by Helen Conrad
“For you,” the delicate waitress said, bowing as she set a small porcelain dish before Shelley. In the center, artfully surrounded by slivers of white vegetable and coils of orange ginger, lay a long, black cylinder, cut across into slices like a very small jelly roll.
“California roll,” she announced with aplomb.
Shelley recoiled, ready to insist that she wasn't hungry and was not about to touch anything in this restaurant, but when her eyes met the hopeful gaze of the waitress, she swallowed her words.
“I'm sure I’ll love it,” she replied weakly. “Thank you.”
Michael was grinning at her as the waitress departed. “Don't worry,” he said. “Not a piece of raw fish has even breathed near that roll. If you'll look carefully, you'll see nothing more threatening than nice pink, well-cooked shrimp and green avocado.”
She looked down and saw what he was talking about. “That may be,” she said suspiciously, “but what about the seaweed wrapped on the outside?”
A vague shadow passed over his face. “Just taste it and ...”
Shelley gave him a look of long-suffering patience. She poked at a slice of it with a single chopstick, feeling very silly for her irrational fear. A psychologist should be above these things, she told herself. A psychologist should have her life under control. She'd thought she did. But maybe that was because she'd been swimming along in her own stream, unchallenged by any unusual currents. Looking into Michael's eyes, she thought she could see hints of a whole ocean of wild water waiting just beyond.
“Come on,” he urged softly. “Be brave.”
She flashed him a searing glance. “Bravery has nothing to do with it,” she lied. “I'm just not very hungry.” But she knew she couldn't get away with that much longer. Clutching both chopsticks in her hand, she gingerly picked up a thick slice and, holding her breath, nibbled at a few kernels of rice.
“You were telling me about your crime,” she reminded him, hoping to take his mind off how she was coping with the food. Actually the rice wasn't half bad. She took another nibble, this time snagging a piece of plump shrimp and a dash of avocado. “Do you work for the police?”
He shrugged. “Not exactly. I'm with the district attorney's office. And since I've just moved into this territory after five years in the Bay Area, the local police, except for Sam, didn't know who I was at first.”
She realized she'd devoured the whole slice of California roll without a qualm. Her stomach hadn't made one protest. Even the delicate seaweed covering tasted good. Not sealike at all. She picked up a second slice and began work on it.
Michael handled the wooden eating utensils with the same deft grace that seemed to come naturally to everything he did, Shelley noticed. She found herself watching him, studying little things, like the way the corners of his mouth seemed to tug into a smile almost against his will, and the way he narrowed his eyes when enjoying a special taste—or looking at her.
It was true, she realized with a start. He was enjoying looking at her. She could see the telltale signs. Suddenly she found her own mouth curving into an unbidden smile as well. It had been so long since she'd noticed a man in this way—noticed him noticing her—she'd forgotten how nice it could feel.
“What are you, then?” she challenged him. “An undercover agent, or what?”
He glanced around the room with lazy chagrin. “Let’s not tell the world,” he reminded her softly as he put a cloth napkin to his lips and reached for his round teacup. “This is not a piece of information meant for public knowledge. In fact, Sam would probably have me fired just for telling you.”
Her gaze met his sparkling blue eyes, and she knew it was a game to him; a big, funny, exciting game. And he was confident of winning every time. She couldn't help but laugh back at him.
“But you know you can trust me,” she told him. “Right?”
He chuckled aloud. “No, now that you mention it, I don't know anything of the kind. But I thought you deserved to know the truth, after the award-winning performance you played for me today.”
The smile faded from her face. She remembered how frightened she'd been, how she'd had to steel herself to do what she thought was her duty. “That wasn't a performance,” she told him softly. “I thought you were for real. I wanted you stopped.”
“And you did the job beautifully. Sandra Bullock, eat your heart out.”
She gazed at him levelly, realizing how different their memories were of the event they'd shared. She remembered the fear, the anxiety. Meanwhile Michael remembered the thrill, the triumph of a plan well executed. They were very different, weren’t they? He wasn’t for her. But she knew that. And it was a good thing she didn’t really expect anything from him. His whole life screamed “Heartbreaker” in every way.
“I didn't know the district attorney did this kind of thing,” she commented. “I thought that was left to the FBI.”
He smiled. “We work in connection with them, just as we do with the local police. You see, there's a new emphasis on white-collar crime, especially in areas like this where there’s new money and people who like to speculate with it. We're working under a special federal law-enforcement grant. We're kind of a penthouse bunco squad.”
“White-collar crime?”
“Swindles. Real estate scams. Investment fraud. Setting up suckers where they have to throw in a lot of money to reach a tempting goal, but somewhere down the line the goal evaporates on them, and they never get their money back. In the past that sort of thing has been prosecuted on a hit-or-miss basis, changing attorneys with the changing seasons. What we're trying to do is set up a separate unit of investigators and attorneys who will stay with each case from undercover work right on through conviction and sentencing.”
His eyes were shining as he talked, and she could see he loved his job. He loved playing at being a crook. How deep did it go?
