himself to get distracted by a friendly blonde. Even one who seemed vaguely familiar.
"Sorry, Sister, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company tonight." He flashed her a savage grin that possessed neither warmth nor humor.
Bright color flooded into Rachel's cheeks as she realized he'd mistaken her for the type of woman who would tumble willingly, enthusiastically, into his bed. That forbidden idea created a flare of bright starlight heat; she felt as if all her nerve endings were being pricked by the star's sharp points.
Embarrassed, she attempted to gather her scattered thoughts, reminding herself of her mission.
"Oh, but I wasn't looking for company." Rachel had never been anything if not tenacious. Indeed, her very strong streak of stubbornness, unseemly maidenly behavior in 1692 Salem, had been more than a little responsible for her fate. "Actually, I had conversation in mind."
"If you want conversation, try the bartender," he suggested. "He gets paid to talk to customers."
Having been by his side for all of his thirty-five years, Rachel, of all people, should have known exactly how brusque and unfriendly Shade could be. Especially when his mind was on a mission. She'd seen his tongue practically strip the hide off a superior attempting to rein him in, and over the years she'd watched him reduce more than one intelligent, successful woman to tears when the job was done and it came time to move on.
Understanding that he was not nearly as bereft of feelings as he liked to believe, she'd always overlooked his cynical attitude and uncaring behavior. But never had she expected the pain of rejection to sting quite so badly.
Chiding herself for allowing a prick of very feminine and very mortal pique to get beneath her skin, she squared her shoulders and tried again.
"I don't want to talk to the bartender. I wish to speak with you."
He'd returned to his Scotch, but her no-nonsense tone garnered his reluctant attention. He spun around on the stool and gave her another, longer look. As Kathy Mattea started "Burnin' Old Memories" on the jukebox, he felt another distant tug of remembrance. He cursed softly. "Look, if it's about hiring me, I'm kind of tied up right now with other things."
"I know. And those other things are exactly what I wish to discuss with you."
His gaze sharpened. "You're not from Tony?"
Tony Bendetti had been arrested ten years ago for securities fraud and forgery. Not that there had been anything wrong with his work; if anything, under close scrutiny, his phony stock certificates had looked better than the originals.
Unfortunately, when he'd broken up with his girlfriend shortly after floating the bad paper, she'd taken a handful of the certificates to the Feds, who, recognizing talent when they saw it, had offered Tony a deal he couldn't refuse. They'd keep him out of prison if he came to work for them.
The partnership had proven mutually rewarding. Tony avoided spending ten to fifteen years behind bars and the intelligence community had their very own Michelangelo. The last three passports Tony had created for Shade had been masterpieces.
This woman certainly didn't look like one of Tony's usual delivery girls.
"No." She shook her head, dislodging a long spiral curl from the tidy knot at the nape of her neck. The silken strand brushed against her neck, appearing like honey on cream. "I'm not from Tony Bendetti."
Shade knew damn well he hadn't told her Tony's last name. "But you know him."
His right hand lifted the glass to his lips while his left moved instinctively to his belt to reassure himself that his 9 mm semiautomatic pistol was safely nestled against the small of his back.
She still looked harmless. But in his business a guy who took anyone at face value, especially an attractive woman who smelled like heaven, inevitably ended up laid out on a slab with a tag on his big toe.
As they faced each other, the music, the lull of happy-hour conversations, the laughter faded into the
"Sorry, Sister, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company tonight." He flashed her a savage grin that possessed neither warmth nor humor.
Bright color flooded into Rachel's cheeks as she realized he'd mistaken her for the type of woman who would tumble willingly, enthusiastically, into his bed. That forbidden idea created a flare of bright starlight heat; she felt as if all her nerve endings were being pricked by the star's sharp points.
Embarrassed, she attempted to gather her scattered thoughts, reminding herself of her mission.
"Oh, but I wasn't looking for company." Rachel had never been anything if not tenacious. Indeed, her very strong streak of stubbornness, unseemly maidenly behavior in 1692 Salem, had been more than a little responsible for her fate. "Actually, I had conversation in mind."
"If you want conversation, try the bartender," he suggested. "He gets paid to talk to customers."
Having been by his side for all of his thirty-five years, Rachel, of all people, should have known exactly how brusque and unfriendly Shade could be. Especially when his mind was on a mission. She'd seen his tongue practically strip the hide off a superior attempting to rein him in, and over the years she'd watched him reduce more than one intelligent, successful woman to tears when the job was done and it came time to move on.
Understanding that he was not nearly as bereft of feelings as he liked to believe, she'd always overlooked his cynical attitude and uncaring behavior. But never had she expected the pain of rejection to sting quite so badly.
Chiding herself for allowing a prick of very feminine and very mortal pique to get beneath her skin, she squared her shoulders and tried again.
"I don't want to talk to the bartender. I wish to speak with you."
He'd returned to his Scotch, but her no-nonsense tone garnered his reluctant attention. He spun around on the stool and gave her another, longer look. As Kathy Mattea started "Burnin' Old Memories" on the jukebox, he felt another distant tug of remembrance. He cursed softly. "Look, if it's about hiring me, I'm kind of tied up right now with other things."
"I know. And those other things are exactly what I wish to discuss with you."
His gaze sharpened. "You're not from Tony?"
Tony Bendetti had been arrested ten years ago for securities fraud and forgery. Not that there had been anything wrong with his work; if anything, under close scrutiny, his phony stock certificates had looked better than the originals.
Unfortunately, when he'd broken up with his girlfriend shortly after floating the bad paper, she'd taken a handful of the certificates to the Feds, who, recognizing talent when they saw it, had offered Tony a deal he couldn't refuse. They'd keep him out of prison if he came to work for them.
The partnership had proven mutually rewarding. Tony avoided spending ten to fifteen years behind bars and the intelligence community had their very own Michelangelo. The last three passports Tony had created for Shade had been masterpieces.
This woman certainly didn't look like one of Tony's usual delivery girls.
"No." She shook her head, dislodging a long spiral curl from the tidy knot at the nape of her neck. The silken strand brushed against her neck, appearing like honey on cream. "I'm not from Tony Bendetti."
Shade knew damn well he hadn't told her Tony's last name. "But you know him."
His right hand lifted the glass to his lips while his left moved instinctively to his belt to reassure himself that his 9 mm semiautomatic pistol was safely nestled against the small of his back.
She still looked harmless. But in his business a guy who took anyone at face value, especially an attractive woman who smelled like heaven, inevitably ended up laid out on a slab with a tag on his big toe.
As they faced each other, the music, the lull of happy-hour conversations, the laughter faded into the
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