them, reached for a wooden spoon.
“Marry me, Abigail.”
She dropped the spoon. Bert sauntered over to sniff at it politely.
“Well, that just popped out,” he said, when she just stared at him.
“You were joking.” She picked up the spoon, set it in the sink, lifted another from a pottery sleeve. “Because I’m cooking, and it’s a domestic area.”
“I’m not joking. I’d figured to set the scene a lot better when I asked you. That moonlight you want, flowers, maybe some champagne. A picnic’s what I had in mind. A moonlight picnic up at the spot you like with the view of the hills. But I’m sitting here, looking at you, and it just popped out.”
He came around the counter, took the spoon, set it aside so he could take both her hands. “So marry me, Abigail.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t something we can consider, much less discuss, particularly when my situation remains in flux.”
“Things are always in flux. Not this,” he added. “I swear to you we’ll end this, we’ll fix this. But there’s always going to be something.
And I think now’s the perfect time, before it’s ended, before it’s fixed, because we should be able to promise each other when things outside aren’t perfect.”
“If it goes wrong—”
“Then it goes wrong. We don’t.”
“Marriage …” She drew her hands free, used them to stir the coating on the potatoes. “It’s a civil contract broken at least half the time with another document. People enter into it promising forever, when in reality—”
“I’m promising you forever.”
“You can’t
know.
”
“I believe.”
“You—you’ve just moved in. Just hung clothes in the closet.”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other less than three months.” She got out a casserole—and busy, busy, busy—scooped and poured the coated potatoes into it. “We have a very difficult situation to address. If you feel strongly about the subject, and continue to feel strongly, I’d be willing to discuss our views on the matter at some more rational time.”
“Delay is an excuse.”
She slammed the casserole into the oven, whirled on him. “You think it’s clever to throw my own words back at me.”
“I think it’s apt.”
“And why do you make me lose my temper? I don’t like to lose my temper. Why don’t you lose yours?”
“I don’t mind getting pissed.” He shrugged, picked up his lemonade again. “I’m not right at the moment. I’m more interested in the way you’re twisting yourself into knots because I love you and I want to marry you.”
“I’m not twisting myself into knots. I’ve very clearly given you my opinion on marriage, and—”
“No, you very clearly gave me your mother’s opinion.”
Very carefully, she picked up a cloth towel, wiped her hands. “That was uncalled for.”
“I don’t think so, and it wasn’t said to hurt you. You’re giving me cold logic and statistics. That’s your mother’s way.”
“I’m a scientist.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re also a giving, caring woman. One who wants moonlight and wildflowers. Tell me what that part of you wants, what that part of you feels, not what your mother pushed into your head as long as she could.”
“How can this be so easy for you?”
“Because you’re the one. Because I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I want a lifetime with you, Abigail. I want a home with you, family with you. I want to make children with you, raise them with you. If you truly don’t want any of that with me, I’ll give you the best I’ve got, and hope you change your mind. I just need you to tell me you don’t want it.”
“I
do
want it! But I …”
“But?”
“I don’t know! How can anyone think when they feel so much?”
“You can. You’ve got that big brain to go along with that big heart. Marry me, Abigail.”
He was right, of course. She could think. She could think of what her life had been like without him, and what it would be if she shoved those feelings down and relied only on the flat chill of logic.
“I couldn’t put my real name on a marriage license.”
He cocked his brows. “Well, in that case, forget it.”
The laugh rushed out of her. “I don’t want to forget it. I want to say yes.”
“So say yes.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, felt dizzy with delight. “Yes,” and threw her arms around him.
“This is right,” he murmured, turned his lips to her damp cheek. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He drew her back to kiss her lips, her other cheek. “My mother says that women cry when they’re happy because they’re so filled with the feeling they want to let it out, share it. And teardrops spread that happiness.”
“It feels true. I hope the potatoes turn out well.”
On a laugh, he dropped his brow to hers. “You’re thinking about the potatoes? Now?”
