By the Book (7 page)

“Maybe,” he said, and because his heart was overflowing with a venomous hatred and the air around him was heating with anger, he got out of the car. He stood there for a moment, gulping the cool evening air, trying to forget that his father had given him up long before he’d given up his beloved camera; that they both could have had a place to go in times of need if he’d been any kind of father to him.

It didn’t help to remember. He sighed. It didn’t help to remember because it wasn’t enough to make him turn his back on the man now, when he wanted to most.

“Jonah?” He turned and looked at her over the roof of the car. “I’m sorry. I can see I’ve upset you. I didn’t—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not you. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d say more things like that.” He laughed softly at how strange that sounded and walked around the car to her. “Say whatever comes to your mind. Say what you’re thinking.” He shook his head. “Because I don’t know what to think. I don’t know him, Ellen. He’s my father and a complete stranger. Sometimes I hate him so much, I could kill him with his pillow. Sometimes I sit for hours staring at him, trying to see my face in his, to read his mind, to understand him. I don’t even know where to begin.” He took a step closer to her. Close enough to touch her. “What you said just now ... about him giving up his photography and how it must have hurt him. I understand that. If it’s true, I ... I can’t say I’m sorry, but it doesn’t make me happy either.” He studied her face for a moment. He found comfort in it, and the acceptance he needed to go on. “But it’s something, one thing, that I can understand about him.”

She didn’t think about the inclination to reach out to him, to touch him. She just did it. Palming his cheek was the most natural thing to do, no matter what kind of person she was.

She didn’t say anything. What was there to say? That he was hurting and confused was obvious. But they were both human, they both had feelings, and somewhere along the way their spirits had connected.

He stood perfectly still as long as he could, the warmth of her palm seeping through his skin, heating the chill that protected and preserved his heart. The lovely face he’d admired from afar was close enough to kiss, and the woman who owned it was more than he thought possible. In her eyes he could see the gentleness and perception he’d suspected her of having, but more, a true kindness and empathy that needed no words, no action to be activated. It was ever present in her, as spontaneous and unconscious as her next breath.

She felt his fist pressing softly below her chin, his thumb brushing along the curve of her lower lip. There was a tender gratitude in his eyes. And behind it, beyond the mysteries, was an all-consuming need that once unleashed would devour her completely. It frightened her and yet somehow she knew that he was ... akin to the wind. That he could come at her hard and harsh, or slow and gentle, and the effect would be the same—she would be changed forever, reshaped, different. And like the wind, he would be unstoppable.

He tipped his head and leaned toward her, pressing his lips against hers, then hesitated. She knew the first kiss had been born of gratitude. She knew, too, that the second one wouldn’t be. He was giving her a chance to run, to refuse him, to protect herself. But in that moment no little green book, no attitude, no promotion, no pay raise, no huge character flaw was more important to her than that next kiss. There was nothing left to the world but him and her and that kiss.

She put her lips to his, moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his head, where his hair was thick and soft in her fingers. She felt his hands at her waist and stepped closer, opened her mouth to the first tentative touch of his tongue and was instantly lost.

A dam of pent-up emotion broke free inside him. Mingled with the acute physical sensations and the thrilling excitement was an overwhelming stir of relief, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was simply good to confirm that she felt as right in his arms as he’d hoped. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting the first kiss out of the way. Or of knowing she hadn’t been averse to a second. But it was such a huge relief, a relaxing sigh from his soul, that he believed it was something much more significant.

They came away breathless and feeling awkward, stared at each other in amazement. Then they laughed, their arms falling away to hang loose at their sides, their common sense forcing them to take mental steps backward.

Ellen scrambled immediately for her lost attitude. What would he think if she made too much of the kiss? That she’d never been kissed that way before? That she’d wanted him to kiss her that way? Well okay, she had, but ... She was shaken to her very core and feeling vulnerable as hell. Attitude was the perfect shield to hide her fears and make her appear brave and strong—and kissed like that all the time.

