Trent Kort wasn't necessarily a bad guy; he was just a right git that made awful decisions. But he was CIA - everyone made terrible choices - even their bosses. But if there was anything that anyone should know about the CIA, it's that they can't be trusted. Kort was the agency's top dog - at least, until she came around, young and fresh out of Sniperville in the June of 1998.
Lillian Westfall was entirely too pretty for his taste. Twenty years old and built like an Amazon, she was the very epitome of sexy, with a mane of obnoxious fiery curls and a pair of lovely emerald-green eyes that hardened upon seeing him. Redheads weren't typically his type... but he would make an exception for the rakish, devil-may-care woman that had piqued his interest from the moment she sauntered oh-so-confidently into the meeting room, a roguish grin curling her mouth and a Cinnabon's cup clutched in her hand.
He'd read her resumé: graduating from Princeton University at sixteen years of age with degrees in law enforcement, criminal justice and mechanical engineering; becoming a sniper until she was nineteen and then reaching the rank of Gunnery Sergeant two years later, before being nearly blown up by an explosion that left scars on her lean, hard body and an uncanny inability to feel pain, after being put into a coma for two months.
She is the daughter of deceased French politician Emilíe Lévesque amd U.S. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Westfall, who were murdered in the summers of 1987 and 1997. She is the grandchild of Lucien Lévesque, a famous historian who died in 1980 and Richard Westfall, a Marine-turned-NCIS agent who was killed by terrorists in 1992. No living relatives, but she listed someone named Leroy Jethro Gibbs as her emergency contact.
Trent knew he would have to be thorough in his investigation of his new partner. Jane Heller had given them this new undercover ops about some French arms dealer named Edúard Rousseau - mid-thirties, clean-shaven and handsome ("He looks like a fuckin' ass, Kort," she had growled) and obviously very wealthy. Lilly apparently preferred the tougher, rougher-around-the-edges type of men with beards and accents; Trent had grinned at that.
"I prefer my men to be rough yet a complete gentleman. I prefer that they put love above all else - even their job. That they kill for it, if they have to. They have to be smart and loyal to only one cause. Able to make the difficult choices without regrets. You seem to be that kind of man, Kort. You're welcome."
She'd shot him a sharp smirk after that, but he'd seen the sadness that lingered behind her eyes that she was too slow to hide. He was stoic as he slid a calloused hand into her auburn curls, watching her eyes become guarded, but she didn't move. Lilly just let him glide his fingers through over and over again, and when he pressed a scratchy kiss to her forehead, she didn't stop him.