Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) (3 page)

“I guess that’s true,” I smile, looking back and forth
between Chuck and Mitchell.

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Chuck says. “It’s not as endearing as
your finishing school teachers would have you believe. You’ve been kicking ass
here, Collins. Best addition to the cyber division I’ve seen come out of
Quantico in years.”

“You feeling OK, Jones?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at my
surly mentor. “Outright praise isn’t exactly your thing.”

“Just ‘cause I’m not made of rainbows and butterscotch,
doesn’t mean I’m not proud of everything you’ve done here,” Chuck says,
granting me a rare, sincere smile.

“Well, thanks. But I started at the FBI Academy with a bit
of an advantage, technology-wise,” I allow. “I got my BA—”

“In computer science and journalism from Pace University,”
Mitchell rattles off from memory, baffling me further. “It’s not the most
typical background for an FBI agent, I’ll admit, but extremely useful all the
same. And you proved yourself a physical force to be reckoned with at
Quantico.”

I allow myself a smug smile, remembering how shocked my
fellow FBI trainees had been at the Academy when I was able to outrun them all,
not to mention beat many of them in a good old fashioned arm wrestle. I may be
small, but I’ve been using exercise as a natural antidepressant since I was
fifteen. When it comes to physical stamina, I can certainly keep up with the
boys.

“Let me cut to the chase, Quinn,” Mitchell goes on, leaning
toward me in his chair. “I’ve got a tricky case underway in Las Vegas, and
you’re perfectly suited to work on it. This opportunity is practically tailor
made for your expertise.”

I stare back at the senior agent, floored by his confidence
in me. I’m good at my job, sure, but there are plenty of other cyber-savvy
agents working in the FBI. He’s probably got ten of me at the Las Vegas field
office alone. What makes me so special that Mitchell would come all this way to
recruit me?

“You’re wondering why I’m asking you, specifically, to come
on board here, right?” Mitchell smiles.

“That I am,” I reply. “There must be other agents—”

“None as perfect for this job as you are,” he cuts me off. “This
is a one-of-a-kind assignment, a chance for you to distinguish yourself. You
must be dying for a new challenge, after two years stuck behind a desk.”

“I really am,” I admit. “Not that I don’t enjoy my work—”

“Save it,” Chuck says. “We’re not going to report you for
being a little bored. You need to take this assignment, Quinn. You’ll be
happier working from the Vegas field office.”

“Trying to get rid of me, Jones?” I tease.

“Since the day you got here,” he winks. “Come on, Collins.
You’re destined for bigger things than that cubicle of yours can hold.”

“This sounds like an amazing opportunity,” I say to Mitchell,
“but can you tell me a little bit about the case?”

“There’ll be plenty of time to discuss the details after
you’ve transferred to Nevada,” he replies. “We’ll get you set up with an
apartment, introduce you to the other agents—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him, “a transfer is no small
thing. California has been my home for two years. My whole life is here now.”

“Collins, what life? You practically sleep here,” Chuck
quips.

“Is there any time for me to think this over?” I go on,
ignoring his all-too-true jibe.

“You can think all you like,” Mitchell replies, “but I’m
sure you know that the FBI has the authority to transfer agents at any time,
regardless of their preferences?”

“Right, of course,” I say, “I was just hoping to talk this
over with someone first.”

“Not that sad sack boyfriend of yours?” Chuck groans,
rolling his eyes. “Do yourself a favor, Quinn, and take this chance to leave
his sorry ass in the dust.”

“Gee, Chuck,” I drawl, “tell me how you really feel.”

“Your options, Quinn, are to transfer or leave the Bureau,”
Mitchell says shortly. “I’m sure your, uh, boyfriend will understand the
importance of this opportunity.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I mumble. My boyfriend, Milo Beckett, is
many things. Brilliant, cultured, well-off, stubborn, and mightily arrogant for
someone so physically slight. But understanding, he is not.

