White Collar

Just a Feeling

Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…

Part Two

El wheeled her suitcase onto the concourse and headed for the nearest bag-drop. According to the update on the information board, her flight was running on schedule. She looked down at her wristwatch, she was early, and there was still plenty of time to grab a coffee. Making her way across to the kiosk, she stood and waited patiently in line. The double espresso tasted heavenly and she savoured every dark and bitter mouthful. The boost of caffeine helped settle her stomach and clear the fog from her head.

Or at least it was supposed to, in theory, but an inkling of unease persisted. She had a gnawing sensation of wrong-time, wrong-place, like she should turn around and go home instead.

What was up with her?

There were no easy answers, and really, this was way out of character. Ever since she could remember, she had always enjoyed travelling alone. Especially airports, and not just the duty-free, although she usually ended up with some new perfume. There was something about the sense of adventure which never failed to give her a buzz.

She sat down on a row of plastic seats and fished in her purse for her cell-phone. It was rare for Peter to pick-up at once, and as usual, she patched straight through to voice-mail. Not uncommon – in-fact, it was par for the course. Her husband was generally busy. She opened her messaging service and sent him a substitute text. It helped – not much, but a little - although she wasn't hopeful of an answer, but any contact, even via a cyber-link, made her feel just a tiny bit better.

She sighed, she was being irrational. Peter had been smiling when she'd left him. It was time for her to go through security, to stop dithering about and check-in.

So why didn't she?

El stared hard at her cell phone as though she could conjure an answer, but the wretched thing refused to cooperate and lay silent and still in her hand.

It was fine. There was nothing to worry about. He'd been fine, even teasing her gently. She recalled the flare of passion between them and the unguarded softness in his face. He'd made some comment about messing her hair up, brown eyes twinkling as he looked fondly down at her, and then distracted her with talk of the Hampton's and a stay at her favourite inn. She frowned, her forehead wrinkling abruptly. Sometimes he was too damned intelligent. Had she been the unwitting victim of a classic divert and distract?

Drat the man, she wouldn't put it past him, he wouldn't want her to worry. A wave of misgiving swept over her along with a sneaking feeling she'd been played. Peter was spending too much time with Neal, she rolled her eyes at the thought of the ex-conman, and rewinding the morning's events in her mind only served to add to her foreboding.

He'd seemed so drained and off-colour, although he had perked up during their encounter. His skin had been pale and cool to the touch and she remembered how gaunt he'd looked. If only she'd taken more notice, but she'd been in too much of a hurry. She was filled with a sudden suspicion he might have been putting on an act.

She looked down at her cell – still no answer. Normally, it wouldn't mean anything. She took a deep breath and pressed redial, feeling compelled to try calling again. Voicemail. She could have predicted it. Her heart began beating uncomfortably. El sat very still for a moment and struggled to decide what to do.

Yvonne had been in Detroit for three days and the symposium was meticulously organised. She was going along to shake hands and smile and ensure that everything ran okay. The whole event was pretty high-profile and all-in-all, a great opportunity, although Yvonne was perfectly capable of making sure it all stayed on track. It would be a big shame if she missed it, but El knew there would be other conferences. If she went and something happened to Peter, she would never forgive herself.

And yet, she had nothing to go on. Nothing but a big fat feeling. She wasn't some two-bit psychic and the situation was frankly absurd. If Peter was here, he would laugh at her… she smiled a little shakily. If he was here, she wouldn't be panicking or talking herself into a state.

Picturing him helped for a second or two as she recalled their goodbyes in the hallway. The feel of his strong arms around her and the warmth of his breath in her hair. Hard to believe they'd been together so long when the thought of him still made her tingle, and any kind of future without him, was quite bluntly, too bleak to consider.

Her smile died and everything faded, all the vast hubbub and noise of the airport. The world shrank and contracted around her, as if she were floating in space. It was worse this time, clenching and painful, the sense of cold fear which washed over her. It ran like wildfire through her system and thudded hard in her veins.

Couldn't leave…

No way could she leave him.

