Christ, who could've imagined the sexy woman he'd spent the night with was the ADA from up north? The one whose repetitive emails contained a single annoying refrain: Their office would not turn over their case files on Diego Vargas.
The hand she extended was far firmer than the one which had trailed fingers across his body twelve hours ago. With a voice far more strident than sexy, her first question was like a thrown-down gauntlet. "So, tell me, Ashraf, did you know last night who I was?"
Before speaking, Rafe nodded to dismiss Mrs. Roberts, eyeing the composed and modestly dressed Isabella Torres until his assistant left. This Isabella was a study in contrast from last night's woman who'd moaned beneath his… Shit!
Why had he ever thought those dark eyes were warm and inviting? Right now they snapped at him as sharply as a whip in a lion tamer's grip. He pulled himself together and met her coolness with a glare. "Of course I didn't know who you were. Whatever you think of me personally, I'm a professional."
Rafe had known all along that Bigler County had no option but to turn over their Vargas case files to him. He'd just never expected the man – woman – to turn up in person to do it. He gestured toward the padded chair in front of his desk. "Please sit down, Ms. Torres. Let's straighten out this misunderstanding."
Torres took the chair opposite his desk and perched on the edge, setting her briefcase on the floor. Her slender hands clasped in her lap. She looked pale. And severe, with her long black hair pulled tightly back from her face.
Silence. Her dark, clear eyes remained unfriendly.
Unnerved in the face of her quiet militarism, Rafe sat down, folded his hands, and pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. "When D.A. Barrington called a few days ago to say the files were on their way," he began, "I assumed they'd arrive by courier or special delivery."
"You probably never dreamed the – what did you call me, oh that's right – ballsy ADA would deliver them herself." She referred to a momentary lapse in judgment when he'd used the term in an email to Charles Barrington.
"Actually, I thought 'himself,'" Rafe replied with a calm smile that belied his turmoil.
Merde! Scheisse! Shit! The ability to swear – and speak – half a dozen languages made him quite good at his job, but right now his mind scrambled for a way to handle the current situation. Should he ignore it, pretend last night never happened? Blow it off like a bad joke? Jesus!
After a moment he said, "Look, maybe we should meet the, uh, issue head on and agree to put it behind us." Bella from last night would've gladly agreed, but he wasn't sure about today's Isabella of the fiery eyes.
He paused and waited for a reply that didn't come. "Would that work for you?" he asked a long moment later, curbing his impatience.
Torres contemplated the scene out the small window and then swept those bottomless eyes up to meet his through thick lashes. She inclined her head gracefully as if she was doing him a big favor. "Of course. What happened between us last night was very… unfortunate, but hardly the end of the world."
Unfortunate?
He scowled before catching himself and continued in as smooth a voice as he could manage. "Okay, then, we're in agreement. We go on as if it never happened."
Since Rafe never had any intention of cooperating with Bigler County in the Vargas investigation, the idea of putting it behind them was the best solution. Get the uncomfortable moment over with, obtain the damn files, and move on, never to see ADA I. Torres again.
Isabella, call me Bella, Torres.
They would treat last night as a casual encounter between consenting adults.
Right?
Why had he assumed only a man could be so ferocious in refusing a request from a federal agent? And what a cosmic joke that he, who rarely had time to date, would hook up at a bar with the very person he'd been wrangling with over the Vargas case files! What the hell were the odds of that?
Suddenly he recalled that his email address had also contained simply his initial and last name. A. Hashemi. And he'd only mentioned his full given name Ashraf last night. Call me Rafe, he had insisted.
And then he wondered. "Did you know who I was?" he countered belatedly.
"Don't be ridiculous." She seemed restless as she jumped up from the chair and examined the enlarged photo of Parker Center on the east wall. "I had no idea who you were."
For some odd reason, relief flooded through him and on the heels of that, genuine remorse. "Look, Isabella, I'm sorry."
Her back to him, her voice small-sounding, she whispered, "Yeah." Then she squared her shoulders and turned to face him. "You're right. Let's put this thing behind us."
A wave of regret washed over him for the what-might-have-been. He'd heard that remembered passion was sweeter than the real thing. If so, he was in a helluva lot of trouble. Last night the warm, willing proffer of Isabella's body had clouded every sensible restraint he usually put on himself.
Instead, he'd thrown himself into the intensity of giving her pleasure. And there was no doubt that Isabella had been thoroughly pleasured. He felt himself grow hard behind the desk that shielded his lower body.
Now what?
Would Torres use their brief relationship as leverage to stay involved in the Vargas case? Looking at her grim face, her minimal makeup, and her set jaw, he couldn't believe she would risk her career by going against her D.A.
She couldn't be more than twenty-eight. Twenty-nine? Young for an ADA, and that meant she was ambitious. No, he didn't think she'd want last night's events splattered all over the small world of law enforcement any more than he did.
He stood and bought himself time by adjusting the blinds behind his desk and looking out over Temple Street. When he resumed his seat, he felt calmer, ready to proceed. He smiled. "After all, the stakes are the same. The Bigler County District Attorney's Office has information on Diego Vargas that is germane to my federal case."
She nodded, throwing a glance at her briefcase still resting on the floor by her chair.
"There's never been any question that your office would turn over the files," he reminded her.
"We have no choice?" He knew her asking closed the door to any secret hope she might've harbored.
"Exactly." And, he thought, last night didn't alter that fact.
Rafe took in her appearance as she stood under the picture. Isabella Torres looked as different from the bright, sexy Bella who'd spent the night entwined in his arms as oranges from lemons. Even her mouth, drawn in tight puckers, hid the other woman.
He recognized both her conservative suit and prim hair style as attempts to detract from her looks. Torres wanted badly to be dealt with on her abilities, not her beauty. Well, she failed miserably.
In just a few moments of observation, Rafe had learned a great deal about Isabella Torres. Whatever that said about him, he intended to use this knowledge to his advantage.
Chapter Eleven
"So, Ms. Torres." Agent Hashemi leaned back in his chair and let the words hang as she moved back to stand behind the straight-backed guest chair. She glanced around the office, noting the relative plush of his office compared with her own meager, cramped one.
Clearly Hashemi expected her to fill in the unspoken blanks. She shifted her position, gripped the back of the chair, and put on her best prosecuting attorney's look. "Agent Hashemi," she countered.
Except for his initial reaction, the federal agent was a cool one. He now sat in front of her as relaxed and unruffled as if they'd never met, as if nothing had ever happened between them. She'd give him points for his professionalism. The opposite of her, where every cell in her body worked double time to control her emotions.