“Why don’t you head home a little early and think this
over?” Mitchell suggests, standing to see me out. “Call me this evening when
you’ve made your decision.”

“Will do,” I say, shaking his hand once more. “It was a
pleasure to meet you.”

“Trust me,” he says, meeting my gaze with pointed interest,
“the pleasure is all mine.”

Chuck walks me to the door of his office. He leans close as
I skirt across the threshold and hisses, “don’t you dare blow this, Collins.”

I shoot him an exasperated look and hurry across the buzzing
office. Dozens of eyes follow my exit. The entire office is wondering what a
senior FBI agent could possibly want to talk to me about—little old me, with my
nerdy education and rosy cheeks. If only these guys knew what I was being
tapped for. If only
I
knew any details about this mysterious opportunity Mitchell’s offered—or rather
insisted, that I take.

Forget
cupcakes
, I think to myself,
I
need a beer and a burger to think this one through
.

Chapter
Two

I drag the thick-cut French fry through the pool of ketchup
on my plate and happily pop it into my mouth. Glancing around the
midcentury-style diner, my eyes alight on the sunburst clock on the wall. It’s
nearly eight o’clock, which means that Milo is almost an hour late. In the
early days of our on-again, off-again courtship, I would have tried to convince
myself that his chronic flakiness didn’t bother me so much. But after the
better part of a year, I no longer do. The dude is always blowing me off, and
it’s getting old.

As if sensing my displeasure from afar, Milo finally pulls
up and parks his hybrid car outside the diner. I can see his nose wrinkle in
distaste as he steps out into the fading sunlight. He’s not exactly a
burger-and-fries kind of guy, and it shows. As tiny as I am, my
sometimes-boyfriend is even tinier. He’s got a few inches on me, but his hips
are certainly more narrow than mine. He is cute though, in a geeky sort of way.
He’s all graphic tees, skinny jeans, and impeccable taste in bands no one’s
ever heard of. Milo’s the kind of guy I’ve always ended up with: nonthreatening,
brainy, and more than a little condescending. In other words, someone I could
beat in a push up contest with one hand tied behind my back.

Milo works in Silicon Valley, making way too much money for
his own good. He’s been trying to persuade me to ditch the FBI and come work
for his creative agency ever since I moved to California. I can’t seem to make
him understand that developing apps and branding websites would be the furthest
thing from fulfilling for me. He’s been known to call my job at the Bureau
“grunt work,” often when we’re in front of his pretentious, tech-sector
friends. We’re not exactly the perfect pair, but we’ve known each other since
our undergrad days at Pace, and he’s the only person I really know in LA. Like
it or not, he’s all I’ve got out here, or anywhere, for that matter.

I grew up on the other side of the country, in a little town
outside of Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was just my parents, my little brother
Brandon and I on a few acres of wooded land. The time I spent roaming around
the woods with Brandon—shooting soda cans with our BB guns and climbing trees
all the way to their flimsy top branches—was wonderful. But the hours we spent
at home with our unhappily married, dismissive parents? Not so much. They
drank, they fought, and they basically ignored us. But at least we had each
other.

Brandon and I were best friends. He was only a year younger
than me, with the same red hair, slight build, and blue eyes. People always
assumed that we were twins, and we may as well have been. Our school was tiny,
and there weren’t many other kids who lived close enough to play with, but I
hardly minded. I got to spend my childhood scraping up my knees and learning to
spit instead of fussing with makeup and fretting over boys. I never had any
close girlfriends. Still don’t. But that continued lack of sisterhood is the
only thing that bums me out about having been attached to my brother at the
hip. Especially given what happened when we grew up and left home.

