The Venus Fix (35 page)

He shook his head and looked at me a little sadly. He was sitting close enough to me that I could smell his rosemary-and-mint cologne.

“No.”

“Okay, shoot. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

He waved away the apology. “The New York Police Department, Special Victims Unit, is looking for a chief forensic psychologist. We have been for more than a month.” Noah’s voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “You have
every qualification. We haven’t found the right person to fill the job. Or, I should say we have. You could do it. You’d be perfect. I thought that, at least, I should tell you about it. Not make the decision for you. It seemed to me that you might want a challenge.”

“In a million years, I never would have guessed that you would be talking to me about this.”

“No, me neither.”

The room wasn’t conducive to romantic encounters. It was all business. Clean, hard lines, crisp linens. Men and women in business attire. Noah was probably the most casually dressed man there, in his worn leather jacket, a black turtleneck and jeans.

I looked away. At strangers. Out the window. Anywhere but Noah’s face. The ragged edge of disappointment I was feeling reminded me that no one lives without regret. A splinter of fear cautioned me that loving someone meant a loss of power, and that even though power was sometimes all that kept me sane, it wasn’t always worth holding on to.

A week earlier, I would have thought Noah could read in my eyes all that I was thinking, but when I finally glanced at him, he looked back at me with eyes that were dulled. The electricity was turned off.

“Let me just get this straight,” I said. “If I were to take this job, we wouldn’t be able to see each other, right?”

“Well, we’d see each other, but not in a personal way anymore.” He shrugged. As if that shouldn’t matter to either of us.

“We’d finally stop this push-pull thing we have going on. We’d be friends.”

“Friends.” His New Orleans drawl slowed the word down and turned it into something lesser, something inadequate.

“Is that what you want?”

“It would be easier.”

“Is it what you want?”

He wasn’t going to tell me. He didn’t have to. Impulsively, I leaned over, getting as close to him as I could, put my good hand on top of his arm as if to anchor him there, and then I kissed him.

His lips were closed at first.

And they stayed closed.

I’d lost him. I’d waited too long.

And then…then, finally, he moved forward, his hands came up and cupped my face, he pulled me closer to him, as close as we could get in our chairs, and he kissed me back.

Not the way a man would kiss you who offered you a job.

No, not that way at all.

To my incomparable agent Loretta Barrett as well as Nick Mullendore and Gabriel Davis at Loretta Barrett Books for all your hard work and great advice.

To my amazing editor, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, for whom I am daily thankful for too many reasons to list.

To Dianne Moggy and Donna Hayes for all your efforts and enthusiasm on my behalf. Thank you.

To MIRA’s editorial department, marketing & PR departments, art and production departments and the entire sales force for everything you do and do so well.

To Mara Nathan and Chuck Clayman for your insight, time and creativity. Any errors in this book are because I didn’t listen to you two well enough.

To Luci Zahray, the amazing and generous “poison lady.” I could never have killed all these poor women without you. You are a novelist’s dream.

To every bookseller who works so hard to get books into the hands of readers but especially my hometown booksellers: Jenny Lawton of Just Books Too and Diane Garrett of Diane’s Books.

To Lisa Tucker and Douglas Clegg for helping when the words didn’t come or this story got stuck.

To all my wonderful friends and colleagues—and those who are both—especially the brilliant and generous ITW gang.

To my wonderful family: Gigi, Jay, Jordan, my father and Ellie.

And always last but also always most important, to Doug Scofield for the laughs, the support, the smarts and the faith.