“Because you asked me to marry you when I was creating the recipe. If it comes out well, it’ll be a very special one. We’ll pass the story to our children.”
“If they suck, we can still pass the story on.”
“But we won’t enjoy the potatoes.”
“Jesus, I really love you.” He squeezed her until she gasped.
“I never believed I would have this, any of this, and now I have so much. We’re going to make a life together, and create a family. We’re mates.” She stepped back, gripped his hands. “And more. We’re going to merge our lives. It’s amazing that people do. They remain individuals, with their own makeup, and still they become and function as a single unit. Yours, mine, but also, and most powerfully, ours.”
“It’s a good word, ‘ours.’ Let’s use it a lot.”
“I should go out and pick our lettuce for our salad so we can have our dinner.”
“We’s another good word. We’ll go out.”
“I like that better.” She started to turn for the door, went still as her thoughts aligned. “Mated. Merged.”
“If you want to mate and merge again, better turn down those potatoes.”
“Not piggybacked, not layered or attached. Integrated. Merged. Separate makeups—individual codes—but merged into one entity.”
“I don’t think you’re talking about us anymore.”
“It’s the answer. A blended threat, yes, I’d tried that, but it has to
be more—different than combining. It has to be
mated.
Why didn’t I think of it before? I can do this. I believe I can do this. I need to try something.”
“Have at it. I can handle dinner. Except I don’t know when to take those potatoes out.”
“Oh.” She looked at the clock, calculated. “Mix and turn them in another fifteen minutes. They should be done thirty minutes after that.”
Within an hour she’d recalculated, rewritten codes, restructured the algorithm. She ran preliminary tests, noted the areas she’d need to adjust or enhance.
When she pulled her mind out of the work, she had no idea where Brooks and Bert were, but saw Brooks had left the oven on warm.
She found them both on the back porch, Brooks with a book, Bert with a rawhide.
“I’ve made you wait for dinner.”
“Just gotta throw the steaks on. How’d it go?”
“It needs work, and it’s far from perfect. Even when I complete it, I’ll need to Romulanize it.”
“Do what to it?”
“Oh, it’s a term I use in my programming language. The Romulans are a fictional alien race. From
Star Trek.
I enjoy
Star Trek.
”
“Every nerd does.”
The way he used the word “nerd” struck like an endearment, and never failed to make her smile. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I do. The Romulans had a cloaking device, one that made their starship invisible.”
“So you need to make your virus thing invisible. Romulanize it.”
“Yes. Disguising it as benign—like a Trojan horse, for instance—is an option, but cloaked is better. And it’s the right way. It’s
going
to work.”
“Then we have a lot to celebrate.”
They had sunset, and what Abigail thought of as their engagement dinner.
At moonrise, the phone in Brooks’s pocket rang. “That’s the captain.”
Abigail put her hands in her lap, linked her fingers, squeezed them. She made herself breathe slowly as she listened to Brooks’s end of the conversation and interpreted what Anson told him.
“He made contact,” she said, when Brooks ended the call.
“He did. She was skeptical, suspicious. I’d think less of her if she hadn’t been. She checked his credentials, asked a lot of questions. Grilled him, basically. She knows your case. I expect every agent and marshal in Chicago does. He can’t swear she believed he didn’t know where you are, but there’s not a lot she can do about that, as there’s no connection or communication between you.”
“But they’ll need me to come in. They’ll want to interview me, interview Elizabeth Fitch, in person.”
“You’re in control of that.” His eyes on hers, he laid a hand over her tensed ones. “You go when you’re ready. They talked over two hours, and agreed to meet tomorrow. We’ll know more then.”
“She’s contacted her superior by now.”
“Ten minutes after Anson left, she came out, got in her car. Again, he can’t swear she didn’t make the tail, but he followed her to the assistant director’s house. Anson called to let us know right after she went inside. He’s on the move. Didn’t figure it’d be smart to sit on the house.”
“They know I’m still alive now. They know I’m
tvoi drug.
”