barrio for nothing, she prepared to do
battle – and immediately froze in shock. Damn her silly sisters and their
stupid tricks. Double damn her own reckless sense of adventure. She took a
fraction of a second to recover, quicker she was satisfied to note, than Agent
Hashemi – Ashraf, call me Rafe, long A – Hashemi, the son of a bitch.
She extended her hand in greeting and put on her court voice
as he stood behind his desk, mouth still gaping. "Agent Hashemi, I'm
Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres from Bigler County."
#
And I am seriously screwed, Rafe thought the moment Mrs.
Roberts ushered ADA I. Torres into his office. He stumbled to his feet, at a
loss for words for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Dressed in a professionally-cut gray suit with a white
blouse buttoned at the neck, she looked like a school teacher or a minister's
wife. But neither her long hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape, nor her minimal
makeup, could hide her natural beauty or the memory of the siren from last
night.
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
battle – and immediately froze in shock. Damn her silly sisters and their
stupid tricks. Double damn her own reckless sense of adventure. She took a
fraction of a second to recover, quicker she was satisfied to note, than Agent
Hashemi – Ashraf, call me Rafe, long A – Hashemi, the son of a bitch.
She extended her hand in greeting and put on her court voice
as he stood behind his desk, mouth still gaping. "Agent Hashemi, I'm
Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres from Bigler County."
#
And I am seriously screwed, Rafe thought the moment Mrs.
Roberts ushered ADA I. Torres into his office. He stumbled to his feet, at a
loss for words for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Dressed in a professionally-cut gray suit with a white
blouse buttoned at the neck, she looked like a school teacher or a minister's
wife. But neither her long hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape, nor her minimal
makeup, could hide her natural beauty or the memory of the siren from last
night.
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
Similar Books
