The Hard Way

picked them up and clinked them together.
    “Living well is the best revenge,” he said.
    They each took a sip and moved back to the sofa. Sat close together. He asked, “Did you quit because of Anne Lane?”
    She said, “Not directly. I mean, not right away. But ultimately, yes. You know how these things are. It’s like a naval convoy where one of the battleships gets holed below the waterline. No visible damage, but it falls a little behind, and then a little more, and it drifts a little off course, and then when the next big engagement comes along it’s completely out of sight. That was me.”
    He said nothing.
    She said, “But maybe I was maxed out anyway. I love the city and I didn’t want to move, and head of the New York office is an Assistant Director’s job. It was always a long shot.”
    She took another sip of wine and pulled her legs up under her and turned a little sideways so she could see him better. He turned a little too, until they were more or less facing each other from a foot away.
    “Why did you quit?” she asked him.
    He said, “Because they told me I could.”
    “You were looking to get out?”
    “No, I was looking to stay in. But as soon as they said that leaving was an option it kind of broke the spell. Made me realize I wasn’t personally essential to their plans. I guess they’d have been happy enough if I stayed, but clearly it wasn’t going to break their hearts if I went.”
    “You need to be needed?”
    “Not really. It just broke the spell, is all. I can’t really explain it.” He stopped talking and watched her, silent. She looked great in the candlelight. Liquid eyes, soft skin. Reacher liked women as much as any guy and more than most but he was always ready to find something wrong with them. The shape of an ear, the thickness of an ankle, height, size, weight. Any random thing could ruin it for him. But there was nothing wrong with Lauren Pauling. Nothing at all. That was for sure.
    “Anyway, congratulations,” he said. “Sleep well tonight.”
    “Maybe I will,” she said.
    Then she said, “Maybe I won’t get the chance.”
    He could smell her fragrance. Subtle perfume, soap, clean skin, clean cotton. Her hair fell to her collarbones. The shoulder seams on her T-shirt stood up a little and made enticing shadowy tunnels. She was slim and toned, except where she shouldn’t be.
    He said, “Won’t get the chance why?”
    She said, “Maybe we’ll be working all night.”
    He said, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
    “You’re not a dull boy,” she said.
    “Thank you,” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. Her mouth was open a little and was cool and sweet from the wine. He slid his free hand under her hair to the back of her neck. Pulled her closer and kissed her harder. She did the same thing with her free hand. They held the clinch for a whole minute, kissing, two wine glasses held approximately level in midair. Then they parted and put their glasses down on the table and Pauling asked, “What time is it?”
    “Nine fifty-one.”
    “How do you do that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    She held the pause for another beat and then leaned in and kissed him again. Used both her hands, one behind his head, the other behind his back. He did the same thing, symmetrically. Her tongue was cool and quick. Her back was narrow. Her skin was warm. He slid his hand under her shirt. Felt her hand bunching into a tiny fist and dragging his shirt out of his waistband. Felt her nails against his skin.
    “I don’t usually do this,” she said, her mouth hard against his. “Not to people I work with.”
    “We’re not working,” he said. “We’re taking a break.”
    “We’re celebrating.”
    “That’s for sure.”
    She said, “We’re celebrating the fact that we’re not Hobart, aren’t we? Or Kate Lane.”
    “I’m celebrating the fact that you’re you.”
    She raised her arms over her head and held the pose and he pulled her shirt off. She was wearing a tiny black bra. He raised his arms in turn and she knelt up on the sofa and hauled his shirt up over his head. Then his T-shirt. She spread her hands like small starfish on the broad slab of his chest. Ran them south to his waist. Undid his belt. He unclipped her bra. Lifted her up and laid her down flat on the sofa and kissed her breasts. By the time the clock in his head was showing five past ten they were in her bed, naked under the sheet, locked