Read Online Bait by Karen Robards - Free Book Online Page B

swarthy-skinned, muscular, with a wrestler’s powerful build. His hair was short, black, untidy. He had thick, straight, black eyebrows above heavy-lidded eyes that were, at the moment, blood-shot, with puffy bags beneath. His cheekbones were flat, almost Slavic, his nose was blunt with a bump on the bridge, his mouth was well shaped but thin, with, at the moment, a sardonic twist. He had a long, square jaw that angled sharply into a strong chin. He badly needed a shave, a change of clothes, and, from the looks of it, a shower, too. She pegged his age at somewhere in the mid-thirties, though it was hard to tell past the smirk and the bristles, which had left the five-o’clock-shadow stage behind about three days back. Despite all the muscles, though, he wasn’t a hottie by any stretch of the imagination; he was way too scruffy and way too thuggish-looking for that.
    Besides, as far as she was concerned, the terms FBI agent and hottie were mutually exclusive.
    He walked all the way to the rail before turning to look at her. His eyes flickered as they moved over her, registering something, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Didn’t care what it was. Unless it was recognition, but now that she was growing calmer, she didn’t see how it could possibly be that.
    If he knew the truth about her, she was all but certain that she would already be well aware of it.
    â€œThe clock’s ticking.” Her voice was frosty as she stopped perhaps two feet away from him. As she had guessed, the area beyond him, beyond the rail, was open space with a view of the restaurant below. The restaurant wasn’t busy; only a few tables were occupied. A pair of escalators ran up and down, with about half a dozen people traveling in each direction. Farther along the mezzanine, long tables had been set up. A small crowd was gathered in front of the tables, intent on whatever business had brought them there. Waiters carrying loaded trays flitted in and out of the conference room beyond. A buzz of muted conversation provided background noise. The smell of coffee hung in the air.
    Maddie inhaled the fumes longingly. She’d already drunk so much coffee that morning in an effort to keep herself awake and functional that she was pretty sure that if she cut herself she would bleed java, but the energizing effects of even that much caffeine were beginning to wear off.
    â€œYou want coffee?” he asked.
    Her lips thinned. “No,” she lied.
    â€œAre you always this friendly, or am I just getting lucky here?” McCabe leaned back against the rail, gripping it with a hand on either side of surprisingly lean hips. He looked a whole heck of a lot more at ease than she felt. Which wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t been nearly murdered during the night. He wasn’t being interviewed by the FBI. And he, presumably, didn’t have anything to hide.
    â€œI told you, I have a meeting.” Her tone was abrupt. With light from the windows pouring over him, he looked more like a street tough than ever. Then she realized that his back was to the windows. Hers was not. With a little frisson of unease, she became aware that the light was spilling onto her face, revealing every nuance of her every expression to him.
    Careful, she warned herself again, and broke eye contact to glance down at her fingers, which she had just realized were cramping from clutching the handle of her briefcase so hard. Shifting it to the other hand, she made a little production of stretching her fingers out to ease the stiffness.
    â€œWhat do you have in that thing, anyway?” He was looking at the battered brown briefcase now instead of her face. It was the old-fashioned kind, soft-sided, satchel shaped, with a strap securing the top. It was also clearly full to the point of bursting.
    â€œMy laptop. Some files. Sketches. Things I need for the presentation I have to make in”—she consulted her watch—“fifteen