Bella pulled her rental car into the parking space near the Roybal Federal Building. Her luggage was stowed in the trunk, and she'd already said her goodbyes to her mama and sisters.
The lobby information kiosk indicated that Agent A. Hashemi occupied space on the second floor and listed an office number. She took the stairs and entered an opaque glass-windowed door at the far end of the corridor.
A large, empty waiting room lay behind the door. An older woman with the face of a saint and the roar of a dragon asked her to state her business and afterward indicated she should take a seat in the row of plastic chairs against the wall. Bella eyed the closed office door to her left and sat down.
After waiting twenty-two minutes, she began tapping her foot and shuffled in her seat. She looked at the military-issue wall clock over the receptionist's desk and frowned.
The older woman caught her glance and plastered a reproving smile on her face. "Agent Hashemi is a very busy man, Ms. Torres. He'll be with you momentarily."
Bella was sure the illusive Agent Hashemi – and what the hell kind of name was that anyway – was a busy man, apparently far busier than she was as a mere assistant district attorney in a much smaller county than Los Angeles. She drummed her fingers on the hard edge of the briefcase lying on her lap and debated leaving just for spite. Her already foul mood grew fouler.
Hashemi kept her waiting over a half hour. If he didn't see her soon, she would miss her flight. And the mountain of work piled on her desk. She could schedule a later flight, but she had no intention of leaving behind any of her Vargas files without getting an explicit working agreement with Hashemi for continued access to their information.
She knew the agent would fight her on this, but she came prepared for opposition.
The door to the office swung open and the receptionist – Mrs. Roberts, the name sign indicated – rose from behind her desk in time to greet the person leaving. A lanky, fair-skinned man with an open, laughing face – too open to be the DEA agent, Bella surmised – eased past the dragon lady and caught Bella's eye. He wiggled his brows in a passable Groucho Marx imitation and swept piercing blue eyes over Bella.
"Sorry you had to wait," he said, a grin splitting his pleasant face. He shook his head and smiled knowingly as if he were in on a huge joke. "Hashish will be very surprised."
"Hashish?"
The man tossed the words over his shoulder as he exited through the reception area door. "Agent Hashemi," he explained with a wider grin. "What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face."
The door clicked shut behind him as Bella heard Mrs. Roberts say something about an eleven o'clock appointment. Humph – more like eleven-thirty.
Then distinctly, her voice amused and motherly at the same time, the assistant said, "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi." The older woman turned to Bella and gestured toward the open door. "Don't keep him waiting, Ms. Torres."
Bella smoothed her suit skirt, adjusted her cuffs, and clutched the briefcase firmly in her left hand. She spared Mrs. Roberts a brief look of challenge before she stepped through the office door, her chin tilted and her eyes snapping.
Not a girl from the barrio for nothing, she prepared to do battle – and immediately froze in shock. Damn her silly sisters and their stupid tricks. Double damn her own reckless sense of adventure. She took a fraction of a second to recover, quicker she was satisfied to note, than Agent Hashemi – Ashraf, call me Rafe, long A – Hashemi, the son of a bitch.
She extended her hand in greeting and put on her court voice as he stood behind his desk, mouth still gaping. "Agent Hashemi, I'm Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres from Bigler County."
And I am seriously screwed, Rafe thought the moment Mrs. Roberts ushered ADA I. Torres into his office. He stumbled to his feet, at a loss for words for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Dressed in a professionally-cut gray suit with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, she looked like a school teacher or a minister's wife. But neither her long hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape, nor her minimal makeup, could hide her natural beauty or the memory of the siren from last night.
Christ, who could've imagined the sexy woman he'd spent the night with was the ADA from up north? The one whose repetitive emails contained a single annoying refrain: Their office would not turn over their case files on Diego Vargas.
The hand she extended was far firmer than the one which had trailed fingers across his body twelve hours ago. With a voice far more strident than sexy, her first question was like a thrown-down gauntlet. "So, tell me, Ashraf, did you know last night who I was?"
Before speaking, Rafe nodded to dismiss Mrs. Roberts, eyeing the composed and modestly dressed Isabella Torres until his assistant left. This Isabella was a study in contrast from last night's woman who'd moaned beneath his… Shit!
Why had he ever thought those dark eyes were warm and inviting? Right now they snapped at him as sharply as a whip in a lion tamer's grip. He pulled himself together and met her coolness with a glare. "Of course I didn't know who you were. Whatever you think of me personally, I'm a professional."
Rafe had known all along that Bigler County had no option but to turn over their Vargas case files to him. He'd just never expected the man – woman – to turn up in person to do it. He gestured toward the padded chair in front of his desk. "Please sit down, Ms. Torres. Let's straighten out this misunderstanding."
