An Affair of Deceit (16 page)

He shrugged. “We attack different sorts of problems. You tend to rely on physical evidence, right? And witness accounts?”

“It’s the only way to piece together a crime, but I prefer not to rely on witnesses. People are unreliable.”

“They are, but sometimes they’re the only way to understand why a crime was committed.” He leaned forward earnestly. “See, I’m not that interested in knowing exactly
how
the crime was committed. That’s important—that’s how a person is ultimately convicted. But prosecuting is your job, not mine. I’m trying to catch people, and to do that, I have to understand their motivations.
Why
they did it, not
how
.”

“You love your job, don’t you?”

“I guess so. I didn’t think I would, but after going through a clinical psychology internship, I knew I didn’t want to sit in a padded office and listen to people tell me their problems.” His nose wrinkled. “That sounds callous.”

“It’s reasonable. I wouldn’t want to listen to other people’s problems all day, either. I wouldn’t stand for it.”

“No, I don’t think you would.” He caught the attention of a passing waiter who seemed to have no intention of acknowledging their presence. Once summoned, the young man in a white shirt and black slacks handed them menus. When he spoke to them in quick, unintelligible French, Abigail opened her mouth to ask whether he spoke English. Before she could get out the words, Riley began to communicate with the waiter in French so smooth and seemingly perfect that she would have mistaken him for a well-educated native.

“Where did you learn French?” she asked after the waiter departed.

“From my mother, oddly. Her parents were diplomats, so she grew up on the international circuit, mostly in Europe. It’s why she joined the Peace Corps and stayed on after her initial commitment was met. She loves the nomadic life, though I guess she’s been in one place for a long time now.”

“What about your father?”

“I never really found out why he joined. I wish I’d known him better.” Riley frowned, and then brightened. “How does your mother like living in America?”

“Just fine, I think.” Abigail didn’t want to talk about her mother. “She’s been doing it long enough. I should think she would have gone back if she didn’t like it.”

“Her garden is beautiful.”

“Indeed.”

He grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry you overheard our conversation, but you know you weren’t meant to.”

“Well, I did, and it’s done. I’d rather know the truth, anyway. I just wish you had thought to inform me directly of my father’s preference for my mother.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair way to look at it. I’m not ready to judge your father’s actions until I understand them.”

“How very kind of you. You’ll excuse me if I don’t feel quite so magnanimous.”

“I’d never tell you how you’re supposed to feel, Abigail.”

He might have been about to say more, but the smell of roasted peppers and tomato sauce caught their attention.

Their waiter approached and plopped a thin-crusted pizza on the middle of the table. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but her mouth salivated at the smell of the sizzling goat-cheese-and-roasted-vegetable delight.

Riley rubbed his hands together. “Perfect. Mind if I cut?” he asked, knife in hand.

“By all means. Just be quick about it.”

He rewarded her with a sly smirk that made her stomach flip-flop.

She willed her body to behave. There was no time for childishness.
We eat, and then we get back to work.

Yet there was something pleasant in the mildly queasy way he could make her feel with just a look or a brush of his thigh against hers. It felt like excitement, but for what, she had no idea. She’d seen other women—bright, critical thinkers who really should have known better—liquefy into irrational puddles at the sight of a handsome man, but she’d never met a man who could make her melt. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried. In college, she’d sought to feel the rush of sexual attraction, but the kisses of the boys she’d known had been cold, sloppy things that were about as sexy as a trip to the doctor’s office.

It was probably why she’d not been a big fan of sex. It was a primal, bestial act that she’d rarely felt the urge to perform, though she’d done it a few times with a boy she’d dated in
college. She certainly wasn’t interested in performing it with a man whom she didn’t respect. Besides, the real purpose of sex was to deliver what she viewed as an undesired outcome—children. Children were not something she wanted, not right now, perhaps not ever. They were too messy, too unpredictable. They’d never abide by her strict schedule. And she certainly didn’t want any of the other things that seemed to go along with having sex. Judging from her observations of other women, sex led to a complete and literal loss of control over one’s own mind.

Her view of sex had seemed flawless until now, as Riley’s knee bumped hers under the table.

She didn’t move away this time. While he cut the pizza, she waited for his leg to hit hers again. It was a test, she told herself, a test to determine what physiological response occurred when their bodies touched.

She would analyze and isolate her melting point.

There
. His knee touched her thigh, and something like a static shock radiated from the point of contact. Neither of them budged—he probably because he was so enthralled by the pizza and she because she was undertaking an experiment. It was in the interest of science, or perhaps in the interest of better understanding her body, which was not a topic that she’d ever given much study.

In seconds, the electric shock faded to a gentle warmth that rushed up her leg and—

Oh!

Abigail breathed deeply. The warm feeling had found a home. It now rested between her legs, and not only was it warm, but it was becoming a little wet, too.

The sensation was uncomfortable but exciting, just like the initial contact. She focused her senses. The feeling was warm, almost hot, and definitely tingly. She shifted minutely and nearly stopped breathing when the movement caused an increase in the pleasurable, tingling phenomenon.

Yes. Rubbing one’s legs together absolutely increased pleasure in this situation.

“Abigail? You OK?”

She whipped her head up and pulled her leg away from his, horrified to think of what she must have looked like. Had she groaned? How mortifying. “What?” she snapped.

He smiled, but his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Your pizza is getting cold.”

She looked at her plate. He’d served her a slice.
Think, Abigail, think!
“Of course it is. I want it cooler. It’s too hot to eat.”

