Page 64 of Hunt Me, Daddy

I stepped into her path at the point where she would see me with enough distance to decide whether to stop.

She saw me.

She simply paused as if the conversation had been scheduled and she had arrived exactly on time.

“Ivan Morozov,” she said.

I liked my name in her mouth far too much.

“Kit Calloway.”

People moved around us toward the exit, badges swinging, voices rising and fading. Kit shifted slightly to avoid a man passing too close on her right, but she did not step away from me.

“You are leaving,” I said.

“That usually happens at the end of a conference day.”

“Before the reception?”

“I prefer my professional humiliation without cheap wine.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

That earned me a look. “Careful. That sounded like confidence.”

“It was.”

“Should I ask what you’re confident about?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed again, but she was enjoying this. I could tell. Somewhere beneath the suspicion, the fatigue, and the restless intelligence, she was interested. I could work with interested.

I could also become ruined by it.

“Coffee,” I said.

One word. Too blunt, perhaps.

Her chin tilted a fraction.

“Was that a noun or an invitation?” she asked.

“Both.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I have work.”

“So do I.”

“Then why coffee?”