The guys in Intel rated the information as only twenty percent reliable, which, in his experience, meant it was probably a figment of someone’s imagination. And there never had been a successful mass ricin attack yet. But hell…if there was…
If there was, and it was in this kitchen, he was probably looking at the first casualty right now. The chef.
“I just want to show you my badge!”
“I just wanted to make sure you were clear on what could happen, if whatever you’re reaching for in your pocket isn’t a badge.”
“It’s a badge!” he said indignantly. And as he reached for it, “Are you left-handed?”
She gave him the barest of smiles, shifting her right hand just enough to let the light flicker off that giant blade. “No.”
Oh, wow. “Will you marry me?”
“There are a lot of knives in this roll.” She shifted the one in her left hand until her fingers just lightly gripped the tip. “Don’t make me start emptying it.”
“I’ve got a good job.” He pulled out his badge. “Secure income. I’m nice to kittens and small children.”
“I’m not a kitten or a child. And it looks to me as if your job involves breaking into other people’s property in foreign countries and having knives thrown at your head. Your notion of security might be a little off.”
“You haven’t gotten a look at me in the light. That will make up for a lot.” He set the badge on the counter, careful not to make sudden moves. “I’m going to slide this to you. Don’t startle and kill me.”
She sniffed. “I’m twenty-eight years old, a woman, and I already run a two-star kitchen. Trust me, I have nerves of steel.”
“Well. You never know.” He flicked his fingers, and the badge spun the three yards to her. “You could be one of those chefs who lives on her emotions. Throws pots at people’s heads. Sometimes knives.”
A very, very small smile. Hey, she was starting to like him.
She used the tip of the butcher knife to flip open his badge. “Chase Smith. Is that your real name?”
Ha, ha, ha. No. “You can call me Chase.” It wasn’t a name on any legal records, but it was, in fact, the nickname he went by, for survival purposes. His parents had had the worst taste in names in Texas history.
“How much did you spend on this fake badge, two euros?”
Probably more like two thousand, the way they inflated prices in the military. At least the one benefit to spending most of his career downrange was that it didn’t come out of his taxes. He tended to put in more…sweat equity, for his country.
“It’s a real badge!” he lied.
She fixed him with eyes so level he was pretty sure they made a little red laser point glow in the middle of his forehead. She was maybe just a tad trigger happy to make a good sniper, but she had the gaze down pat.
“I’m tall,” he said. “I can reach things on high shelves. Very convenient in a husband.”
She definitely had to suppress a smile there. “I organize my kitchen. I can reach whatever I want.”
He sighed heavily. “I suppose you don’t need me to open jars for you either.”
Hey, she had a dimple. Damn. He was definitely going to marry her.
“Why H?” she said.
Hunh?
“Jesus H. Christ,” she repeated, with an accented precision that was so erotic he nearly whimpered. “Why H?”
He, uh…damn. He had no idea. “I’ll tell you after the birth of our first child.”
She had two dimples. One on each side. And she paired them with a very haughty look up and down his body that made him just want to beg. “It will be interesting to see you pregnant.”
He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”
She caught his badge up with the tip of her knife and tossed it back to him. “You’re promising to bear all the kids?”
Well… “We might have to negotiate the details. Can we have the wedding in Texas? I have a really big family.”
She shook her head with a little purse of her lips that was probably illegal in his own country. All the best things were. “It won’t work.” She gestured at her chest with the smaller knife. “Fifty cousins. My mother made me promise to get married here.”
Damn. That was going to be a tough one. His grandmother would kill him if he got married in France and she couldn’t come. “My grandmother’s eighty-six. Ailing. She can’t really fly any more.”
“Eighty-four,” she said regretfully. “Claustrophobic and convinced America is full of people who shoot each other whenever someone cuts in front of them in traffic. Refuses to step on a plane.”
Well, hell, this was looking bad. “I’ll figure something out.”
She shook her head mournfully, her lips pressed down but those two dimples peeking out. “It will never work.”
“French people are such damn pessimists,” he said, aggravated. He slipped his badge back into his pocket.
“We’re not two years old going on thirteen like some countries I could mention,” she said crushingly. “It’s called realism.”
He shook his head, deeply disappointed by such a defeatist attitude. “It’s the weather, isn’t it? It’s got you down. Forty degrees in July and raining, hell, that would destroy anyone’s spirits. Let me help cheer you up.”
She eyed him as if she was considering it, and his spirits perked right up. “It is kind of fun throwing knives at you and seeing the expression on your face.”