No. She didn’t belong here, belong with him, belong in his world. It was just as well. She felt a tinge of sadness. This man was not for her. In an hour, she would probably see the last of him. And she ought to be glad of it—so why was there a stinging sensation in her eyes?
“So you were working on the undercover stage when we ran into each other,” she said, trying to get her mind off her thoughts. “But why did the police go through with the charade of sticking you in counseling for six months?”
He shrugged, chasing a stray chip of ginger around the edge of his lacquer tray with his chopsticks. “It's all part of the attempt at verisimilitude. I'll show up for the first few appointments, but once this case is closed, I'll drop out.”
She cocked her head to the side, looking at him speculatively. “Maybe you ought to take this opportunity to get some real help,” she told him, not noticing how his brows drew together at her suggestion. “Jeff ... I mean, Doctor Kramer's very good at psychotherapy.”
“What makes you think I might need psychotherapy?” The low silkiness of the voice warned her he hadn't taken kindly to her idea. He'd abandoned his lunch and was staring at her with very little humor left in his eyes.
Uh oh. She felt a catch in her heartbeat. He was so very attractive—and so very wrong for her. She knew that instinctively. He was danger and excitement. She was careful preparation and cautious contentment.
Would it be worth the risk to fall in love with a man like this? Maybe. But that was something she would never find out. Nope. Not her style at all.
“Everyone can use a sounding board now and then,” she covered vaguely. “You know, this California roll is really very good.” She popped the last bite into her mouth and chewed on it innocently, glancing almost surreptitiously to see what Michael had left on his plate. The roll hadn't been large at all, and she was still hungry.
“Why don't you give me some analysis?” His hand reached across the table, suddenly covering hers.
She looked up quickly, eyes widening. His touch was just a little familiar, a little too warm, startling her. But he held tightly, and the tease was b
ack in his eyes.
“I'll have the appointments set up with you instead of Doctor Kramer. I'm sure you could help me uncover all my neuroses in record time.”
“I can't do it,” she squeaked out, embarrassed by the shakiness of her voice. “I'm not a fully qualified psychologist yet. I'm only interning.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Just a baby shrink, are you?”
She stumbled on quickly, trying to explain. “I do some counseling. I've got a limited license as a therapist. And I teach a night class at the local junior college on Thursday nights. But I can't take contract work from government agencies.” She drew her tongue across her lips. “You see, I've completed all my classwork, but I've got a certain amount of intern hours to fulfill, and my thesis to complete, before I'm a full-fledged clinical psychologist.”
“I see.” His fingers moved on hers with easy, seductive power. She felt as though he were about to reel her in, arm first. “And just what does your thesis deal with?”
She couldn't seem to take her eyes off his hard, brown fingers, but she kept talking as quickly as she could. “The psychology of color as related to dietary habits,” she explained, putting her mouth on automatic. “You see, the color of food has so much to do with how we perceive it, how we taste. So I've conducted countless experiments. I cook macaroni in red food coloring, green scrambled eggs, purple applesauce, and I setup test feedings, studying how appetites change when confronted with unconventionally colored food.”
“Green eggs?” he asked, his face contorted In horror.
She nodded. “Black mashed potatoes, orange milk.”
He let her hand go in a rush of laughter. “Incredible,” he sputtered. “And you have the nerve to turn up your nose at sushi?”
“Oh, but that's totally different,” she protested, and then sank back in her seat, realizing it wasn't at all.
He slid across the seat and rose from the table. “Shelley Carrington,” he announced, reaching down and putting a finger under her chin to tilt her face up toward his. “I find you quite delightful, but I'm going to have to ask you to excuse me for a moment. I have a telephone call to make. It’s private and it can't wait.”
Still smiling, he leaned down and dropped a light kiss on her lips, and then turned and left her to stare after him in pleased astonishment.
He was so cool, calm and collected. Was he for real? Regardless, she liked him. A slow smile spread across her face as she whispered the words aloud. She liked Michael Hudson. Liked him very much. And that scared her.
She hadn't felt so strongly attracted to a man since—Lord, she could hardly remember when. Barry, probably, and their romance had flowered during her senior year of college, while she was trying to decide whether to go on to graduate school and starve, or get a job and make a decent living for a change.
She'd ended up doing both, working as a secretary in the day and going to night school to finish her degree. And that was why it had taken her so long to get to the verge of earning her full professional credentials. At the time her disillusionment with Barry had helped to make her decision easier.
He'd been a loving friend, with thick, curly red hair and serious green eyes that seemed to say he loved her. His lips said the same thing, not to mention his body. And she'd been so sure they would marry when they graduated.
It wasn't until she'd thought she'd surprise him by finding an apartment for the two of them to share after the wedding that she'd met his other girlfriend-- Lydia, his very pregnant live-in lover, about whom Shelley had never heard a whisper.
Once the truth was out, she could look back and see all the signs she'd blithely ignored before. The way he'd avoided taking her to his rooms at a nearby boarding house, the nights he'd been too busy “studying” to see her, the fact that he claimed he didn't want to have a phone. His life with her had been restricted to on-campus. He'd lived another life in town.
