She smiles slightly. "Were you a boy scout?"

"Yes," I admit, fixing my coat, smoothing the material. "All the way through Junior High."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You must have a thing for joining organizations."

Despite myself, I laugh at that. I have a rule against talking about what I do for work, against even verbally acknowledging I play any role in the world of organized crime, but she's not an idiot, and I'm done hiding who I am.

She's seen me.

She knows.

"Yeah, well, I like to think it's mutually beneficial," I say. "They teach me what they want me to know, and I use what I learn to assist them however I can."

"What did the Boy Scouts teach you?"

"The basics," I say. "Tying knots, hunting, shooting targets, starting fires… surviving."

"And the, uh… other organization?"

I consider it. "Pretty much the same things."

She eyes me warily. "You must be good with so much training."

I step toward her, pausing right in front of her, so close the tips of my shoes graze her toes. She stares up at me, her expression earnest as she bites the inside of her cheek. Carefully, I reach out, running the back of my fingers along her jawline as her lips twitch. "What did I tell you about asking things like this?"

"That I should be careful what I ask," she says quietly. "That the answers aren't always pretty."

"Exactly."

"But I wasn't asking anything," she says. "It wasn't a question."

You must be good with so much training.

No, it wasn't a question.

"You ever hear the expression 'more is caught than taught'?" I ask. She shakes her head, and I lean closer, dropping my voice lower, whispering to her. "You can learn more watching the world around you than anyone could ever dream of teaching you. I'm good, all right, but it has nothing to do with any kind of training. I'm good, because the world showed me how to be. Very few have ever witnessed my greatest tricks, Karissa… even fewer lived to remember them."

Her muscles grow taut… I can see them straining as she tries to stay still, but my words send a shiver through her. I pull away, turning around to head for the door.

"I'll be downstairs," I say. "Get dressed if you want to come with me today. It's up to you."

I don't expect her to really come along; don't expect her to show her face again before I leave.

After retrieving some cash from a safe in the den, finding my spare car key and gathering my passport and social security card to use as identification, I head out the front door and stroll toward the driveway, surveying my car.

A few dings pepper the driver's side door, but a .22 caliber bullet is no match for the armored metal of the Mercedes S-Guard. I bought this car because it's arguably the safest on the market. Not bulletproof, per se, because nothing is bulletproof. A strong enough weapon can cut through even the toughest Kevlar, demolish even the sturdiest structure, but it's resistant to whatever might come my way. The side window took the worst of it, a spider web crack in the corner filtering out along the tempered glass.

I reach for the door handle, opening it, and freeze when I glance inside. Bloodstains streak the leather, but they're just that… stains.

The car has been wiped clean.

I hear a noise behind me as I'm staring at the interior and turn quickly—too quickly—nearly toppling over from the jolt of pain. I clutch onto the door, gripping it tightly, and close my eyes again to stop the world from spinning.

When I reopen my eyes, I see Karissa standing there.

She's wearing a pair of jeans and a tight black tank top, tall black boots and a pink scarf. Her hair is pulled along the side, loosely braided down her shoulder, just a touch of makeup on her face. She looks a lot like the woman I first encountered, the one who charmed me.

She proves me wrong yet again.

"I tried to get the blood out but it sat too long and I didn't know what to use," she says, motioning toward the interior of the car. "I thought… well, I figured you had more experience at that than me."

There's not an ounce of sarcasm to that statement.

It's the truth, anyway.

"You shouldn't have."

She shrugs. "It's the least I could do."

No, really, she shouldn't have…

Sighing, I turn back to the car, ignoring the stains as I climb in behind the wheel. I wait until she's buckled in the passenger seat before starting the engine and pulling away.

Karissa's quiet as I run errands all over town, spending an ungodly amount of time trying to get a new copy of my driver's license at the DMV. She sits beside me the entire time, following me from place to place, her presence loud even if she's low on words.

"Just one more stop," I tell her eventually. "I need to have the car dealt with."

Her eyes trail over the fractured side window. "Are we going to Donizetti's Body Shop?"

My brow furrows. "Where?"

"Donizetti's," she says again before looking at me. "I think that's what it's called. I found the business card…"

She starts to reach into the center console, and my stomach drops, realizing what she's talking about. Shit. Before she can pull out the business card, I stop her, shutting the console once again as I shake my head. "I get all my work done at the dealership."