Kate Donovan - Identity Crisis

It annoyed Kristie to think she could waste hours of precious spinning on such an undeserving case. Then she reminded herself that it was part of the job. These assignments, however distasteful, helped keep SPIN well financed, even in hard times. And as bad as it was occasionally for the spinners, Ray had it worse. As the director, he was constantly forced to do political favors, most recently and repugnantly, for the president’s adviser Colonel Ulysses S. Payton. Kristie remembered the chauvinistic jerk from her interview, and knew that his meddling in SPIN affairs had grown along with his power within the administration in general. The thought that her first commendation had come from so ignominious a source made her want to kick a bop bag.

If Ray can put up with Payton, you can be a sport about this sorority caper, she told herself briskly. It might even be fun. Just give your imagination free rein on this one.

But something else had captured her imagination—the sensation that someone was following her. Surprisingly, the idea didn’t frighten her. After all, she was just three blocks from home on a well-lit, well-traveled street. It was simply intriguing, especially when she reminded herself of what Ray had said—that there was no such thing as instinct or intuition. Forcing herself to pay closer attention, she realized she could actually hear a second pair of footsteps. And unlike the sounds from the soft-soled shoes she had changed into just before heading out of the office, these were the dull clop-clop-clop of men’s dress shoes.

Not instinct. Just observation and deduction.

And it definitely didn’t require instinct for her to guess the identity of her stalker.

You just had to prove your point, didn’t you, Justin? she grumbled silently, remembering the agent’s threat to arrange a face-to-face meeting.

Several other SPIN employees lived in her neighborhood, and the last thing she needed was to be seen socializing with a field agent, so she ducked down an alley, then turned and planted her hands on her hips, ready to give the agent a piece of her mind. But it wasn’t clean-cut Justin Russo who strode right up to her. It was someone much scarier.

“Ray!”

His golden-brown eyes were wide, his voice strained. “What are you doing in an alley? Are you insane? What if I’d been a mugger?”

“Then I would have kicked your ass,” she quipped.

“What?”

Kristie winced. “I’m kidding, Ray. I knew you weren’t a mugger. From your shoes.”

“Pardon?”

“Men’s dress shoes. Not exactly designed for a quick getaway.” She tapped her temple with her index finger. “Analysis. Not instinct.”

“You were willing to bet your life on the fact that muggers never wear dress shoes?” His scowl deepened. “I still don’t get why you went down the alley. You didn’t know it was me.”

“The truth?” She squirmed but admitted, “I thought it might be Justin.”

“Russo?”

“Get a grip. I was wrong. It’s just…” She tried to smile, failed, and grimaced instead. “He joked about it today on the phone. About meeting me. I heard the footsteps of a well-dressed, athletic, clearly good-looking guy, and jumped to conclusions.”

“Athletic and good-looking?” Ray chuckled. “Nice save. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“Not so fast, Ortega.”

“Huh?”

She eyed him sternly. “You interrogated me. Now it’s my turn. Why were you following me?”

“I wasn’t.” He cleared his throat. “Not really. I was just trying to catch up to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you before you left, but I got a call. Then you took off. So I followed. I would’ve called out your name, but I didn’t want to startle you.”

She stepped closer, intrigued by the fact that he seemed uncomfortable. “Talk to me about what?”

He flushed. “I was a little rough on you this morning.”

“And so?” She flashed a playful smile. “You wanted to apologize? But instead you scared me half to death?”

“You didn’t look scared.”

“And you don’t sound apologetic.”

“Touché.” Ray inclined his head toward the brightly lit street. “Walk with me.”

When he cupped her elbow with his hand and steered her toward home, she reminded herself that it meant nothing. She wouldn’t even have noticed the intimate gesture if not for the Curse of David Wong.

You’re a dead man for psyching me out like this, she told the absent spinner. Aloud, she prompted Ray, “You said something about an apology?”

“And now I’m saying something about self-defense lessons.”

“Pardon?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “If you’re going to take chances like the one you just took, you need to get some sensible shoes—not just tennies—and you need some instruction. Like I said, I can give you some pointers. Or you could take a real class—”

“I took a self-defense class in college. Eye-gouging, nut-kicking, thumb-bending—all sorts of violence.” She flashed a teasing smile. “I’m a lover not a fighter.”

“Yeah, well, you might not like the kind of lovemaking a mugger has in mind.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I knew it wasn’t a mugger. Sheesh, if this is your idea of an apology, I don’t think I want one.”

They had reached the vestibule of her apartment building, and she glared playfully as she inserted her key in the lock. “If I invite you up, do you promise not to nag me?”

Ray laughed. “I promise.”

He took her arm again as they climbed the two flights of stairs leading to her unit. “I haven’t been here since you moved in.”

“I only found it because of you. And it’s been such a great place. Big and quiet. Just what I needed.”

She stole a sideways glance, knowing that their employer-employee relationship made outside socializing awkward for such a rule-oriented guy. He could be buddies with David, a married male, but an unmarried female subordinate was a different story.

So why was tonight different? Was this part of the apology? Or was David right, and Ray was going to make some sort of move on her?

In any case, she was determined to be a good hostess, so she quickly unlocked the door, pushed it open and motioned for him to enter. “Ta da.”

He walked past her, then whistled appreciatively as he surveyed walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. “It looks completely different. Nice, but different. I see now where your paycheck goes.”

“Books make expensive wallpaper, as my uncle says. But it never goes out of style.”

She bustled past him, depositing her keys and belongings on the coffee table and turning on lights. “I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Want some?”

“Champagne?” His brown eyes warmed. “What’s the occasion?”

She flushed, hoping he hadn’t mistaken her careless hospitality for a romantic overture. “No occasion. I just don’t have company very often.”

He seemed about to respond—most likely to remind her of his advice to get a life—then he just shrugged instead and wandered over to the doorway of the spare bedroom, where he promptly began to laugh. “What’s this?”

“If you’re referring to my sparring partner, she has a name. Betty Bop.”

“Unbelievable. Let’s hope you get attacked by a micromugger.”

“She’s short but wily.” Kristie joined him, smiling toward the five-foot-high toy. “I figure if I can kick her in the head, I can easily reach most guys’ groins. That’s the target of choice, right?”

“Right. Unless they have a gun.”

She nodded. “That’s the one thing Betty can’t do for me.”

“The one thing?”

Kristie eyed him sternly. “Since you’re here, maybe I’ll put you to work. Come on.” She dragged him by the arm back into the living room, then picked up a wooden ruler from her desk. “Hold this like a knife. Let’s see if I can kick it out of your hand.”