and Order?" His grin was smug. Too smug.
"Fine." I tossed the wadded towel in his gut and spun on my heel. "Let's find out."
"Ah, Christ. Jules, wait." But I was already out the door, beyond his reach.
"I'll call Detective McCarthy," I yelled. "He'll confirm who you are. Or who you're not."
I picked up the kitchen phone. If Sam wasn't who he claimed to be, I'd grab his weapon, run out the door, dial 911. From the table his gun cloyed at me. Instead, I opened the knife drawer and rifled through the contents with enough clatter to telegraph my intentions.
"Just listen to me, damn it." Then a crash, clang, spin, plop and Sam swearing to God.
In a flash I stood in the bathroom doorway, expecting a prone body. Sam clung to the sink with cotton balls, Q-tips, and empty metal containers scattered at his toes. He shrugged like a little boy.
"Nice coveralls, by the way," he said. "CSU must've run out of NYPD gear. I'll get you an official T-shirt later to remember me by."
I held up the phone. One step backwards got my impatience across.
"Okay, okay." He shook his head. "Look, I'm on assignment. Undercover."
"No ID, no badge. That's convenient."
"No clothes either. C'mon, I'm at your mercy." He waved me into the room.
"And no gun. I could run. Right now."
He stilted a laugh. "Lady, you coulda run an hour ago."
Goddamnit. I punched 91—
"Stop." He cringed as my finger targeted the final button. "Look, I'm not making fun of you. Okay, maybe a little. You just take yourself so damn seriously."
The phone hovered at my ear, my thumb over the final digit. "Spill it. The whole truth. Right now."
"Christ." His jaw sandwiched tight. "The truth is this morning—this whole fucking mess—blew two years' undercover work. You're not supposed to know. Not who I am, not what I do. No one can know. Can't even call in, I'm so deep in shit. But here we are, holed up like one happy little family. Figure I don't talk, you might get crazy. Call that prick, Ray. Or stab me with a knife. So now I gotta break cover. Just to make you feel a little more in control."
All his talking made him clench his side, and he leaned back to get more air.
"I could have betrayed you," I said softly. By now the phone hung limp at my side.
"If you say so." He started to smile, but thought better of it when he saw my eyes narrowing. "Look, I need a safe house, Jules. Someplace they won't expect. You're it."
"Now I'm 'Jules' not 'lady.'"
"Jules has a better ring to it. Matches those doe eyes of yours." His grin was unapologetic now.
"Thought it matched my quick temper."
"Double duty."
"I'll have to return McCarthy's call eventually." That wiped the humor off his face.
"He can't know. He's The Prick." Sam's brows clenched. "Why's he calling you anyway? You gave him the coat and a statement."
"And a full description: five-ten, two-twenty, hazel green eyes."
"Hey, five-eleven and three-quarters. One-ninety." When my eyes scrolled his flank, he added, "Okay, one-ninety-nine. But it's just beer weight." He slapped his belly. And winced.
"Gave a sketch artist your mug, too, but you looked pretty shaggy on paper."
Sam dropped his head back and mouthed 'fuck' to the ceiling.
"And they took prints off my cards, so they'll know you were the kidnapper."
"Nope." He tickled the air with his fingertips. "Not in their database. Ironic, huh? You worked pretty hard to play cool. Said to myself, 'Now here's a smart lady. She'll keep you safe, Sam. That's what you need. Someone safe.'" With his last word he let out a sigh, and I squirmed at his words.
"Thought you abducted me because I was a sucker. For my dog." This time the lines creasing his forehead told me he was more hurt than amused with the quip. "And The Prick told me his name was Stone, not Ray."
"Good old McCarthy." Sam closed his eyes as he strained not to laugh, which made his voice rise an octave. "Who names their kid 'Stone'?" He coughed, and I tensed just watching him fight the urge to choke out a
"Fine." I tossed the wadded towel in his gut and spun on my heel. "Let's find out."
"Ah, Christ. Jules, wait." But I was already out the door, beyond his reach.
"I'll call Detective McCarthy," I yelled. "He'll confirm who you are. Or who you're not."
I picked up the kitchen phone. If Sam wasn't who he claimed to be, I'd grab his weapon, run out the door, dial 911. From the table his gun cloyed at me. Instead, I opened the knife drawer and rifled through the contents with enough clatter to telegraph my intentions.
"Just listen to me, damn it." Then a crash, clang, spin, plop and Sam swearing to God.
In a flash I stood in the bathroom doorway, expecting a prone body. Sam clung to the sink with cotton balls, Q-tips, and empty metal containers scattered at his toes. He shrugged like a little boy.
"Nice coveralls, by the way," he said. "CSU must've run out of NYPD gear. I'll get you an official T-shirt later to remember me by."
I held up the phone. One step backwards got my impatience across.
"Okay, okay." He shook his head. "Look, I'm on assignment. Undercover."
"No ID, no badge. That's convenient."
"No clothes either. C'mon, I'm at your mercy." He waved me into the room.
"And no gun. I could run. Right now."
He stilted a laugh. "Lady, you coulda run an hour ago."
Goddamnit. I punched 91—
"Stop." He cringed as my finger targeted the final button. "Look, I'm not making fun of you. Okay, maybe a little. You just take yourself so damn seriously."
The phone hovered at my ear, my thumb over the final digit. "Spill it. The whole truth. Right now."
"Christ." His jaw sandwiched tight. "The truth is this morning—this whole fucking mess—blew two years' undercover work. You're not supposed to know. Not who I am, not what I do. No one can know. Can't even call in, I'm so deep in shit. But here we are, holed up like one happy little family. Figure I don't talk, you might get crazy. Call that prick, Ray. Or stab me with a knife. So now I gotta break cover. Just to make you feel a little more in control."
All his talking made him clench his side, and he leaned back to get more air.
"I could have betrayed you," I said softly. By now the phone hung limp at my side.
"If you say so." He started to smile, but thought better of it when he saw my eyes narrowing. "Look, I need a safe house, Jules. Someplace they won't expect. You're it."
"Now I'm 'Jules' not 'lady.'"
"Jules has a better ring to it. Matches those doe eyes of yours." His grin was unapologetic now.
"Thought it matched my quick temper."
"Double duty."
"I'll have to return McCarthy's call eventually." That wiped the humor off his face.
"He can't know. He's The Prick." Sam's brows clenched. "Why's he calling you anyway? You gave him the coat and a statement."
"And a full description: five-ten, two-twenty, hazel green eyes."
"Hey, five-eleven and three-quarters. One-ninety." When my eyes scrolled his flank, he added, "Okay, one-ninety-nine. But it's just beer weight." He slapped his belly. And winced.
"Gave a sketch artist your mug, too, but you looked pretty shaggy on paper."
Sam dropped his head back and mouthed 'fuck' to the ceiling.
"And they took prints off my cards, so they'll know you were the kidnapper."
"Nope." He tickled the air with his fingertips. "Not in their database. Ironic, huh? You worked pretty hard to play cool. Said to myself, 'Now here's a smart lady. She'll keep you safe, Sam. That's what you need. Someone safe.'" With his last word he let out a sigh, and I squirmed at his words.
"Thought you abducted me because I was a sucker. For my dog." This time the lines creasing his forehead told me he was more hurt than amused with the quip. "And The Prick told me his name was Stone, not Ray."
"Good old McCarthy." Sam closed his eyes as he strained not to laugh, which made his voice rise an octave. "Who names their kid 'Stone'?" He coughed, and I tensed just watching him fight the urge to choke out a
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