entrance. A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair stood patiently outside the locked front doors. As she watched, he buzzed her loft again. Then he glanced up at the camera.
Rainie couldn't help herself. Her breath caught. Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.
She ran a hand through her newly shorn hair again. She was still getting used to the look, and the heat made it flip out like a dark, chestnut dish mop. Then there was her tank top – old and sweat-soaked. Her denim shorts, ripped up, frayed, and hardly professional. She was just doing paperwork today, no need to dress up, and oh God had she put on deodorant this morning, because it was really hot in here and she could no longer tell.
Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy remained gazing up at the security camera, and even through the grainy image, she could see the intent look in his deep blue eyes.
Rainie's scattered thoughts slowed. Her hand settled at the hollow of her throat. And she studied Quincy, nearly eight months since she'd last seen him and six months since even the phone calls had stopped.
His eyes still crinkled in the corners. His forehead still carried deep, furrowed lines. He had the hard, lean features of a man who spent too much time dealing with death, and damn if she hadn't liked that about him. Same impeccably tailored suit. Same hard-to-read face. There was no one quite like SupSpAg Quincy.
He pressed the ringer for a third time. He wasn't going away. Once he made up his mind about something, Quincy rarely let it go.
Except her…
Rainie shook her head in disgust. She didn't want to think that way. They'd tried, they'd failed. Shit happened. Whatever Quincy wanted now, she doubted it was personal. She buzzed him in.
Eight floors later, he knocked at her front door. She'd had time for deodorant, but nothing in the world could save her hair. She swung open the door, balanced one hand on her denim-clad hip, and said, "Hey."
"Hello, Rainie."
She waited. The pause drew out, and to her satisfaction, Quincy broke first.
"I was beginning to worry that you were out on a case," he said.
"Yeah well, even the good guys can't be working all the time."
Quincy raised a brow. His dry tone made her positively nostalgic as he said, "I wouldn't know anything about that."
She smiled in spite of herself. Then she swung the door open a bit wider, and truly let him in.
Quincy didn't speak right away. He walked around her loft casually, but Rainie wasn't fooled. She'd blown the majority of her savings on the loft just four months ago and she knew the kind of impression it made. The eleven-foot ceilings of a converted warehouse space. The open, sunny layout with nothing but a kitchen counter and eight giant support columns to carve out four simple spaces: kitchen, bedroom, family room, and study. The huge expanse of windows, filling the entire outer wall with original 1925 paned glass.
The woman who had owned the condo before Rainie had finished the entranceway with warm red brick and painted the living space with rustic shades of adobe and tan. The result was the shabby chic look Rainie had read about in magazines, but knew better than to try on her own.
The loft had nearly bankrupted her, but the minute Rainie had seen it, she couldn't have gone without it. It was fashionable, it was upscale, it was beautiful. And maybe if the new and improved Lorraine Conner lived in this kind of place, she could be that kind of person.
"It's nice," Quincy said finally.
Rainie scrutinized his face. He seemed sincere. She grunted a reply.
"I didn't know you did sponge painting," Quincy commented.
"Don't. The previous owner."
"Ahh, she did a nice job. New hairdo?"
"I cut off the length and sold it to buy the loft, of course."
"You always were clever. Not organized, as I can tell by looking at the desk, but clever."
"Why are you here?"
Quincy paused,
Rainie couldn't help herself. Her breath caught. Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.
She ran a hand through her newly shorn hair again. She was still getting used to the look, and the heat made it flip out like a dark, chestnut dish mop. Then there was her tank top – old and sweat-soaked. Her denim shorts, ripped up, frayed, and hardly professional. She was just doing paperwork today, no need to dress up, and oh God had she put on deodorant this morning, because it was really hot in here and she could no longer tell.
Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy remained gazing up at the security camera, and even through the grainy image, she could see the intent look in his deep blue eyes.
Rainie's scattered thoughts slowed. Her hand settled at the hollow of her throat. And she studied Quincy, nearly eight months since she'd last seen him and six months since even the phone calls had stopped.
His eyes still crinkled in the corners. His forehead still carried deep, furrowed lines. He had the hard, lean features of a man who spent too much time dealing with death, and damn if she hadn't liked that about him. Same impeccably tailored suit. Same hard-to-read face. There was no one quite like SupSpAg Quincy.
He pressed the ringer for a third time. He wasn't going away. Once he made up his mind about something, Quincy rarely let it go.
Except her…
Rainie shook her head in disgust. She didn't want to think that way. They'd tried, they'd failed. Shit happened. Whatever Quincy wanted now, she doubted it was personal. She buzzed him in.
Eight floors later, he knocked at her front door. She'd had time for deodorant, but nothing in the world could save her hair. She swung open the door, balanced one hand on her denim-clad hip, and said, "Hey."
"Hello, Rainie."
She waited. The pause drew out, and to her satisfaction, Quincy broke first.
"I was beginning to worry that you were out on a case," he said.
"Yeah well, even the good guys can't be working all the time."
Quincy raised a brow. His dry tone made her positively nostalgic as he said, "I wouldn't know anything about that."
She smiled in spite of herself. Then she swung the door open a bit wider, and truly let him in.
Quincy didn't speak right away. He walked around her loft casually, but Rainie wasn't fooled. She'd blown the majority of her savings on the loft just four months ago and she knew the kind of impression it made. The eleven-foot ceilings of a converted warehouse space. The open, sunny layout with nothing but a kitchen counter and eight giant support columns to carve out four simple spaces: kitchen, bedroom, family room, and study. The huge expanse of windows, filling the entire outer wall with original 1925 paned glass.
The woman who had owned the condo before Rainie had finished the entranceway with warm red brick and painted the living space with rustic shades of adobe and tan. The result was the shabby chic look Rainie had read about in magazines, but knew better than to try on her own.
The loft had nearly bankrupted her, but the minute Rainie had seen it, she couldn't have gone without it. It was fashionable, it was upscale, it was beautiful. And maybe if the new and improved Lorraine Conner lived in this kind of place, she could be that kind of person.
"It's nice," Quincy said finally.
Rainie scrutinized his face. He seemed sincere. She grunted a reply.
"I didn't know you did sponge painting," Quincy commented.
"Don't. The previous owner."
"Ahh, she did a nice job. New hairdo?"
"I cut off the length and sold it to buy the loft, of course."
"You always were clever. Not organized, as I can tell by looking at the desk, but clever."
"Why are you here?"
Quincy paused,
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