Andie had been in the FBI for three years, all in the Seattle field office. The bureau wasn't exactly a lifelong dream of hers. It was more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker who might well have courted the other side of the law had Mr. and Mrs. Henning not adopted her at the age of nine and channeled her energy in the right direction. She was a Junior Olympic mogul skier till her knee gave out and a certified scuba diver by the time she was sixteen. She went away to college at the University of California, Santa Barbara, thinking she would build a life near the beach. To everyone's surprise she chose a rather serious major, psychology. Her grades were good enough to get her into law school, and, yet another surprise, she went. But it wasn't until her final year that real inspiration struck. At a recruitment panel on alternative careers, she was mesmerized by a woman who had just returned from an investigation of a terrorist bombing. That had settled it. She would join the FBI.
The decision had thrilled her father, himself a cop who had introduced her to guns at an early age. During her training at the academy, she had become only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the "Possible Club," a ninety-eight-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Despite the distinction, she'd spent her first six months doing routine background checks on prospective federal employees. It was a career dead end reserved for marginal agents, or for someone like Andie, who simply looked young for her age and wasn't taken seriously. Fortunately, one of the supervisory special agents spotted her talent: "Unmatched drive and a healthy spirit of adventure," he had written in her evaluation, "tempered by serious brainpower and exceptional technical skills." He got her assigned to the bank-robbery squad, where she'd made a name for herself over the next eighteen months. At twenty-seven she still looked young. No one, however, had trouble taking her seriously anymore.
At least not before the wedding.
Andie struggled to keep smiling throughout the day. It wasn't easy. Nobody said a word about the wedding, though a group of secretaries at the watercooler had giggled after she'd passed. Everyone knew about it, of course. Some of them had been there. One of them was sporting a black eye to prove it.
"See ya manana," said Andie on her way to the elevator. The receptionist waved and buzzed her through the electronically secured door.
It was early, around four-thirty: Thanks to the canceled honeymoon, her calendar was completely clear, making it a stretch to fill her day with anything meaningful. She didn't feel like going straight home, another night alone. Nights were awfully long this time of year, even without a heartache. She headed a few blocks south from the federal building toward historic Pioneer Square, the old downtown business district where quaint cobblestone streets and nineteenth-century brick buildings were home to trendy galleries, boutiques, and restaurants. Andie stopped at J&M Cafe, a popular saloon that boasted the most impressive wooden bar this side of San Francisco. It was her favorite place for nachos, the perfect sinful ending to the rabbit food diet she'd endured for the bikini she wouldn't wear on the Hawaiian honeymoon she'd never take.
The bar was crowded and noisy, as usual, but she felt alone. A steady stream of patrons brushed against her back as they squeezed past on the way to the rest rooms. Halfway through her mound of gooey tortilla chips, she sensed someone standing close behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.
A handsome black man was staring at the empty stool beside her. "Excuse me," he said, still looking at the stool. "But is this woman taken?"
Andie raised an eyebrow. "That has to be the lamest pickup line I have ever heard."
"Thank you." He pulled up the stool and extended his hand. "Bond's the name. B. J. Bond."
She shook his hand. "What's the B. J. stand for?" "Bond James."
"So your full name would be . ?"
"Bond James Bond."
They lost it simultaneously, sharing a laugh as they let the charade go.
"Isaac," she said playfully, "nice to know I can count on your goofball sense of humor to lift my spirits."
He grinned widely, then caught the server's eye and ordered a cup of American coffee. Isaac Underwood was the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI's Seattle field office, or ASAC, the number two man in an office of a hundred and sixteen agents. He had been Andie's immediate supervisor for eighteen months before the promotion.
He settled into the stool and reached for a fully loaded nacho. "Pretty decadent dinner," he said with his mouth full.
"Like they say, we didn't work our way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu."
"Amen to that." The server brought his coffee. Isaac reached for the sugar. "So, kiddo. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," she said, adding a quick nod for emphasis. "I am."
His expression turned serious. "Andie, if there's anything you need. Time off. Even a transfer."
She raised a hand, halting him. "I'm okay. Really."
He sipped his coffee. "If it's any consolation, I always thought that guy was a bit of a prick."
"Now you tell me."
"You didn't notice?"
"He wasn't always that way. We were inseparable all through law school. Even talked about opening up a firm together. When I ditched the idea of practicing law and joined the FBI instead, I think he had it in his mind that the bureau would eat me alive, that I'd quit before long. He definitely didn't think it would last three years."
"Plenty of people change their minds about marrying cops. Most of them just cancel the engagement."
Andie lowered her eyes. "In hindsight, I think he tried. We had a huge fight last week. From the day we got engaged, we always talked about raising a family. All of a sudden he tells me no kids so long as my job description includes bullet dodging."