“I need you both,” he'd protested when she'd confronted him. “I need the intellectual stimulation I get from you, the earthy mothering I get from Lydia. Why can't women accept these things?”
Oh yeah. Why, indeed?
The pain of his betrayal was awful. For two days, she thought her life was over. But then, a strange thing happened to Shelley. Her love for Barry evaporated like morning fog. Once she’d really taken a look at him, she’d realized she’d only been with him because he was comfortable.
And now, here was Michael Hudson, stirring the embers of old excitements. She shook her head, smiling at her own silliness. She mustn't take this too seriously, she told herself. Better to put her mind on something else.
Something like food. She glanced down at her empty plate, then across at the little mounds left in Michael's lacquer tray. The California roll seemed better and better the more she thought about it. How different could the sushi Michael ordered be? She reached over with her chopsticks and poked at one mound, testing the thin piece of white, flaky material lying on top of the rice, Michael was right. If she could face black mashed potatoes without a quiver, how could she cringe at raw fish? Looking around quickly to make sure no one was watching, she broke off a tiny piece and put it on her tongue, shuddering slightly as she did so.
No taste. She moved it around in her mouth experimentally. No taste at all. Maybe she needed a bigger piece.
Getting really brave now, she took a larger bite and chewed it thoughtfully. There was a taste, but it wasn't the least bit fishy. In fact, it was so delicate, so light, the meat seemed to melt in her mouth. Full of confidence, she picked up the rest of the mound—vinegared rice, raw fish, and all—and popped it in her mouth.
Delicious. It tasted like the restaurant smelled, slightly exotic, but very good. She wanted more.
“Ah-hah!” Michael's voice went through her like an electric shock, and she jumped back guiltily. “I knew I was a fool to trust you too easily. A woman who would take the food right out of a man's mouth!”
“It wasn't anywhere near your mouth,” she retorted, pretending to pout. “And anyway, you were the one who wanted me to open my mind.”
He dropped down into the seat and slid the entire tray over to her side of the table, “Feel free” he told her. “I'm glad to think I've done my part to promote world peace and international understanding.”
She grinned a bit sheepishly, but she didn't turn down his offer. “I don't think I can do much to affect world peace,” she admitted. “But if eating good food helps, I'll certainly try to do my part.”
He sat back and watched her eat, his eyes warm and amused. Looking up, she met his gaze and suddenly felt as though she had a mouth too full of oatmeal. Swallowing carefully, she tried to get him talking again.
“Did you reach the party you were calling?”
He nodded, not saying a word, just watching her. She remembered what he'd said before. “I find you quite delightful” had been his exact words. His eyes were saying the same thing in their own way.
It was very exciting, but she knew it was also an exercise in danger. Get him talking, she told herself. Quick, before you begin to believe what his eyes are saying.
Groping, she came back to the phone call. “Well, did they give you a new cloak-and-dagger assignment?” she asked, her voice slightly high. “Are you heading off to try shoplifting in other parts of the country?”
His eyes darkened seriously. “My work isn't something I can joke about in public, Shelley,” he said quietly.
She sat back, a bit stung by his rebuke. Of course, it wasn't; she should have known better. “How long have you been at this . . . profession?” she asked in a softer voice, glancing around to make sure there was no one within earshot.
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “It seems like all my life.”
“Is it dangerous?”
His face broke into a smile. “Your eyes are so big. No, it's not very dangerous. Not any more so than high-rise construction work or hang gliding.”
It was obviously very dangerous. And just as obvious, tha
t was part of what he loved about it. She felt a vague wave of regret. Pity the poor woman who fell in love with Michael Hudson.
“I suppose you have to move a lot.”
He nodded. “It's best to keep the territory fresh. That way the targets don't know who you are.”
“And relationships don't get too demanding?” she guessed with sudden insight. That was probably another thing he liked about the job. There was always a good excuse for moving on.
“Relationships don't even exist,” he informed her with a jaunty smile. “I can't afford to get too close to anyone. Not only is the time too short, the barriers one tends to let down in such a situation could render one vulnerable to . . . others.”
My God, Shelley thought, staring at him openmouthed. Didn't he realize what he was doing? He was a prime candidate for severe psychological problems.
“I can read your mind, lady shrink,” he informed her with a groan. “And you can forget it. I'm a perfectly normal, happy man. And I don't need a psychologist to tell me otherwise.”
“I didn't say a word.” She blinked at him innocently. “Not a word.”
Yes, she decided as she finished every bit of the sushi, except for the mound covered with a thin slice of octopus, and drank her tea. Yes, her earlier feeling had been right. Pity the poor woman who fell in love with Michael Hudson.
It was a good thing she was immune. Oh, she liked him. In fact, she liked him very much. And his potent masculine appeal was undeniable. But she'd spent years slowly building the solid wall she lived behind, and she really had no fear that it would shatter in this one encounter. And, as he'd said himself, she probably wouldn't see him again.