Undercover Hunter. Rachel Lee

got up from the table, trying to pace off the anger and horror she felt. “It’s not like anything else,” she said, not sure what she meant, not expecting an answer.

      “No, it’s not,” Cade agreed. “Damn, I need some fresh air. Do you want to walk to the market? It’s only thirteen degrees out there.”

      “I need the walk but I also need my nose. And I don’t want to stiffen up from the cold.” Delayed reaction time could be dangerous, even when you thought you were safe.

      “Agreed. We’ll drive. Damn, there’s no hole in hell hot enough or deep enough for this guy.”

      She didn’t answer. It seemed pointless. After looking at all those young faces, this had become personal. It was no longer an intellectual detective exercise. “Dangerous,” she remarked a few minutes later as they climbed into their car. “Getting involved.”

      “I know. I’ll work it off.”

      “I feel the same way.”

      He looked at her as he turned over the ignition. At least the car didn’t decide it was too cold to run. He needed to remember to plug the damn block heater in tonight. “You, too.”

      “Of course, me, too,” she said hotly. “I’m not made of ice.”

      “Didn’t think you were.”

      “Then what the hell did you mean?”

      “Just trying to make conversation. You’re like a brick wall, Dawkins. Pleasant to strangers when it suits you, but you act like I’m a cow patty you’d like to brush off.”

      “You weren’t exactly glad to have me for a partner,” she retorted.

      He didn’t deny it, and she sat with her arms tightly folded as he drove them to the store. When they found a place to park between two snowdrifts, Cade set the brake but left the car running. The defroster began to lose the battle against their breath.

      “Look,” he said finally, “my reaction had nothing to do with you. It had to do with something from my past. Probably the same as your reaction to me. So how about we call a truce at least until we catch this animal.”

      “That gives animals a bad name.”

      “True.”

      He waited, and she knew she was going to have to answer. She didn’t have to explain, she realized. No heart-to-heart about what life had been like as a female cop. He probably didn’t want to share whatever his problem was, either. So if they could just take all the junk off the table, at least until they finished this job, they’d get by. “Some things matter more than others,” she finally said. This job mattered more than her feelings, certainly. “Truce.”

      “Good enough,” he said. “Now let’s go squabble about what we want to make for dinner. The diner’s steak sandwiches and fries are great, but too many of them and I’ll be rolling down the street like a beach ball.”

      She laughed because she had to. A similar thought had occurred to her. “Are you aware that bicyclists who ride in races can be slowed down by as little three kilograms of added weight?”

      “Interesting. Well, the two of us could be slowed down by the fat. I think I feel my arteries hardening.”

      The tension had seeped away, and they both climbed out of the car, walking through the cutting wind toward the grocery entrance.

      “What kind of cook are you?” she asked.

      “Passable. I’d starve otherwise. You?”

      “Not so good. Too many chow hall meals. Lately I’ve been trying my hand at it. How brave are you?”

      He laughed. “I’ll cook. As long as you don’t expect high cuisine.”