"Do you have anything resembling normal?" she shot back, almost in challenge.
He hesitated: then the smile widened. "Touche."
"I don't think it's entirely possible in our line of work," she said, half-glad Wyatt had just admitted he didn't date and hadn't had any recent relationships. Half-sad for the very same reasons, because it confirmed what she'd known about him from the very start: that he was a loner, an enigma wrapped in secrets, surrounded by mystery, and almost untouchable by anyone he didn't invite to get close.
She had once wanted to get close. Very close. Emotionally, anyway.
Now she wanted to get even closer. Not emotionally- Lily wasn't about to get her feelings tangled up in anything anytime soon. But physically? Yes. She'd been thinking about it for months and Friday had confirmed it. She wanted Wyatt Blackstone. And if she thought he'd say yes, she'd ask him to take her back to the house right now and spend the rest of the weekend in her bed.
But he wouldn't say yes. Of that she had no doubt.
Despite the self-realization, for the next hour, she somehow managed to act normal. Nibble on the bread-stick, sip her glass of wine. Chat lightly, actually laughing a few times when he made one of his dry observations about the not exactly four-star food and service.
In fact, once she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth about what she wanted-even knowing she'd never get it-she actually managed to let her guard down and start to enjoy herself. Almost enough to imagine this was just a normal dinner date, and they were a normal man and woman.
"You can't tell me there was no one."
The sudden change in subject confused her. They'd just been talking about the way the chef must have stock in Old Bay seasoning, since he used it with all the subtlety and lightness of a road crew spreading salt after an ice storm. So at first she didn't follow. "Huh?"
"Before."
Before.
"You haven't been alone your entire life."
Oh, hell, they were back to personal talk about romance and relationships. Food, bad cooks, spices, and road salt she could deal with; they could cover those subjects all night long. Sex? No way, no how.
"You have been in love, haven't you? Isn't that something you want for yourself again? "
The quiet tone didn't disguise the piercing curiosity in his eyes. It was as if all this time, all this light conversation, had merely been the camouflage he'd used to creep in under her defenses, so they could get right back where they'd been an hour ago.
"You're good," she said, shaking her head ruefully.
"So they say." Wyatt was never cocky, only confident. So the words that could have sounded wrong coming from another type of man sounded sexy and absolutely right from him.
He lifted his drink, sipping the martini, watching her over the rim of the glass.
"I've been in love," she admitted with a shrug. "Or in very strong like."
"What happened?"
"He didn't appreciate being with a woman who carried a gun."
He laughed softly. "Terrified him, did you?"
It was rather funny. Before this year, she'd fired that weapon only during her bureau training and never removed it from its holster once in the line of duty. "I guess so. I'm terribly intimidating, you know." With an impish grin, she added, "Or so they say."
His amusement didn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't he know you were an office nerd, and couldn't hurt a fly?"
"You wound me."
"Just stating the obvious."
"You think you know me so well?"
His voice intense, thick, he replied, "I hope I do."
Maybe he did. A year ago, she would have agreed with his assessment. Now, though? Well, she couldn't be entirely sure of who she was anymore. "I guess you never know what you're capable of until you're in the heat of the moment."
"Heat, yes." He leaned closer over the table. "In the white heat of danger or passion, I believe, anyone is capable of anything."
She swallowed hard, ignoring the word passion, focusing on the other. "Exactly. In danger, would I pull out that weapon and use it on someone?"
He waited for her to continue.
"You're damn right I would."
"And were you not in danger?"
She knew what he was asking, where he was going. Wyatt was still carefully dancing around the whole idea of vengeance. Her going after the man who'd attacked her and getting even in the most violent way possible.
Part of her wanted to lie, to be the kick-ass woman she'd told herself she'd become. But she couldn't. Not to him. Not convincingly, anyway. "No," she admitted. "I couldn't kill someone in cold blood."
"Even someone vile? Someone you hated?"
Like she hated Lovesprettyboys? "I wouldn't cry if someone else did it. But no. Not even then. Taking a life is something I simply couldn't do unless I were forced into it. Not even a villain's. Certainly not someone innocent."
"Taking a life is a very difficult, ugly thing to do. Even if it's your own," he murmured, so softly, so calmly, she at first thought she had misheard him.
Lily's heart splintered with the pain that suddenly stabbed into it. That was one hell of a low blow.
She drew in a deep, even breath, not trusting herself to reply. Which was good. Because she almost immediately thought about his words and realized why he'd said them.
Wyatt would never cause her pain intentionally-she knew that with every cell in her body. He wasn't throwing her sister's suicide in her face. He was simply forcing her to baldly acknowledge what she had only admitted in the utmost silence of the night, in her own head.
He knew. Somehow, he knew the secret feelings she'd tried so hard to repress. The bitterness. The anger. The fury.
"Suicide is a contemptible act," she finally replied.
"Yes, it is."
"Hateful and cruel. Almost unforgivable."
Not that she hadn't forgiven her sister. She had. That didn't mean she hadn't cursed her twin almost as much as she'd cried over her in those first few months, when she'd wondered why Laura had left her alone in this world. Entirely alone to grieve all of them.
"I know," he admitted, something in his voice clueing her in that he meant it. He knew.
As if he also knew they'd both gone far afield from their original conversation, he managed to move them back on the normal path with a noncommittal shrug and a sip of his drink. "Okay, tough girl. We have the gun-hating wimp. Who else?"
Though glad he'd changed the subject, she couldn't help frowning at the description. It was a little too accurate. "I didn't date only wimps."
"You don't seem like the football-jock type."
"Hardly," she said with a forced shudder.
No, she'd been the brainiac type. The kind who'd always had a thing for men who were smart enough to know they didn't need to rely on brawn.
Maybe that was why she'd always been a little infatuated by this one. The thought made her think twice before continuing. The conversation was a little too getting-to-know-each-other-on-a-first-date-ish for comfort.
"You know, if I'm going to answer these kinds of questions, you're going to have to as well."
"I'm not the one who's scared to return to her real life."
Her jaw dropped. "Scared? Excuse me?"
"Not that you don't have reason to be scared, obviously; you went through a lot and you could still be in danger." He shook his head slowly. "But it's more than that, isn't it? This whole situation, as ugly as it's been, has been a perfect excuse for you to hide away, protecting yourself physically, but also protecting your emotions." His voice almost hypnotic, he went on. "Safe from grief, from heartache. From risks and expectations."
She swallowed hard, responses spinning in her mind, so many she couldn't settle on just one. He was wrong. He was right. He was rude. He was sympathetic. He was intrusive. He was intuitive. He was keeping her off balance, unsure what he'd say next, what he'd ask next, relentlessly battering at her defenses to get her to admit everything he wanted her to acknowledge.