This chapter turned out a little differently than I thought it would . . . but I swear it isn't as meaningless as it seems.


It took five days for Jo to earn her first paperclip trick.

In that time, she'd managed to throw him, kick him, and even wallop him with a semi-unethical move that she admitted Mike had taught her on the sly—but never twice in a row.

Finally, during a rare afternoon bout, she tried Mike's move followed immediately by a leg sweep—the same kind Spencer had used on her once or twice—and he landed on his back hard enough to jar.

Before he could get up, she leaned over him and said, "It ain't over 'til it's over," and danced out of the way as he made a grab for her ankles.

He sat up and caught the paperclip she tossed him. Looking at her grin, he wondered what the hell he thought he was about to do. Fighting was one thing—anyone could teach her that. Mike was. But this was different. "You planning on killing someone?"

"No," she said, losing the grin. "Being prepared is one thing . . . I can imagine defending myself or—or someone else to the death. But planning is just another word for murder."

He studied her. "Fine," he said. "Pay attention—this ain't something I can show you all the way through."

Afterward, she walked to the back room to toss out the remains of the wire, saying, "This is about speed and accuracy, right? Could I practice with a potato?"

"Sure, I guess." He followed her and leaned against the doorframe. "Potatoes have more density, but that shouldn't—Jo."

She came out of the bathroom. "What?"

"Where's your sleeping bag?"

"Um." She looked around. "I tried the couch in the staff room last night. I probably stowed it in there."

"Jo, if you ever tell a lie so I actually believe what you say, I'll show you the other methods on the three people of your choice and offer to be your practice dummy."

"There's no wind chill and no weather in here. I don't need one—it's an unnecessary expense."

"Put your shoes on."

"Why?"

"We're going to go get you a damn sleeping bag."

Five minutes later, he started the ignition. "You're as stubborn as Parker," he muttered.

"Who's Parker?"

He blinked. "What do you mean—oh. Right." Why had he assumed she knew Parker? "She's the best thief you'll never see."

"The blonde or the brunette?"

Maybe that was why—she already knew bit and pieces. "Blonde. Twenty pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag."

"Descriptive."

"You have no idea."

As they drove along, he wondered at the level of trust he was giving someone he'd only known for a week. It had only taken him a couple hours to consider her a responsibility instead of a debt . . . which he guessed wasn't too strange, considering. But without thinking about it, the lines he'd long since drawn to separate the team from everything else had started to blur when it came to Jo.

He didn't know how he felt about that. She wasn't a teammate, or a colleague—though she might be, if she kept up the training. He thought she would; she was moving toward something as hard and fast as she could and that, well . . .dammit, it concerned him that he didn't know what it was. Yet.

"Spencer?"

"What?"

"You're scowling. And tailgating. That poor woman ahead of us probably thinks you're going to run her off the road."

He eased off the pedal. "The store's going to close soon."

"Whose fault is that? You're the one who came in late and then decided I couldn't live without something I don't really need."

"Varying workout times is good for you—keeps your body guessing. Besides, I had a lunch date."

Out of the corner of his eye, she saw her frown. "You picked up another bag lady?"

"An executive assistant."

"Hmmph." She folded her arms. "Hot dogs in the park?"

He glanced at her, almost positive she was putting him on. "Italian bistro."

"Oh, well that's all right then. I worry about the quality of the women with whom you associate," she said in a prim voice.

He snorted. "Glad you approve."

"I approve of the restaurant," she said, grinning. "I haven't had Italian in a long time."

"The bistro does this garlic linguine with infused oil and basil," he said, pulling into a parking place next to the Army Surplus store.

"I'd settle for microwave lasagna," she said.

He almost told her off, but remembered in time where she'd been doing her 'grocery shopping' before they'd met. Frozen lasagna had to be a couple steps up.

She hopped out and waited for him on the sidewalk. "Wait—you ordered long pasta with garlic on a date? That's a complete mood killer."

"Not if the lady ordered it first."

"Please. She's either the most confident woman ever, or she didn't think it was a date. Was there kissing?"

He yanked open the door. "I ain't talking to you about this."

"Come on. I hear talking about things can help."

He ignored her and threaded his way to the camping equipment. When he got there, he realized Jo hadn't followed him. He found her near the front, looking at a display case.

"What's that?" she asked the clerk, who pulled out a black cylinder and handed it to her.

"It's a retractable riot baton," he said. "Hit the button there."

Jo pressed the release with her thumb, and 26 inches of telescoped steel shot out of the handle. "Hey, now," she said and took a practice swing.

"Look out," said Eliot.

"Sorry. What do you think?" she said.

"I think it's not a sleeping bag."

"Spencer," she said, holding it out. "What do you think?"

He took it, looked it over. "If you're going to get a baton, go with the Ferguson. More tensile strength, less likely to bend on impact. Na—a friend of mine carries one." He'd given it to Nate for his last birthday, after his old one had jammed at exactly the wrong time, forcing Hardison to shatter his laptop over the head of a disgraced consigliere trying to cut off Nate's oxygen supply. Hardison still wouldn't shut up about it.

The clerk reached into the case and brought out a Ferguson. Jo tried it out. "It has a better balance to it," she said. "How much?"

