Secret Agent Affair. Marie Ferrarella
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to mention that Kane’s demeanor reminded her of Tony, Sasha’s husband. Tony was a homicide detective. On the job, they didn’t come grimmer than him.
Both men—Tony and Kane, had the same tight-lipped temperament, the same slow, probing nature. Maybe Kane could find a career in some aspect of security work. If she could get him to answer questions without putting up a fight.
“What is it that you do?” she asked.
He moved his shoulders in a vague shrug, stifling a wince as his left side issued a protest. “This and that,” he told her.
“Well, that sounds flexible enough.” Even if the man didn’t, she added silently. He seemed forbidding. And she had a feeling it wasn’t just a facade. “I could call—”
He cut her off. The last thing he wanted was for her to find him a job. That was being taken care of even as he stood here with her.
“I said we were even,” he insisted. “You don’t owe me anything.”
It wasn’t tit for tat in her book. She believed in free form. “I don’t work that way,” she told him, noticing a puzzled expression on his face. “With checks and balances. You need a job, I might know of somewhere to place you, that’s all I’m saying.”
He had to continue being blunt. She wasn’t the type to retreat if he took her feelings into account.
“I take care of myself,” he informed her in no uncertain terms.
Her eyes lowered to the wound she had just finished stitching and dressing. Maybe he could have done it on his own, but most people don’t like to sew their own flesh back into place.
“I’m sure you can.”
The tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic, but close, he thought. Turning the knob, Kane pulled the door open. Only then did he nod at her.
“See you around, Doc.”
He meant it as a parting, throwaway line. Which was a shame, he caught himself thinking. Because in another lifetime, she would be the kind of woman he should have pursued—if he were into the whole hearth-and-family type thing. He could tell, just by looking at her, that she was. Women like that were best left alone. Because he wasn’t into that. And nothing good ever followed in his wake.
She was at the door, less than a hair’s breadth behind him. “You’re going to have to change that dressing tomorrow,” she called after him.
He didn’t turn around, but he did nod. “I can do it.”
“And don’t get it wet,” Marja added, raising her voice.
“Dry as a bone,” he promised, raising his hand over his head to indicate that he’d heard her as he kept on walking.
“And—” She stopped abruptly as her cell phone rang again.
He allowed himself a dry laugh under his breath. “That’s probably your sister, checking to see if I’ve done away with you yet,” he guessed.
The next second he’d turned a corner and was out of view.
Turning back into the apartment, she closed the door behind her and glanced at the phone’s screen. He was right, it was Tania. Had it been a full fifteen minutes yet? She didn’t think so.
She knew that Tania meant well, but there were times when she felt so smothered by her sisters and her parents that she could scream.
“I’m still breathing, Tania,” she announced as she opened her cell phone.
“Good,” she heard Tania say, “then you won’t freak Jesse out when he gets there.”
Her back against the door, Marja slid down to the floor, closed her eyes and sighed. “You woke up Jesse.”
“No,” Tania was quick to correct her, “he was still up. Working on some blueprints for a new building by Lincoln Center.” She didn’t bother to keep the pride out of her voice. Jesse was an up-and-coming architect and someday people were going to point out his buildings to one another.
“Call him and tell him not to come,” she ordered her sister. “Kane’s gone.”
“Kane?” Tania echoed. “Who’s Kane?”
“Mr. Bullet Wound Guy.”
Tania didn’t bother to stifle her sigh of relief. “Thank God. Now put the chain on.”
Marja rose to her feet again. Odd, but she could still feel Kane’s presence on the apartment, still all but feel his hand on her wrist when he’d first come to. “I will, now call Jesse off. Let the poor man get some rest.”
“Will do.”
The line went dead.
Marja’s insides didn’t.
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