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She keeps her focus on the world outside, her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. “Yes. It’s beyond my pay grade, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No. That’s not what I was asking. I only wanted to make sure you were enjoying yourself.”
“I’m having a wonderful time.” Her sarcastic tone implies otherwise. “We should do this more often.”
I can’t help a grin.
I fucking can’t.
Her suffering is cathartic. Pure and utter bliss.
“Why don’t we? We could make this a weekly ritual. You can share the inside scoop on the Bureau and I’d vow to listen to you more intently than any other man has ever listened in your entire life. Just you and me—”
“Give it a rest.” There’s laughter in her voice as she rolls her eyes. “You’re entirely shameless, aren’t you?”
No. Not at all.
The shame I harbor is marrow deep, eating me from the inside out. “I think you mean I’m entirely charming.”
“Actually, entirely self-centered is a better fit.” She purses her lips, claiming victory, and this time I’ll let her have it. The little wins are all she’s going to get. “I suggest we get to the point before this slides out of hand. Talk to me about your father.”
The jet’s acceleration increases, faster and faster. The speed, the approaching victory, along with the unfiltered defiance staring back at me has my cock pulsing.
It’s ridiculous.
She’s an enemy. One who likes to remind me of the vast differences in our morality. And still, the appreciation I feel in this moment thrums through my veins.
“It’s barely eight. What’s the rush?”
She cringes, and the air that leaves her lungs is forced out, as if she’s in pain. “Come on, Cole. I know you like games, but I can’t sit here and pretend to play along when the lives of women hang in the balance.”
“I can’t share information without trust, Nissa. We need to get to know each other first.”
Her fingers clench tighter around the armrest. “I thought you already knew everything about me. What could I possibly share to earn your trust?”
“It’s not information as such. It’s whether or not you’ll give me the truth when I need it.”
She takes another sip of vodka, growing unsettled.
She’s struggling not to show weakness, and I’d admire her strength if I wasn’t so hungry to witness her buckle.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s get this over and done with.”
I incline my head. “Good. You can start off by telling me how many men you’ve slept with.”
Her face snaps tight with incredulity. “I’m not playing those sorts of games with you.”
“It’s not a game. Like I said, it’s about trust. And don’t discount the fact that you can learn a lot about a woman by the number of men she’s allowed into her bed.”
“Like what?” she growls.
I chuckle, in my fucking element with the appearance of her feisty attitude. “Like if she’s a risk-taker or high-strung.”
“You’re telling me a woman who doesn’t have a long list of lovers is high-strung?” She scoffs. “That’s probably the most narrow-minded thing I’ve ever heard. A low tally could simply mean the few men she’s slept with didn’t know her ass from her clit, so she didn’t bother wasting any more time.”
I wonder if that’s her. If she’s a woman with a low tally because the men she’s slept with didn’t have a clue how to inspire her pleasure.
“True,” I admit. “But a healthy number speaks of trust toward the opposite sex.”
She laughs this time, and the humor almost reaches her eyes. “Again, I disagree. It could simply mean a woman is confident she can protect herself. Among other reasons.” She rolls her eyes again. “You can’t claim to need that information to get to know me, Cole. Some women pay no thought to the men they sleep with, while others examine everything. You can’t pigeon-hole me from these questions. It’s ridiculous.”
She’s right. I only wanted to hear her talk about sex. To lighten the mood. To mess with her head a little more.
“Okay, then, I’ll ask another. What is—”
“Oh, no, buddy. You had your turn. It’s my go now.”
Perfect. I’m dying to hear what she wants to know. Out of all the questions she could ask, what draws her attention the most?
“Tell me about the first crime you ever committed.”
I expected the hostility. I actually anticipated more, but I straighten, feigning offence as the jet evens out. “I assume this is off the record.”
“Of course.” There’s a quirk to her lips. “This is about trust, remember?”
An ache forms beneath my sternum. I’m not sure if it’s caused by her arrogance, the curve of her lips, or the way her gaze makes her appear fully invested. Her features are no longer mismatched. I’ve learned she can fake a smile like nobody’s business, but those eyes never lie.
“Okay.” I nod and take a gulp of scotch. “I stole from my local church.”
“Wow. When you commit a crime you really start at the top, don’t you?”
“It sure seemed like it at the time. I think I was eight. Maybe nine. And the piece of chalk I pocketed felt as if I’d lifted a million dollars.”
Her face falls into a glower. “That’s hardly a crime, Cole.”
“But it’s the truth. Which is more than I can say for you with your non-answer.”
She snickers and quickly hides the response behind a sip of vodka.
She makes it hard not to stare. It’s not often that she laughs or smiles. Not without derision or spite.
This right here is something I’ve never seen before. Maybe something even more enjoyable than the misery I’ve been searching for. To have an FBI agent comfortable in my presence is quite an achievement.
“You can now unfasten your seatbelts and move around the cabin,” the pilot a
The interruption acts as a trigger to reality. Her face falls, the glimpse of happiness replaced with detachment.
“Do you want a top up before we continue?” I unclasp my belt and tilt my glass in her direction.
“I shouldn’t.” She scrutinizes me, the flicker of indecision working over her features as she glances from me to her vodka then back again.
“You shouldn’t or you don’t want to?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes, of course it does.” I stand and peer down at her. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But if you’re not drinking because you feel there’s a certain way we need to interact, or you’re scared, or on edge—”
“I’m not scared. Or on edge.” Her chin hikes, her ego coming into play entirely on cue. “And no matter how many times you question me about it, my feelings aren’t going to change. I’m not scared of you.”
“Then I can only assume attraction is stopping you from sharing another drink with me.” I start toward the liquor cabinet and grab my scotch from the back. “Are you worried you’ll succumb to my charm?”
“I’m more worried about leprosy.”
She always has a comeback. Her necessity to have the last word is obvious. But those words draw a reaction out of me every time, either enjoyment or competition. I’m always impatient to hear how she’ll respond next.
I grab my drink and the bottle of vodka before I return to my seat.
“Are you sure you don’t want another?” I hold out the temptation, knowing full well she craves the alcoholic buzz. “Not even a little bit?”
She huffs out a breath and raises her glass. “Fine. Give me a top up, just don’t pour too much.”
I nod, placing my drink down in the cup holder to give her my full attention. Our eyes hold as I open the bottle, and she doesn’t stop me when I pour a generous dose.