"Twenty-seven fifty, and I'll need to see your military or law enforcement ID."

She sighed, compressed the baton, and set it on the counter with a rueful grin. "Don't have it with me."

"Come back when you do," said the clerk cheerfully.

She smiled and moved away.

When they were out of earshot, Eliot said, "If you want, I'll buy it for you with my ID. You can't practice where anyone can see you, and it would be better if you didn't get caught carrying it around, but it's not a bad thing to have handy."

"You have ID for—never mind. Dumb question." Jo shook her head. "Thanks, but I can't afford it."

"Didn't you get paid this week?" He knew she had, and he also knew she'd tried to pay back the 'advance' Ron had given her. He'd told her it was a bonus for doing weight machine maintenance.

She nodded. "And I deposited it in my new checking account," she said. "But I'm trying to save enough to put down a deposit on an apartment. Living at work is convenient, but I can't see doing it aft—for the rest of my life."

Eliot frowned—though he guessed he couldn't argue and didn't know why he wanted to—and followed her to the sleeping bags. She poked them, prodded them, worked the zippers, and then chose one so cheap that the material was already beginning to shred at the seams.

Eliot sighed. "The zipper on this one isn't going to hold up. It isn't even gonna stay on."

She shrugged. "I wasn't planning on zipping it anyway."

"Jo, what—" He stopped, figuring it out just before she spoke.

"Looks like I'm a little more claustrophobic than I thought" She fiddled with the zipper pull. "But I need to start getting over it, so . . . " The pull came off in her hand and she reattached it.

He sighed. "How about a compromise?"

"Your kind? Because that's why I'm here in the first place."

He shot her a look. "How about one of those thermal fleece blankets? They're only six bucks, so if you want the baton, too . . . "

She thought about it. "I'll take the blanket if I have to—"

"You do."

"—but the baton is still going to have to wait." She picked up a bright red blanket roll and headed for the register.

"What kind of compromise is that?"

She grinned over her shoulder at him. "Mine."

OOOOOoooooOOOOO

Eliot dropped Jo off at The Gym and went grocery shopping.

He felt like cooking and didn't feel like being alone, so he bought the ingredients for potato soup and went to see if Nate felt like company.

Nate had company, but didn't seem to mind more. He was going over some documents and making notes, sitting closer to Sophie than he had before the Wharton job, but still not paying her overt attention. She kept her eyes on her magazine, but was flipping the pages a little faster than usual.

Eliot had figured those two had played their unending game to another draw, and Hardison had agreed. They hadn't asked Parker what she thought, in case she told them.

Hardison was in a corner, fingers flying over a keyboard, eyes glued to the big screen, where an elf was battling what looked like a giant toad—Eliot wasn't sure which one the hacker was supposed to be and didn't much care.

Parker was nowhere to be seen, which didn't mean anything.

Eliot got to work in the kitchen, peeling and chopping vegetables, frying bacon, defrosting some of the homemade chicken stock he'd stashed in the freezer.

He put the potatoes, carrots, and celery to boil in the stock and started to slice up the onion.

A hand stuck a potato in his face. "You forgot one," said Parker.

"Parker," he said through his teeth. "I'm using a very sharp knife."

"I know. You forgot to use it on this."

"I bought too many," he lied, knowing that he'd only set that one aside so he could toss it to Jo tomorrow morning for paperclip practice. "It'll keep."

"Oh." She set the potato on the counter and stuck her head between him and the steaming pot. "Is it soup yet?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know."

"Okay." She disappeared.

Sophie came into the kitchen. "Smells good already," she said. "Need help?"

He handed her a carrot stick. "Keep Parker out of my way before I cut off a finger."

"Yours or hers?" She perched on a wooden stool and watched him.

"Don't tempt me." He finished with the onion and turned the bacon. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"If a guy goes out with a woman for their second lunch date, and she orders, say, linguine in garlic oil . . .

"Oh, there's a mood killer," she said, rolling her eyes. "Unless she's super confident, no woman would order garlic or long pasta on a date. That didn't happen to you?"

"Guy at The Gym," he said. "He thought maybe she didn't think it was a date, even though she called him."

"She doesn't. Trust me." She nibble on her carrot and watched him remove the bacon from the pan. "You've been spending a lot of time at The Gym lately. How's Ron Schulte doing?"

"He's fine. Business is good—he hired another trainer, an aerobics instructor, even has someone to do cleaning and odd jobs." He speared a chunk of boiled potato on the point of his knife, tested it, then carried the pot to the sink.

"Good, good. I liked him. I'm glad you decided to invest in the business."

"So'm I." He found the colander he'd brought from home, balanced it on top of a measuring cup he'd also brought from home, and began to pour out the steaming contents of the pot, careful to get the stock in the cup.

"Was there kissing after this lunch?"

"No—maybe—yaaahh!" Eliot dropped the empty pot on the counter and examined his burn. "How would I know?"

Sophie shrugged and stood. "You might tell you friend that a woman scared of losing her job might consider making friends with someone who is friendly with the new CEO. Even if her heart isn't in it." She smiled, bit off a piece of carrot and glided out.

Eliot took a deep breath. "Dammit, Hardison!"