We both escaped our toxic parents and went to college in big
cities. I left for New York to study at Pace, and Brandon headed for Philly to
attend Temple University. It was there that he lost his life to a stray bullet,
loosed during a shootout between cops and local gang members. He was a junior
when it happened. Twenty-one years old. I was picking up my graduation cap and
gown when my mother called to bluntly tell me the news. I haven’t spoken to my
parents much since the memorial service, to which they both showed up
belligerently drunk. Not that I imagine they’ve noticed.

“I don’t know why you insist on putting that crap into your
body,” Milo says crisply, yanking my mind back to the present as he slides into
the booth across from me.

“‘This ‘crap’ is delicious,” I remind him, taking a deep
swig from my beer bottle. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

“If by delicious you mean processed, loaded with salt, and
bound to kill you someday,” Milo shoots back, skeptically flipping through the
menu while ignoring my greeting.

“We’ve all got to go someday, Beckett,” I growl, doing my
best hard-boiled cop impression, “and no amount of spelt flour or free-trade,
organic kale is going to change that.”

“Your wit never fails to astound me,” Milo mutters, shaking
his head. “Is there anything they serve here that isn’t beer-battered?”

“God, I hope not,” I reply brightly.

“I’ll have to pass, then. Tempted though I am,” he says,
nudging the menu away as if it were diseased and crossing his skinny arms.

“It’s almost eight,” I observe, picking at the remains of my
cheeseburger bun, long since devoured while I waited for Milo to arrive.

“Couldn’t get here any sooner,” he shrugs. “Important
meeting with a client.”

“Aren’t you surgically attached to your iPhone by now?” I
ask, choosing not to point out that most of his clients are frivolous
corporations with all the time in the world to kill. Saving lives, arresting
child pornographers, quashing domestic terrorism—that’s
my
idea of important. “Just shoot me a text if
you’re going to be late so I don’t—”

“Did you really drag me here to berate me about my texting
habits?” he snaps, rubbing his red eyes under the thick-rimmed glasses that
obscure his face.

“I’m not berating you. And no, as a matter of fact,” I
reply, refusing to let his attitude bring me down, “something happened at work
today that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“We were scheduled for a coffee date tomorrow. This couldn’t
have waited?” he asks.

“We’re dating, Milo,” I remind him. “I didn’t realize I
needed to pencil in my interactions with you.”

“You know how busy I am, Quinn,” he says testily.

“Then I’ll make this real quick,” I tell him, leaning my elbows
on the checkered tablecloth. “I’m being assigned to a new case.”

“OK.”

“In Las Vegas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which means I’m going to be transferred to a new field
office. In Nevada,” I spell it out for him.

Milo blinks his big, watery eyes at me, his entire demeanor
transforming in an instant.

“Transferred?” he repeats, the fight entirely gone from his
voice. “As in, away from LA?”

“That is what transferred means, yes,” I confirm.

“But...What about me?” he croaks.

“Thanks, babe. This
is
a great opportunity, and it’s quite an honor to be singled out for my awesome
work,” I say sarcastically. Of course the first thing he thinks about upon
hearing my good news is himself. Not me. Not us.
Himself.

“The FBI can’t just ship you off wherever they like,” Milo
insists, ignoring me.

“They can, actually.”

“Well then...tell them you quit. You can come work at my
agency—”

“Why would I do that? I love my job,” I remind him for the
thousandth time. “I want to work this case, Milo.”

“So you’re just going to pack up and leave me for the sake
of your job?” Milo scoffs.

“Would you have noticed I’d gone if I hadn’t announced it to
you first?” I shoot back.

“You know full well that there are hundreds of other agents
who could do your job,” Milo says meanly. “You’re endlessly expendable there,
Quinn. You’re a worker bee. You’re not special. I don’t know why you’re bending
over backward for these people.”

“Actually, the special agent in charge of the Las Vegas
field office personally recruited me to—”

“Oh, please,” he laughs, “that’s how they keep you feeling
wanted, Quinn. Are you really too naive to understand that? You’re totally
brainwashed, and you can’t even see it. I won’t allow this transfer to happen.”