Sense of Evil by Kay Hooper

the bed to put her socks and shoes on, eyeing her lover. “We’ve both known him a long time. Pride is never going to be his downfall.”
    “No. But failing to trust himself might be.”
    Since she’d had the same thought herself, Mallory could hardly disagree. But she felt uncomfortable on several levels discussing her boss with Alan, so she simply changed the subject. “I’m sorry I missed the press conference today. I hear you cracked up the room.”
    “Rafe did—with a joke at my expense. I gather that gorgeous blonde he left with is one of the FBI agents?”
    “Mmm. Isabel Adams—and I better not see that name printed in the paper unless and until it’s released officially.”
    “You won’t, dammit.” Still, Alan couldn’t stop asking questions. “She’s not down here alone?”
    “No, she has a partner. Another woman. I haven’t met her yet.”
    “Did it occur to anybody at the Bureau that sending a blond female agent down here at this particular time might be a little dicey?”
    Mallory shrugged. “They wrote the profile. I have to assume they know what they’re doing.”
    “I bet Rafe is pissed.”
    “You’ll have to ask him about that.”
    “Jesus, you’re pigheaded.”
    “It’d be more polite to call me stubborn.”
    “And less accurate. Mal”—he leaned over to grasp her wrist before she stood up—“is something wrong? I mean, aside from the obvious maniacal-killer-stalking-Hastings thing.”
    “No.”
    That mild syllable didn’t give him much room to maneuver, but he tried. “I know you’re preoccupied. Hell, we all are. But sometimes I get the feeling you’re not even here.”
    “I didn’t hear you complaining a little while ago. Even though I always wonder when a guy calls out God’s name instead of mine.”
    Refusing to be sidetracked, Alan said, “You barely caught your breath before you were up and dressing.”
    “I told you. I have to go to work early.”
    “If you’d leave some stuff here, you could spend the night occasionally and still get to work early.” He heard the note of frustration in his own voice, and the familiar resentment prickled inside him.
Why does she make me do this?
    “Alan, we’ve been over this. I like my own space. I never leave any of my stuff at a man’s apartment. I don’t like sleepovers except for vacation trips out of town. And I’m not
real
comfortable being in bed with a reporter in the first place.
Conflict of interest
rings a rather ugly bell.”
    Her patient tone grated, but he managed to keep his own voice calm. Even careless, around the edges. “It’s that last that really bugs you, and don’t think I don’t know it. You don’t trust me, Mal. You don’t believe I can separate my work from my personal life.”
    “Why should you be different from the rest of us?” she asked dryly, pulling away from him and rising to her feet. “My job is in my head twenty-four seven. And so is yours. We’re both career people. We live on takeout and caffeine. Half the time our socks don’t match, and when we realize it we just buy new socks. We do our laundry when we run out of clean clothes. And when the biggest, baddest bad to ever hit Hastings rears its ugly head, both our careers kick into high gear. Right?”
    “Right,” he agreed reluctantly.
    “Besides, let’s not kid ourselves. Neither one of us is looking for anything more than a few hours of stress-busting sex every week.” She smiled down at him. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out. See you.”
    “Good night, Mal.” He remained where he was until he heard the front door of his apartment close. Then he fell back against the pillows and muttered a heartfelt “Shit.”
     
    Outside Alan’s apartment building, Mallory stood on the sidewalk for a moment breathing in the slightly breezy but otherwise mild night air. It was a well-lighted sidewalk close to downtown Hastings, and Mallory shouldn’t have felt particularly threatened.
    The breeze intensified