Jonah, on the other hand, was much more adept at hiding his feelings and recovered much quicker.

“You should have been a shrink,” he said casually, closing the car door and, with a light hand to her back, leading the way to the restaurant. “You’re very easy to talk to.”

“I get that a lot,” she said lightly. “But if I hung out my shingle, talking would become my job and not as much fun. I’d have to charge people and get a fifty-minute watch. No, I think I’ll stick with my amateur status. Then I only have to talk to people I want to talk to, and I can use my expert skills for other things.” She arched a sly brow at him.

Looking duly cautious as he held the door for her, he asked, “Such as?”

“Such as extracting information from mysterious men who work in camera shops,” she said, smiling mischievously as the hostess approached them.

Pretending enlightenment, he grinned at her. And while her stomach embarked on an Olympic-style acrobatic routine, he turned the exact same grin on the hostess and asked for a table for two. Ellen sighed, disgruntled, and followed the woman toward their table.

Seated, menued, watered, and alone again, they simulated a detailed investigation of the meals available while their minds pondered their next moves and their hearts yearned to return to the parking lot. When their gazes met over the tops of their menus, they recognized themselves in the other’s expression and smiled. They were the same really. Both nervous. Both attracted. Both wanting the night to go well so there could be others. Both needing. Both a little shy and reserved. Both remembering the kiss, and both a little overwhelmed by it all.

First dates were so tedious, she thought. Really. So regimented and traditional. Why should a passionate kiss in the parking lot less than twelve hours after they met throw the whole thing off? Or had it? Maybe their instincts knew best.

“Just don’t tell me you’re a mercenary, okay?” she said, forcing herself to break the silence first, using the playful, carefree attitude he seemed to like. “I’m not at all sure how I’ll react to that.”

He chuckled and grinned, laying his menu on the table, folding his hands on top.

“Okay,” he said, simply enjoying the sight of her across the table from him. “I’m not a mercenary.”

“Or a spy. You say it out loud and, date-wise, you think ... unreliable.” The twinkle in her eyes was humorous. “Like he’ll go to make a phone call between dinner and dessert and disappear—leaving you with the bill and a long walk home.”

Silent laughter.

“Spies have gotten a bad rap. Most of them live very normal, very ordinary lives.”

With the humor fading quickly, she whispered, “You’re a
spy
?”

She would have bet her last dime there wasn’t one word of advice in the little green book that addressed the dating and charming of spies. And she
really
wanted to charm him.

“No. Not exactly.”

“FBI?”

“Not exactly.”

“CIA?”

“No. Not quite.”

“Oh God.” She moaned. “You’re not one of those special forces guys they make the movies about who go off alone to do all the dangerous stuff no one else will do, are you?”

He laughed heartily this time. “You mean women aren’t really attracted to the action-adventure types?”

“Well, in the movies, yeah. But in real life?” She looked mighty dubious.

Still amused, he said, “In real life I rarely go off anywhere anymore outside the United States, and what I do is probably less dangerous than what you do.” He chuckled again. “But the truth is I’m a captain in the United States Navy, attached to the Naval Sector of DIAC in Washington, D.C. Most days I work nine to five in an office with no windows.”

“The Navy? Really?”

“Disappointed?”

“No. Not at all,” she said. “Relieved. And you live in Washington? Oh, that must be fascinating. So many things to see. The museums and the people and historic buildings and—have you seen the president? In person?”

“Several times,” he said, highly entertained by her reaction. Pleased to have pleased her.

They ordered and their meal came while she rattled off the names of people he may or may not have seen or met, and asked him about the places he’d been to and things he’d done. She was making this getting-to-know-you period—this impossibly frustrating part of his relationships—so easy. Granted, he generally chose women who could care less about who he was or what he did, but there was a reason for that. He simply thought that no one really wanted to know. But Ellen did. She hung on his every word. She’d grow quiet and thoughtful, then ask questions. Correlated the answers into what it meant to him or for him and was genuinely interested. No little thing was too little for her; it all intrigued her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d intrigued anyone, and the revelation was heady.

