He picked up the wine she had insisted went better with the pasta than beer. He couldn’t say she was wrong. “It’s not about you handling it. I guess, it was more about bringing work home.”
Arching her brows, she angled to look deliberately down at the dog under the table.
“Okay, you got me there.”
“Proving your work doesn’t come to a hard stop, and neither does mine. So?”
“Special Agent Dickhead didn’t like some LEO with a cushy job in bumfuck stepping on his sensitive toes.”
“He called you a lion?”
“A—oh. No.” On a laugh, Reed ate more pasta. “LEO as in ‘law enforcement officer.’ L-E-O.”
“Oh. And he considers the island bumfuck.”
“It kind of is. I’m fine with serving and protecting our bumfuck. I’m not fine with him coming into my office trying to strong-arm me.” He gave her the gist, shrugged, and added, “So basically I told him to blow me, and he left.”
“Didn’t it matter to him that a woman’s dead?”
“I have to believe it did, and does, which is one of the reasons he decided to take a swipe at me. Swing and a miss. Look, most FBI I’ve crossed paths with are dedicated, want to catch the bad guys, and are willing to cooperate with local LEOs—to integrate them into investigations where it makes sense. This guy? He takes the special in ‘Special Agent’ literally. He just thinks he’s better than cops.”
“I don’t like him.”
“Hey, me, either. He’s a raging dick. That doesn’t mean he’s not good at his job.”
“Then why hasn’t he caught Hobart?”
“She’s slick. Smart, slick, and fucking canny. She’s got skills, focus, and a boatload of money. I wouldn’t punch at Special Agent Dickhead for not taking her down yet.” He jerked a shoulder. “I did it for him being so self-important and territorial that he flips off information and assistance from outside sources—especially, for whatever reason, me.”
“CiCi knows people. I bet she knows people who know the head of the FBI, or people who know people who do.”
“Don’t go there.” He gave her hand an easy pat. “I’ve got this, and if it turns out I don’t?” He polished off his wine. “Then we can revisit the idea of pulling out the awesome power of CiCi.”
He rose to clear the pasta bowls. The dog jumped up immediately, smacking his head on a chair leg in his haste.
“Jeez, chill. I’ve got to give him another pill, do another ear deal. The pill’s easy. They’ve got this little flavored thing you push it into. The ear deal could get ugly.”
“I bet he’s a very good dog.” Simone turned in her chair as the dog followed Reed to the sink. “I bet he’s very brave.”
Glued to Reed’s leg, the dog watched her.
“You’re so handsome, and you have such kind eyes.” As she spoke, she eased down to sit on the floor. “How could anyone have been mean to you? But it’s going to be okay now. You landed in a big bowl of Milk-Bones.”
The dog took a cautious step toward her, retreated, but she kept talking.
“And weren’t you smart to find Reed? He’s going to keep you. He’s telling himself he’s not, but he will.”
Another cautious step, then one more.
Standing still and silent so he didn’t distract, Reed watched, thought the dog looked half-hypnotized. He bellied over to where Simone laid a hand on the floor. Sniffed it, tried a lick.
He cringed when she lifted the hand, trembled when she put it on his head.
“There now. No one’s going to hit you anymore.”
He edged closer, eyes on her face as she stroked.
“I feel the scars,” she murmured. “He’s got heart and fortitude. He must have a very pure soul to be able to trust any human. They couldn’t turn him mean. He doesn’t have mean in him.”
She bent down, kissed the dog on the nose. “Welcome home, stranger.”
Reed took out one of the pills, pushed it into the soft little pocket. And accepted he’d gotten himself a dog.
The downside of that showed itself when he took the dog out to walk him. Eventually, he thought, the dog would learn the territory, just go out on his own. But for now he’d walk him over into the woods.
If bears shit in the woods, so should dogs.
When the dog didn’t mimic a bear, Reed assumed he didn’t have enough food in him yet to pass it along.
Until they hit the slate walk, then the dog squatted and relieved himself.
“Goddamn it, what’s wrong with the woods? Now I need a shovel.”
When he got one, the dog cowered and quaked.
“Ah, Jesus, it’s not for you.”
He found his gut burning in fury at the idea of someone beating some poor dog with a shovel.
Back inside, he got one of the dog biscuits, crouched down, offered it. “That’s not a reward for crapping on the walkway because, man, that’s just uncivilized. It’s just because. Now, I have to go upstairs and get naked, and not for fun and sex. I’m already mortified.”
He started upstairs, the dog at his side. Then looked back when he reached the top and heard the whining.
“How’d you do that?” Stumped, Reed walked halfway down to where the dog now had his head through the pickets, and was stuck. “Why did you do that? Hold on. Stop squirming.”
He managed to angle the head, shift the body, reangle, and work the head free.
“Don’t do that.”
This time the dog followed close on his heels to the bedroom.
Simone sat in the chair by the fire doing random sketches in her pad. Of body positions—naked body positions. His naked body?
If that wasn’t weird enough, he glanced toward the bed. Took a step toward it.
“That’s a sword. There’s a sword on the bed.”
“I told you I wanted you holding a sword.”
“You’ve got a sword.”
“I borrowed it from CiCi.”
“CiCi has a sword.” He picked it up—weighty—studied its long, carved sheath.
It looked old, he realized. Not all jeweled up and fancy, but old and … battle-tested.
“This is so cool.” He drew it out, wondered at the shine and sleekness. Battle-tested, he thought again, spotting a few nicks. Steel against steel.
“This is just out-and-out cool. Why does CiCi have a sword?”
“It was a gift. From some ambassador. Or maybe it was Steven Tyler. She has a katana that I considered, but you’re an all-American boy and a katana’s too exotic for this.”
“She has a katana and a … Is this a broadsword?”
“I couldn’t say. Strip it off, Chief.”
Holding the sword, giving it a slow swing right, left, because you just had to, he frowned back at her. “A man would have to be crazy to swing a sword around naked.”
“The Celts did.”
“But they got crazy first.”
“Strip it off,” she said without mercy. “There’s a bottle of wine for courage.”
“Maybe you should spell out the sexual favors first.”
“Then they wouldn’t be a surprise, would they? Don’t be shy. I repeat, I’ve seen you naked.”
“The dog hasn’t,” he countered, but set the sword down to undress and get it over with.
“It was sweet of you to get the little stuffed dog for the dog.”
“I didn’t. Donna tossed it in. No dog of mine plays with dolls.”
“Really? You’d better tell him that.”
Shirt off, hands on the button of his jeans, Reed looked over to see the dog, curled up, one paw on the stuffed toy while he lovingly licked its face.
“He’s already an embarrassment to me.” Heaving out a breath, he stripped down to the skin.
“Stand closer to the fire—it’s nice light. With the sword,” she added. “Pivot to the left, but angle back toward me from the waist. We’re going to try a couple with you holding the sword at the hilt, point down. You can talk.”
“I have no words.”
“The island’s starting to gear up for the season.”
Naked small talk. Naked small talk with swords. Jesus. But he gave it a try. “Yeah, a lot of spring-cleaning and painting going on.”
She wove casual conversation through directions to turn or to change his stance.
“I want you to raise the sword over your left shoulder, as if you were going to strike down. Just hold it there a minute.”
Good lats, she thought, strong biceps, a lean torso. The scar puckering over the right oblique, the latissimus dorsi, the deltoid added that tangible proof of violence.
“Lower it for a minute, shake it off.”
She got up, got him some wine. “Relax.”