Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) by Deirdre Dore Page B

Pascal,” Helmer muttered.
    “And yet there are two Feds in my house.” Chris chewed on her lower lip, thinking about it. She stood abruptly. “I need some wine.” She’d left it in the kitchen. “You two?”
    “No, we’re—”
    Christina waved him off. “On duty. I get it. Coffee, then? In the movies, the popo are always drinking coffee.”
    “The ‘popo’?” Helmer looked incredulous.
    Chris rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You want coffee or not?”
    “I’d love some.” Midaugh nodded. “Sugar and cream, if you’ve got it.”
    “Yeah, sure. You want anything, Agent Helmer?” she taunted, leveling her gold cat eyes on him. He looked up and met her gaze.
    In that moment when their eyes caught—gold to gray—she realized, absurdly, that there was something fundamentally appealing about his face—so rough-hewn and friendly. She felt as if she’d touched his face before. Weird. She didn’t even like him. For a moment it seemed that he also felt the strange connection, maybe uncomfortably so, because his response, when it came, was a terse, “Black. Thanks.”
    Chris pressed her lips together like she was about to whistle, making her way back into the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, which was truly horrific, and pulled her Mr. Coffee out of hiding.
    She blew some dust off it. She tended to drink green tea when she was home, and coffee from the café on the other side of the circle when she went for a run in the mornings. Her Mr. Coffee was a bit neglected, to say the least.
    She located a tin of Folgers that didn’t look too stale and used a paper towel as a filter.
    She hummed a Portishead song, “Wandering Star,” while she made the coffee. If it weren’t for the two FBI agents sitting in her living room, she could almost believe that it was just a lovely fall evening, with a slight breeze floating in from the window and the cheerful sounds of people eating at the Alcove.
    While she was pouring herself more wine she heard a knock at her door, but Helmer called to her, “It’s our man. I’ll get it.”
    Chris mentally shrugged and inhaled the enticing scent of coffee. She sipped her wine, one hip propped against the counter, her right foot resting on her left shinbone.
    She heard the door open and the quiet thrum of male voices.
    “Ms. Pascal, this is Agent Sandeep Patel with our Cyber Crimes Division at the Atlanta Field Office,” Helmer said, introducing him from the living room, but the man came forward, carrying a case and a coat folded over his forearm. He was a short, brown-skinned man with a pleasant face and glasses. He smiled at her and held out his free hand. “Ms. Pascal, a pleasure to meet you.”
    Chris smiled and shook his hand in return. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Patel. I take it you’re here to look at my computers?” Like he was a member of the Geek Squad, armed with antivirus software and extra copies of Office 2013.
    “I am, yes.”
    “Great. Would you like some coffee?”
    “I would, with sugar and cream.”
    Chris nodded. “Two sugars and creams, one black.” She saluted Helmer, just because he seemed like he wanted to be saluted, but oops, no, he looked irritated again. She shook her head, setting down her wine and hunting in the cabinet above her head for enough coffee cups to go around.
    In the end, she found two mugs and a teacup with dainty red roses lined with gold leaf. She kept that cup black and poured sugar and cream in the other two. She hoped they’d meant a lot of sugar and cream, because if you asked her, there couldn’t be too much—that’s why she never made her own coffee.
    She put everything on a plastic tray with little dog bones on it. She was sure it was meant to be a dog bowl tray, but what the hell, it worked. She added her wine, hoping she didn’t spill it along the way, and carefully walked back toward her bedroom, where she figured the menfolk were busy invading her privacy.
    They were, all three of them crowded around