Torres took the chair opposite his desk and perched on the edge, setting her briefcase on the floor. Her slender hands clasped in her lap. She looked pale. And severe, with her long black hair pulled tightly back from her face.
Silence. Her dark, clear eyes remained unfriendly.
Unnerved in the face of her quiet militarism, Rafe sat down, folded his hands, and pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. "When D.A. Barrington called a few days ago to say the files were on their way," he began, "I assumed they'd arrive by courier or special delivery."
"You probably never dreamed the – what did you call me, oh that's right – ballsy ADA would deliver them herself." She referred to a momentary lapse in judgment when he'd used the term in an email to Charles Barrington.
"Actually, I thought 'himself,'" Rafe replied with a calm smile that belied his turmoil.
Merde! Scheisse!Shit! The ability to swear – and speak – half a dozen languages made him quite good at his job, but right now his mind scrambled for a way to handle the current situation. Should he ignore it, pretend last night never happened? Blow it off like a bad joke? Jesus!
After a moment he said, "Look, maybe we should meet the, uh, issue head on and agree to put it behind us." Bella from last night would've gladly agreed, but he wasn't sure about today's Isabella of the fiery eyes.
He paused and waited for a reply that didn't come. "Would that work for you?" he asked a long moment later, curbing his impatience.
Torres contemplated the scene out the small window and then swept those bottomless eyes up to meet his through thick lashes. She inclined her head gracefully as if she was doing him a big favor. "Of course. What happened between us last night was very… unfortunate, but hardly the end of the world."
Unfortunate?
He scowled before catching himself and continued in as smooth a voice as he could manage. "Okay, then, we're in agreement. We go on as if it never happened."
Since Rafe never had any intention of cooperating with Bigler County in the Vargas investigation, the idea of putting it behind them was the best solution. Get the uncomfortable moment over with, obtain the damn files, and move on, never to see ADA I. Torres again.
Isabella, call me Bella, Torres.
They would treat last night as a casual encounter between consenting adults.
Right?
Why had he assumed only a man could be so ferocious in refusing a request from a federal agent? And what a cosmic joke that he, who rarely had time to date, would hook up at a bar with the very person he'd been wrangling with over the Vargas case files! What the hell were the odds of that?
Suddenly he recalled that his email address had also contained simply his initial and last name. A. Hashemi. And he'd only mentioned his full given name Ashraf last night. Call me Rafe, he had insisted.
And then he wondered. "Did you know who I was?" he countered belatedly.
"Don't be ridiculous." She seemed restless as she jumped up from the chair and examined the enlarged photo of Parker Center on the east wall. "I had no idea who you were."
For some odd reason, relief flooded through him and on the heels of that, genuine remorse. "Look, Isabella, I'm sorry."
Her back to him, her voice small-sounding, she whispered, "Yeah." Then she squared her shoulders and turned to face him. "You're right. Let's put this thing behind us."
A wave of regret washed over him for the what-might-have-been. He'd heard that remembered passion was sweeter than the real thing. If so, he was in a helluva lot of trouble. Last night the warm, willing proffer of Isabella's body had clouded every sensible restraint he usually put on himself.
Instead, he'd thrown himself into the intensity of giving her pleasure. And there was no doubt that Isabella had been thoroughly pleasured. He felt himself grow hard behind the desk that shielded his lower body.
Now what?
Would Torres use their brief relationship as leverage to stay involved in the Vargas case? Looking at her grim face, her minimal makeup, and her set jaw, he couldn't believe she would risk her career by going against her D.A.
She couldn't be more than twenty-eight. Twenty-nine? Young for an ADA, and that meant she was ambitious. No, he didn't think she'd want last night's events splattered all over the small world of law enforcement any more than he did.
He stood and bought himself time by adjusting the blinds behind his desk and looking out over Temple Street. When he resumed his seat, he felt calmer, ready to proceed. He smiled. "After all, the stakes are the same. The Bigler County District Attorney's Office has information on Diego Vargas that is germane to my federal case."
She nodded, throwing a glance at her briefcase still resting on the floor by her chair.
"There's never been any question that your office would turn over the files," he reminded her.
"We have no choice?" He knew her asking closed the door to any secret hope she might've harbored.
"Exactly." And, he thought, last night didn't alter that fact.
Rafe took in her appearance as she stood under the picture. Isabella Torres looked as different from the bright, sexy Bella who'd spent the night entwined in his arms as oranges from lemons. Even her mouth, drawn in tight puckers, hid the other woman.
He recognized both her conservative suit and prim hair style as attempts to detract from her looks. Torres wanted badly to be dealt with on her abilities, not her beauty. Well, she failed miserably.
In just a few moments of observation, Rafe had learned a great deal about Isabella Torres. Whatever that said about him, he intended to use this knowledge to his advantage.