“Blasphemy. The goat cheese is toasted on the outside and creamy on the inside, the asparagus is crunchy, the tomatoes are aromatic, and the crust is, well, just try it. If you don’t love it, we’ll find something else.” But the look on his face was eager. He’d be crestfallen if she didn’t love it, too.

“Certainly.” She took a bite. It was delicious and exactly as he’d described, but best of all, it pulled her senses away from the tiny lightning storm flashing between her thighs.

They ate side by side in silence, her thoughts firmly focused on the scrumptiousness of the meal. It was nice, she decided, to eat meals with Riley. He took real physical pleasure in eating and appeared not to give a damn about calories and fat grams, unlike so many of the men she knew back at the courthouse who only ate things that they seemed to hate: repulsive protein shakes, cardboard granola bars, and poorly made drip coffee. For the men she knew, food was the enemy. But for Riley, food was joy.

He chewed with his mouth closed, thankfully, but he didn’t keep his elbows off the table. It wasn’t exactly rude, but it wasn’t formal, either. She wondered if it meant they’d become friends.

He caught her looking at him and he glanced down at his greasy fingers. “Count yourself lucky I didn’t rip this pizza apart with my fingers. Do you remember eating in Taiwan as a kid? No utensils. I still catch myself reaching for rice with my hands.”

“Pick it up and shove it in. That’s how they did it.”

His smile softened, and she thought she saw pity in his eyes. “They sure did. Have you been back since you left?”

“No. I’ve done my stint.”

“I haven’t been back, either. When I was younger my mother just didn’t want me to go, but now there’s no reason not to. I just haven’t.”

Abigail remembered that he’d lost his father in Asia, too. “We’ve both been busy,” she said, trying to be nice to the well-meaning man who always seemed to take her words to heart.

He shrugged, his jaw hard. “For something that used to matter so much to me, I certainly have turned my back on it.”

The same could be said about her, but she didn’t think he meant it as an accusation. He seemed troubled by his contradictory relationship with the land of his youth. It was, she knew, not unlike how she felt about the place. Taiwan was the source of many happy memories, but remembering them simply made the present day pale in comparison. She’d lost so much when they left. Nothing had ever filled the space her father had once occupied in her heart.

They sat in silence again. Strains of classical guitar lilted through the street, and she lifted her head to look for the source.

Riley saw her craning her neck and smiled. “It’s probably just the radio coming through someone’s window.”

She put her chin in her hand and listened to the music bouncing around the square. It was some kind of island music, nothing like what she would have expected to hear in France. A woman’s voice, deep and rich and singing in a language Abigail couldn’t understand, danced over acoustic guitar and such a great variety of other instruments that she could hardly pull them apart. There was a piano, certainly, possibly a clarinet, and definitely some sort of drums, but also other things that rattled and rolled and made Abigail feel as though she’d been transported to a tropical island.

Then the woman’s voice faded and a piano solo began. The notes were so lovingly played and delicately executed that Abigail couldn’t help but sigh. “Do you know who that was?”

“Cesária Évora. She’s incredible. She’s from an archipelago near Portugal called Cape Verde. She usually sings in a Portuguese-derived creole.”

“Of course she does,” she said, compelled to add a tone of sarcasm that conveyed her amusement at the depth of detail that Riley knew about this unfamiliar music. But she listened quietly as the notes floated through the tree-lined square, fully enraptured as the song finished. The next track was equally otherworldly. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

“This is Arles. It’s been a mixed-up cultural soup since the day it was founded. It’s one of my favorite cities in the whole world. If you listen, you’ll hear a lot of things you’ve never heard before.” He paused, his eyes resolutely focused on something in the distance. “Sometimes I think the most beautiful things are also the most mixed up.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. Then he turned his head and fixed his eyes, which were as bright as a golfing green in the dappled sunlight, on hers. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. He smiled slowly, softly, one corner of his mouth rising more than the other. There was a question on his mind; she could tell by the way his eyebrows lifted.

She froze, her body urging her to run or fight. This was unknown territory. Danger lurked. But she struggled against her instincts. She was tired of running, and she didn’t want to fight. She wanted to stay and understand what was happening between them. Was this a date? Was this the point at which the man would lean over to kiss the woman for the first time? If he did, would he touch her face first, holding her cheek in his palm as he gazed into her eyes?

She closed her eyes and inhaled, taking in his dark, rich scent as she waited for him to kiss her.

R
ILEY WAS INCHES
away from brushing his lips against Abigail’s when the shrill ringing of a phone shattered the moment. He pulled back. Abigail squealed and jumped out of her seat and literally ran away.

“This had better be incredibly important, Greene,” Riley growled into his cell phone, his heart racing. He didn’t know what had been about to happen between him and Abigail, but his body told him that whatever it was, it would have felt really, really good.

Across the street, Abigail paced under the trees like a dog on a chain.

“It is. We finally got clearance to take Kral’s estate.”

“Take it? I never said anything about
taking
it. I just wanted to get inside to talk to the residents. What are they supposed to do when bullets start flying?”

“Screw them,” Greene said viciously. “They’ve been sheltering him for too long.”

“Do you have any indication that Kral and Mason are there?”

“No. But before you give me hell about this, let me tell you that the order came straight from the top. The disappearance of those Stingers changes everything. We’re not going in with guns blazing, but we’ll do what we have to. There are records,
computers, and innumerable loads of other evidence we can use against him once we do find him.”