El knew then with a sudden clarity. She would be stricken with regret for the rest of her life if she went ahead and boarded the plane. Sliding the cell back into her purse, she realised her hands were shaking badly. Something was wrong, she just knew it… she had to get home right away. Making the decision seemed to free her and she was filled with a sense of resolution. She gathered her belongings together and began walking fast towards the exit.

To hell with the Detroit symposium, as of right now, her husband needed her.

Peter was in some kind of danger.

El knew she had to stay.

A small frown creased Neal's forehead as he flicked another glance sideways. Peter had been terse and distracted ever since turning up late. Something was up… didn't have to be Einstein. It wasn't like him. As a rule, he was so focused. He was usually annoyingly determined especially when involved in a case.

There was the lateness and then there was the coffee. This morning he had totally rejected it. So okay, they were behind and on a deadline, but Neal had never known him turn it down before. Really, it was slightly uncanny, like the man had a built-in radar, usually arriving as the last drops of liquid filtered through into the jug. He would walk in and smile with pleasure as he inhaled the familiar aroma. In-fact, Peter was a total patsy when it came to Italian roast.

Not this morning.

He had ignored it completely, and muttered something about eating a big breakfast, impatiently tapping on the door frame while Neal took time buttoning his coat. No coffee, and apparently no small-talk. Peter, it seemed was all about the business. Neal sighed as they got into the Taurus. It was going to be a long day.

Conversation was clearly futile so he opted for more covert tactics. He settled back against the upholstery watching Peter's long hands on the wheel. The traffic was heavy as they wove through the streets, bumper to bumper and incredibly frustrating. He listened to the squeak of the wipers as the fine drizzle turned into rain.

Good hands, he thought, strong and capable. The tanned fingers surprisingly shapely. A sudden jolt of awareness surprised him. He would trust them unconditionally with his life.

With his life, maybe, but not with his secrets.

That was another story entirely. The thought made him shift uncomfortably and it was simpler to push it aside.

He frowned and considered the options but the mystery wasn't getting any clearer. Peter seemed quiet and rather subdued. He wasn't giving anything away. Could be El's fault, Neal thought through the evidence. He remembered she was flying out this morning. Peter was usually a little abstracted whenever she went away.

He stared slightly harder at Peter's face. It might clarify the whole air of brusqueness, but his complexion was a separate issue. Peter looked drawn and in pain.

"Are you up for this?"

There was no point mincing his words. The task ahead was hardly a cakewalk. The counterfeiters were linked to the Irish Mob and there wasn't any room for mistakes.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I'd say it was pretty valid. Have you looked at yourself properly this morning? You look like something Satchmo coughed up."

"Thanks," Peter paused for a second, as if considering, and then straightened and answered him dryly. "I'll be fine, just a touch of indigestion. There hasn't been too much time for eating. Everything was a tad rushed this morning, what with El going away."

"Ah," Neal smirked and raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And so we get to the crux of the matter. Peter Burke's blue-eyed, Achilles Heel, the very lovely Elizabeth Burke. I never took you for a dog in the manger and the symposium will be great for her business. You need to learn to manage without her. Cowboy up, it's only six days."

"Six days can seem like a very long time when I'm forced to eat my own cooking."

"Don't be such a Neanderthal; you should see this as a great opportunity. Instead of moping around your man-cave, you can go flex your wings – and your credit card."

"I happen to like my man-cave," Peter answered him firmly. "And Satchmo and I will manage just fine. There will be no flexing going on here."

"Peter, this is New York City, there's no excuse to turn into a hermit. Imagine everything that's on offer, we can eat some-place new every night."

"We?"

"It's no fun eating out by yourself."

He wasn't being wholly serious, of course, but it was good to see Peter loosen up a little. The frown lines relaxed just a smidgen and a half-smile transformed his face.

"You know what, that might be a good idea," Peter swung the car into the parking lot. "I'll book a table at El's favourite Italian and take her there when she gets home."

TBC

Lisa Paris - 2012