proceeded with caution. "I’m on the move a lot, both in the U.S. and abroad."
"That must mean you’re in federal law enforcement… must be fascinating and perhaps a little dangerous."
He passed a hand across his eyes, his fingertips lingering at the bridge of his nose as he massaged the ache there. "I really can’t talk about it, except in general terms. Most of what I do is highly classified. The people I deal with aren’t your run–of–the–mill criminals. They don’t rob corner banks or knock over liquor stores on the wrong side of town. They mount revolutions, subvert legitimate governments, and take over countries, and they don’t give a damn how many lives they destroy in the process."
Leah leaned forward, rested her elbows on the edge of the table, and propped her chin in her palms. She studied him for a long moment. "I don’t mean to pry, but chasing criminals around the globe has to wear a person down after a while. Doesn’t it get to you? I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for you to be constantly alert to any possible threat that might come your way."
Leave it to Leah, he thought, to pinpoint and articulate an important part of his frustration with the violence–filled world he inhabited. "It’s not quite that intense, but there’s damn little down–time."
"You must be good at your job," she observed.
"Why do you say that?"
"You’re alive. And for the record, it sounds very intense to me."
Brett shrugged, got to his feet, and walked to the edge of the balcony. After peering first left, then right, he studied the lighted rooftop of the building situated across from their hotel for anything that looked amiss. And as he stood there, he gripped the railing with both hands and tried to banish the images of death and destruction that filled his mind. He’d seen far too much of both, and he was bone–weary from so many years of it.
While he’d once derived satisfaction from tracking down and either jailing or executing his quarry, he now felt emotionally bankrupt from the years he’d spent crawling through the cesspools of evil across the globe. And because he’d periodically had to play the role of a gun for hire or an extremist capable of murder, he knew he carried the taint of those years and all of its collective ugliness. He suspected he always would.
"How can it not be?" Leah asked. "Intense, I mean. If these people are as deadly as you’ve implied, then you’re at risk all of the time, aren’t you?"
"Anyone who does what I do is at risk. It’s part of the job description. When you can’t take it anymore, you get the hell out. Otherwise, you jeopardize yourself and the people you’re responsible for."
"Brett…"
He turned to find her standing beside him. Alarm bells went off in his head. Starved for her compassion, but also desperate to keep her safe, he slipped his arm around her with as much calm as he could muster.
"Have I touched a nerve?" she asked as he guided her away from the railing and back under the awning.
He gave her a tight smile as he steadily moved them to the entrance of their suite. "Perhaps, but it wasn’t intentional, so don’t worry about it."
She paused, still in the circle of his arm, and looked up at him. "Your work… I mean, you could… die." That last word she said in a whisper.
Unprepared for the anxiety he saw in her eyes and heard in her voice, Brett quelled his desire to drag her into his bed and submerge himself in the volatility of her passion. He needed her so much right now, his soul ached.
Despite her earlier assurances, he remained convinced that, once she regained her memory of him and what had happened between them, she would cast him aside without a moment’s hesitation. "Doubtful," he said.
"What you
aren’t
saying is feeding my imagination."
He heard large raindrops splatter across the awning above their heads. The sound reminded him of rounds being fired from an automatic weapon. "Let’s go inside
"That must mean you’re in federal law enforcement… must be fascinating and perhaps a little dangerous."
He passed a hand across his eyes, his fingertips lingering at the bridge of his nose as he massaged the ache there. "I really can’t talk about it, except in general terms. Most of what I do is highly classified. The people I deal with aren’t your run–of–the–mill criminals. They don’t rob corner banks or knock over liquor stores on the wrong side of town. They mount revolutions, subvert legitimate governments, and take over countries, and they don’t give a damn how many lives they destroy in the process."
Leah leaned forward, rested her elbows on the edge of the table, and propped her chin in her palms. She studied him for a long moment. "I don’t mean to pry, but chasing criminals around the globe has to wear a person down after a while. Doesn’t it get to you? I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for you to be constantly alert to any possible threat that might come your way."
Leave it to Leah, he thought, to pinpoint and articulate an important part of his frustration with the violence–filled world he inhabited. "It’s not quite that intense, but there’s damn little down–time."
"You must be good at your job," she observed.
"Why do you say that?"
"You’re alive. And for the record, it sounds very intense to me."
Brett shrugged, got to his feet, and walked to the edge of the balcony. After peering first left, then right, he studied the lighted rooftop of the building situated across from their hotel for anything that looked amiss. And as he stood there, he gripped the railing with both hands and tried to banish the images of death and destruction that filled his mind. He’d seen far too much of both, and he was bone–weary from so many years of it.
While he’d once derived satisfaction from tracking down and either jailing or executing his quarry, he now felt emotionally bankrupt from the years he’d spent crawling through the cesspools of evil across the globe. And because he’d periodically had to play the role of a gun for hire or an extremist capable of murder, he knew he carried the taint of those years and all of its collective ugliness. He suspected he always would.
"How can it not be?" Leah asked. "Intense, I mean. If these people are as deadly as you’ve implied, then you’re at risk all of the time, aren’t you?"
"Anyone who does what I do is at risk. It’s part of the job description. When you can’t take it anymore, you get the hell out. Otherwise, you jeopardize yourself and the people you’re responsible for."
"Brett…"
He turned to find her standing beside him. Alarm bells went off in his head. Starved for her compassion, but also desperate to keep her safe, he slipped his arm around her with as much calm as he could muster.
"Have I touched a nerve?" she asked as he guided her away from the railing and back under the awning.
He gave her a tight smile as he steadily moved them to the entrance of their suite. "Perhaps, but it wasn’t intentional, so don’t worry about it."
She paused, still in the circle of his arm, and looked up at him. "Your work… I mean, you could… die." That last word she said in a whisper.
Unprepared for the anxiety he saw in her eyes and heard in her voice, Brett quelled his desire to drag her into his bed and submerge himself in the volatility of her passion. He needed her so much right now, his soul ached.
Despite her earlier assurances, he remained convinced that, once she regained her memory of him and what had happened between them, she would cast him aside without a moment’s hesitation. "Doubtful," he said.
"What you
aren’t
saying is feeding my imagination."
He heard large raindrops splatter across the awning above their heads. The sound reminded him of rounds being fired from an automatic weapon. "Let’s go inside
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