“Now tell me about this place you talked about before. The one you’re attached to?”

“DIAC,” he said, watching her cut her veal Parmesan a little slower than she had at the beginning of the meal. She was getting full, he noticed, noting everything she did and the way she did it with an uncommon interest. With an uncommon satisfaction as well. “The Defense Intelligence Analysis Center. That’s where I work, what I do.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “You ... analyze intelligence?”

Oh man. He’d just finished explaining that the Senate and the Congress weren’t located in the House of Representatives. He must be thinking she was the biggest nitwit to draw air.

“Not that kind of intelligence,” he said as if he could read her mind, though he was simply reacting to the confusion he always got when he told civilians what he did. “Information. I analyze information from satellite photos, from sonar and radar readings. Surveillance reports. Ship logs. Debriefings. That sort of thing.” She was staring at him. “It all comes to the Center. Information gathered by NASA, the FBI, the CIA, Naval Intelligence, allied foreign governments, the FCC ... everywhere. Tons of raw data. We look at it, compare it to other things we know, feed it into computers, record it, dissect it, add to it, figure it out, decipher it. Then we put it all in a report and send it upstairs to the decision makers. My superior officer, the JCS—the Joint Chiefs of Staff—the Department of Defense, the president ...”

“Spy stuff,” she said, her voice breathy and awed.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but then reconsidered. “Yeah. I guess so. Spy stuff.”

“You profile foreign officials and military leaders down to the toothpaste they use and the decisions they’ll make in any given situation and ... and you use those photographs to see if anyone’s developing new kinds of airplanes and ships and bombs and things.”

“That’s right.” So easy.

“Just like in the movies!” she said, and they both laughed.

“Tell me how you got into that,” she said, developing a true fondness for the sound of his voice—strong and smooth, like aged brandy. “Did you always want to do that? Is it hard? Do you have to go to a special school or something? It must be really interesting.”

So very easy.

Through the rest of the meal and over cappuccinos, he told her about the natural progression of his career. From Annapolis to submarines, from radio specialist to specializing in sonar and radar, from his promotion to Naval Intelligence to his present assignment at DIAC. She listened avidly, made him slow down or back up to ask questions, and, in general, made him feel like the most important man in the world.

She was like that, he knew. She listened to everyone. Made everyone feel important. Was nice to everyone. He’d watched through the bank window. He knew this. But it didn’t matter. He had her undivided attention—and for however long he had it, there just didn’t seem to be anything better.

Returning from the restroom, he found her deep in thought, and, in the candlelight, looking almost like something he’d conjured from a dream. All that burnt sienna hair, streaks of vermilion shining bright and healthy. Her eyes hidden by her lowered lids; lashes dark and thick, curved up against the smooth paleness of her skin. Her lips lush and full and soft-looking in their relaxed state; her neck long and elegant, implying innocence, but begging to be nuzzled.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly for control, then sat down across from her again.

“You look so far-away there,” he said with a curious tilting of his head. “What are you thinking about?”

She gave him a calculated look. “You,” she said.

“What about me?” There was a twisting, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was beginning to anticipate and enjoy.

She considered him a minute, trying to decide if she should tell the truth about what she was thinking or come up with something else to keep him distracted. The little green book didn’t say she should
always
go in the opposite direction. Only when it suited her purpose, and this time it didn’t.

She leaned toward him in earnest. “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk with anyone else in town? If you’ve told anyone else what you’ve told me tonight. About your job?”

He shook his head. “No. Not really. Between the hospital and the shop, I’ve been sticking pretty close to home. Why?”

“Not your father’s lawyer? Or someone who’s come into the shop? You haven’t told anyone else in town about your job?”