| |
"How are you?" Her voice sent a shiver down his spine, evoking images of bourbon, honey and lazy southern days. She stood before him as she had on the first night they met—at the wedding where their two jobs collided, thief to agent.
“And here I thought the devil wears red.” he said it with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Half hoping to throw her off as much as she threw him, and also so to buy him some time. The memories were almost too much in that instant.
Nash had stood in his designated position at the reception, just like he was sitting there now, and staring at the gorgeous woman before him. Everything around him disappeared from his peripheral vision. Even the ring that had been big enough to choke a horse—something he should have been guarding that night, had all of his attention focused on—could not draw his gaze away.
In this insistence, it was Butters, the ever-present bodyguard, butler and man of all trades, who sat behind them—that Nash ignored. He didn’t have time for his smart mouth as well as hers in this instance, so he ignored the behemoth, who sat primly with folded hands and legs in his ever-present suit.
And just like the last time, he felt like he needed a bath and a change of clothes.
Of course, nothing he owned would compare to the outfits and the level of put-togetherness Blue or Butters’ had. He was glad that this time, he didn't look completely ridiculous. Last time, his black hair stuck up in a snarled mess. He had been covered in a thin film of glitter, and contending with blurring eyesight from the repeated blasts from the strobe lights.
He never had learned what her age was, but Nash assumed she had to be a few years younger than he was. Blue was over six feet tall, partly because of her skinny, heeled skyscrapers. Her blonde hair fell long and straight and was otherwise unadorned.
Hidden behind the glasses, he knew her eyes would appear to be a deep bluish-purple, but no one could convince Nash it wasn't a woman's sorcery. The magic granted by good lighting and a clever application of makeup. Or the dress in the same unbelievable hue, doing some sort of spellcasting to garner the matching shade.
“Always so charming.” she smirked, running a hand over a blue clad hip, drawing his gaze with the movement.
As he had that night, he felt a little ridiculous—uncomfortable. He always envisioned Jessica Rabbit when looking at Blue. Only instead of an animated sex symbol standing before him in brilliant red, he was looking at a real live version of blue and gold. "You wouldn't want to hear how I am anyway, nor do you care if I’m charming or not." Nash said it as calm as he could, trying to give nothing away. "My spidey senses told me you were watching me."
"Of course they did," she said, pulling one of the wrought-iron chairs away from the table to sit, long legs crossing.
"I assume one of these apartments is yours. And I see you still have Butters with you, and the mongrels you always drag everywhere." Nash wanted to cringe at how asinine he sounded.
"Of course," she repeated as she gave the two basset hounds the command to lie down.
"How did you realize I was sitting here waiting for you?" he asked, ignoring Moo Moo, the black and white hound who stared at him. Pork Chop, the red, rolled over, neither modest nor aware of the tension between the two humans above him.
"You never come here. You don't sit and order lunch. Butters saw you when he was watering the plants on the balcony. And you look like there is a cramp in your ass. You're not a complicated guy, Darlin'." She shrugged, neither apologetic nor concerned by the tone of their conversation.
"Now you've hurt my feelings."
"You don't have any feelings," she shot back, stealing his tea as the server set it on the table. She kept the glasses on, so he didn't catch her drinking in the sight of him. "Five years. You avoided me, trying to serve me with divorce papers. Big, bad Mr. FBI-Agent can't be seen fraternizing with the enemy. There is always some excuse too, why this wouldn't work or why you can't meet me to talk about things. There is always some case, suspect, clue, the whisper of a rumor, for Christ's sake. And now you need something, or you wouldn't be here. So, what is it?" she ground out.
"Bluebell," Nash sighed.
"I go by Blue," she informed him.
"Alright, Blue," he conceded before continuing. "You are a criminal. There isn't anything I can do about that. And the statute of limitations hasn't run out; almost, but not quite. I should arrest you on the spot right now."
"Then why aren't you?" she taunted.
"You are being used against me as a threat or blackmail, depending on the person, to ruin my career. That's why I needed to talk to you... and why I tried to serve you with papers." He fumed as his fingers drummed on the table. "I don't enjoy being threatened. I don't like your past encroaching on my present."
"Who is being threatened, you or me?" she wanted to know.
"Marco is implicating you in a homicide. He is laying the groundwork, pushing you into my face during a charity event—in a public place. Then he tried to have one of his goons attempt to intimidate me. My partner had to pull his gun. You are well-informed, possibly even became aware of the situation as you walked up behind them. We can both accept that you were there and leave it at that." Nash tried not to yell at her there in the restaurant. He didn't want the other patrons to overhear their conversation, but anger was creeping up to where he had to take several breaths to calm himself so that didn't happen.
"But what I am sure you didn't know was that I warned a security guard. A few hours later, Marco ordered—because, let's face it, he wouldn't do the dirty work himself—someone to beat the security guard to a pulp and stuffed him into a diamond display. And what's this! Why, will wonders never cease—a stolen diamond, a blue one, your favorite. They left a fancy earring at the scene too, screaming that a female did it," he finished, sarcasm dripping.
"Not very subtle." She tried to act relaxed about the whole thing, but her insides were churning.
"He doesn't care about the subtleties. He's in a hurry," he continued.
"I'm not sure why, but he's rushing things. Shove you in my face. Shove the rumors and evidence down the investigator's throat, and I get taken off the case. To them, my criminal wife is more than capable of committing the crime. My love for you could cause me to break laws in order to cover it up."
Blue snorted and gave a dry, humorless laugh. "They don't know you well if they think you love me. But you essentially think Marco is saying, ‘You won't play ball, so I have to ruin you?’" Blue's shrug was elegant and careless. "He was always dramatic, showy when he is trying to pull off a tough job."
Nash ignored the dig, because telling her that he HAD in fact loved her wouldn't do either of them any good. "In his mind, you were the apprentice, the student. Once you became your own master, then became better than he was, it made him angry. You're the one smudge on his record, the one person he tried and failed to control. He wants you to suffer."
She smiled at him, all teeth and fierce expression. "I'd like him to try."
He speared her with a glance. "This isn't funny. Any cop would look at what he's saying, hard. They'll be looking for you, flush you out, so he can get to you." He wanted to get up and pace or possibly ring her stubborn neck. "We can put you in protective custody," he offered.
"What makes you assume someone didn't follow you today?" she questioned, still laughing at him a little. "No, thank you, Darlin'. More tea?"
Nash growled, running his hands through his hair as she waved the server away when he refused the refill. "It's a messy job. The thing is—Marco will not stop."
"Nash, he's tried to find me before. I'm not worried about him. What does, is that he is trying to use you to search. I won't tolerate that. Marco and I should have a chat," she decided.
"And don't you think he's counting on that?" he asked.
"Why disappoint him?" Cigarette in hand, she pulled the bill toward her. "I've been playing this game for a long time. I can handle him."
Nash placed his hand over the one she was using to take the scraps of paper from him, squeezing with little more pressure than he meant. "Handle him? You can't handle him. Marco's a lunatic. He will try to kill you, and you'll be going into the lockup and charged before Butters can call me."
"He won't," she said, still unconcerned even after everything he told her.
"Blue—" he broke off, scowling at the dogs. Blue was reckless, beyond what one person should be. It had been part of her charm initially, before he realized what she did for a 'living.' "Are you telling me you know something?"