Make Me, Sir

She heard a thud. A thump. What sounded like a herd of horses stampeded through the room, and her two black cats tangled into a rolling ball under the tiny kitchen table. Gabi snorted a laugh. Whoever said cats were quiet pets needed his head examined. They might stalk silently, but the rest of the time…?

With a mutual hiss, the boys gave up the fight, and first Hamlet, then Horatio landed on her stomach.

“Oomph. Dammit, guys.” Smiling, she stroked them. Horatio with long, fluffy fur, Hamlet with short, sleek fur, they’d been a birthday present last year from her grandmother. Little fur babies to love from someone she loved. “You know, boys, your mama must have entertained the neighborhood, ’cause you sure don’t look like brothers.” She added wistfully, “I wish I had a brother or sister.” But her parents disliked how much a child interfered with their lives and had never considered having another after Gabi.

Hamlet pushed against her hand, demanding a head scratching.

“That’s me, guys. A handicap to a career.” She’d tried to be the perfect daughter at first. When that didn’t gain her any increased affection or attention, she’d gone the other way. Perhaps not the best thought-out scheme, but at least when she’d misbehaved, they noticed her.

As if to commiserate, Horatio rubbed his cheek against her chin.

She rubbed back. “Maybe they’d have done better with cats.” Or not. At ten, she’d begged for a pet and received a list of reasons for their refusal. Scratched furniture, pet dander, noisy… “They’d only like you two if you were silent and hairless. Without claws.”

Hamlet stared at her with appalled green eyes; he’d always been more conservative than Horatio.

After a glance at the clock, she groaned. “Guys, I need to get moving. I’m meeting our dear, sweet buddy, Dickhead-and the other two agents-at some Clearwater beach hotel.” Rhodes would probably spend the entire time tearing her apart. Dammit.

She’d asked Agent Galen to assign her a different agent, but Rhodes had specifically requested the Shadowlands. Of course, he’d prefer the ritzy private club to the others. Because of his seniority in the Tampa office, they couldn’t arbitrarily remove him.

Horatio flicked his ears forward as if to ask why she didn’t just disembowel the obnoxious agent. What else were claws for?

“Don’t tempt me.” She swung her legs down and sat up. “What bothers me about this assignment is Marcus. After all my years of smarting off to the parental units, who’d imagine I’d want to behave? Well…behave most of the time.”

She grinned, remembering how she’d stepped out of the shower before Marcus, then reached back to push the lever to cold. The man had a remarkable command of the profaner elements of the King’s English.

And a hard hand.

And amazing stamina.

She sighed. He’d wasn’t quite as conservative as she’d thought.

Then again, his decor seemed pretty dull. And his clothing. And the way he talked sometimes-Mr. Lawyer. She shook her head. No, they weren’t really alike at all.

And he doesn’t like brats, so she sure wasn’t his type. He’d only taken her home because she’d been a mess, and the master of the trainees was a walking, talking example of overprotectiveness. Well, if she’d been his pity fuck for the weekend, she’d enjoyed it. Even if the thought did hurt.

She picked up Hamlet, kissed the top of his furry head, and set him on the floor, then did the same with Horatio. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she glanced around the apartment. Beige on bland on insipid. Very creative decorator.

Hamlet and Horatio sat side by side, disgust at her abandonment plain in their postures.

“We can do this, guys. Only two weeks and we go home.” Back to her cozy, colorful apartment, back to their cat condos and window perches.

Back to a life without a stuffy, domineering lawyer who sometimes seemed like something more.

Once in the fancy Clearwater hotel, she checked to make sure no one had followed her. She grinned, remembering Dickhead’s cursory lesson that she’d titled “How to Be an Agent in Five Easy Steps.” Nonetheless, she dutifully got off the elevator two floors early and climbed the stairs to the proper floor. How did they manage to do this covert stuff without feeling like idiots?

Winded, she stopped in front of the door to the hotel room and watched the elevator and stairway for a minute. Just in case. The silence in the hallway grew heavier as she stood there. Her amusement died as she remembered why she was here. Because someone wanted to sell her, to break her like an animal, to use her until she died. Oh, Kim. She pounded on the door.

It opened, and Agent Rhodes stepped back to let her in. “About time you got here, Renard.”

Her relief at being inside faded. She glanced at her watch. Two minutes late. She turned away to look around at the room decorated in warm colors of sand and brown, highlighted with tropical oranges and reds. Still a little winded, Gabi dropped onto the L-shaped, sectional sofa without waiting for an invitation. Next time, she’d stop the elevator two flights above the hotel floor and walk down. And the minute she returned home to Miami, she’d join a gym. She meant it this time. Really.

“What happened to the meeting?” she asked, glancing around the empty room.

“A conference call in Buchanan’s room. Kouros said they’d return shortly.” Rhodes took a seat at the other end of the sofa and smoothed down his black suit, adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt. He wore J. Edgar-approved conservative clothing, undoubtedly chosen to facilitate his way up the ladder.

He picked up the coffee cup on the table and took a sip. “You’re not a trained agent, Renard, but the stunt you pulled last night jeopardized the investigation. I don’t know why you have your head up your ass-or maybe I do.” His lip raised in a sneer. “I’ve seen how much you like your evenings.”

Gabi set her hands on her thighs, keeping her fingers open, her palms down. A victim specialist had to keep her temper, to counsel, to talk through, to negotiate. He did have a point, she thought guiltily. She shouldn’t have tried to work on her own personal problems at the Shadowlands. But she was glad she had. How could she allow herself to stay so vulnerable to a simple word or two?

But no need to worry about it now. “Rhodes,” she said, giving him a level look. “Your comment is inappropriate. Please confine yourself to a discussion about the investigation.”

His face flushed. Had he forgotten how often she’d called him on his behavior last year? Amusement tickled her throat. Maybe he thought that because she was a submissive in the club, her whole personality had changed. Not.

He glared at her. “Then, sticking to the discussion, I want you to know if you pull another stupid trick like going off with one of your fuck buddies, I’ll have you fired. You got that?”

She sighed. Narrow-minded asshole. “Bear in mind I don’t work for you, Rhodes. I volunteered for this, and I can unvolunteer at any time and you can try to whistle up a new submissive to take my place.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Good luck with that.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. Good choice. Considering her teenagelike bratty behavior in the Shadowlands, he’d probably forgotten she wasn’t someone he could push around. But as a child of an English professor and a corporate lawyer, she could not only out-pompous him, but could probably rip him to pieces verbally. And that wouldn’t achieve anything except a moment of-very nice-satisfaction.

Unfortunately, complaining about him wouldn’t get her far. Others had tried, but he had too many high-level buddies. And he’d undoubtedly do his best to destroy her reputation in turn.

She sat back slowly as a nasty realization surfaced. If Rhodes put his twisted slant on what she had to do in the club, this job could well kill her career. Her chest tightened as she thought of everything she’d worked for falling to pieces.

Before she could decide what to do, two men walked into the room. One was Galen Kouros, classically tall, dark, and handsome with a very unclassical limp. She hadn’t seen him walk before, but from the way he leaned on a black cane, he no longer chased after criminals on foot. The lines in his face might come from pain, not a bad temper.

Despite the contemporary tan slacks and a white shirt, the other man looked like a medieval Scottish Highlander: a fair-skinned face with hard, flat planes; tied-back, light brown hair; tall and wide-shouldered. Both unshaven guys had the drawn appearance of people who hadn’t seen a bed in recent history.

Interesting contrast though, a team of light and dark-did the light one play the good guy during interrogations?