“You got her in?” Parker said. “Good work. They’re usually pretty full.”
Sean allowed himself a smile. “Ah well, I booked it a month or so ago.”
“Stress Under Fire?” I queried, still processing the double-edged information of Sean’s faith and lack of it.
“Does exactly what it says on the can,” he said. “Checks out your reactions. What decisions you make and the way you make them when you’re in the thick of it. It’s tough. You pass that, nobody will question whether you’re ready to get back out there.”
“A liability to those around you,” my father had said. “You know as well as I do that they’ll never quite trust you again.”
“And if I fail?”
Sean said nothing.
Parker smiled again, the action crinkling the corners of those watchful eyes.
“You won’t,” he said.
“So, do you think I’ll fail?” I asked.
It was later. Much later. We were home in the apartment we’d rented on the Upper East Side. The minimal view of Central Park should have been enough to ensure the cost of it was stratospheric, but one of Parker’s relations owned the building. Parker had abused the family connection to squeeze the rent down to a level that was merely exorbitant, as part of a tempting relocation package.
“Of course not,” Sean said.
His face was in shadow, but in my mind he spoke too quick, too easy. I tried to acknowledge that I was just being touchy. That I would have taken any pause as a sign of hesitation rather than due consideration of the question.
As if he’d heard my thoughts, he sighed, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheekbone. I could hear his heart beating strong and steady under me. Incomplete assessment or no, we were both more than fit enough for our pulse rates to quickly drop back to a slow rhythm after exertion.
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t send you,” he said, his hand skimming lazily along my upper arm. “I trained you, after all. You cock it up and it makes me look bad.”
It was dark outside, in as much as New York ever gets dark. The lights in the apartment were out but we hadn’t drawn the window blinds and the rattle and glimmer of the city slipped in through the open glass like a slow-footed thief. For the first six weeks or so, the unaccustomed bursts of noise had woken me constantly during the night. Now I found it all vaguely soothing.
We hadn’t had a chance to talk since our encounter in Parker’s office earlier that day. We’d spent the afternoon, and most of the evening, entertaining a group of high-ranking executives from a major banking corporation. The bank was trying to forge development links with certain South American countries, where its personnel would be prime targets for kidnap and extortion.
Parker had spent several months—not to mention a considerable amount of money—quietly trying to convince the bank the dangers were sufficient to subcontract all its safety precautions out to us. If tonight was anything to go by, it looked like he’d finally succeeded.
He’d taken a few of the top guys out on the town and had called in every spare operative on his books to provide a maximum force, minimum fuss, security detail for them. We’d gone to extraordinary lengths to be visible in the most unobtrusive manner possible.
Parker had put me working the inner ring, closest to the principals. Mostly, he’d done it because he was aware that women blended in much better in low-profile social situations than hulking great blokes. I’d certainly learned to dress like a young city exec since I’d been working for him. But it was also a good opportunity to show faith in me—admittedly without much risk. Either way, I was profoundly grateful.
Parker had kept Sean at the forefront, too, and he knew how to play the game when it came to sweet-talking potential clients. We’d taken them to watch the sun go down over cocktails in a rooftop bar on Fifth Avenue that had a great view of the Empire State Building, then gone on to eat in one of the best restaurants in trendy TriBeCa.
It could have been romantic, had we not been working, and had we not been in a group whose main characteristic was an ego to match the size of the investment portfolios they handled, and the cocky self-assurance that went with it.
So, Sean and I had hardly exchanged a word all evening, and nothing in private. We hadn’t even traveled home together. I’d changed at the office and taken the Buell, and Sean had stayed for the debrief with Parker and arrived by cab two hours later.
He’d got back to find me sitting curled up on the sofa in the airy living room, making a poor attempt to read a survival equipment catalog. I’d glanced up as he’d walked in stripping off his jacket and tie, unclipping the Kramer paddle-rig holster containing the .45-caliber Glock 21 he habitually carried. He was tall, deceptively wide across the shoulder without having the overdeveloped neck of a gorilla, and devastatingly but unself-consciously good-looking. My mouth had gone instantly dry at the sheer intensity of his face.
So it was only afterwards, as the cool air dusted the sweat from our bodies, that I finally had the chance to ask the question uppermost in my mind.
He shifted slightly and let his fingers drift along my spine, circling outwards to delicately trace the fading scar of the bullet wound in the back of my right shoulder.
“It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, Charlie, you know that,” he said gently. “But what you’ve been through changes you. Christ Jesus, you nearly died. It can’t not.”
“It was probably worse from the outside, looking in,” I said, knowing that was only partly true. “And anyway, I didn’t die.” Hell, not long enough for it to count.
But as I said it I tried not to think about the Vicodin I’d taken before the start of the evening. I was too scared of getting hooked to take the painkillers regularly, but they’d successfully taken the edge off the ache that had plagued me all day.
I blocked out my father’s stinging comments. You may be walking without a limp any longer, but your health will never be exactly what one might describe as robust again. A little light office work is about all you’re fit for.
Had Parker seen that? Is that why he’d made that comment about me being good at organization—because he wanted me to keep me reduced to nothing more?
Sean’s fingers stilled a moment and I realized I’d braced myself against the memory. I took a quiet breath and let my limbs float heavy.
“Depends on what you classify as normal, I suppose,” he said. “I’ve been there, too, don’t forget. I know how it changes your perception of things—of how far you can go—because you know what the ultimate consequences are for failing.”
“I know you’ve been hurt—shot, beaten, threatened with execution—but trust me, Sean, you have no idea,” I said, hearing the rough note in my voice.
His hands stilled again, then tightened around me, cradling my head. I felt his lips brush my hair, then one of his fingers trailed delicately down the side of my neck and across the base of my throat, following the faint line of an old scar that was another constant reminder never to drop my guard. Shame it hadn’t always worked.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was crass.”
“Yes it was. I can still function, you know,” I said, unwilling to let him off lightly. “I’m not completely socially stunted. Didn’t I prove that tonight?”
“You did,” he said. “In fact, you were so successful in not looking like a bodyguard that one of the prats from the bank actually asked if you were, ahem, part of the entertainment package.”
I stiffened for a moment, then a giggle escaped me and before I knew it we were both laughing.