"Name and business," the woman asked evenly.

" Uhhhh, Lorraine Conner. I work with Quincy." Not quite a lie.

"Please look into the camera and show your ID."

Run now, Rainie thought, or forever hold your peace. Gamely, she stared into the mounted camera and flashed her PI's license.

Moments later, the gate began to rumble, then slide slowly back. Rainie drove up the sweeping drive to find the front door open and a woman standing there. Rainie got out of her car, feeling not nearly so good about things.

The woman in question was middle-aged. Probably forty, but maybe thirty – the severe hairstyle and stern gray suit didn't do her any favors. She stood stiffly, her arms folded over her chest and her feet clad in sensible black shoes.

Didn't look like a housekeeper, Rainie decided. Not Quincy 's type so she couldn't be his ex-wife. On the other hand, she'd make one hell of a governess.

Shoulders back, head up, Rainie marched up to the entrance.

"Who are you?" she asked Dour Chic.

"The question is, who are you?"

"I already gave at the camera. Plus, I asked you first."

Dour Chic smiled, but it came out as a grim line. "Maybe, honey, but my ID is bigger than yours." Dour Chic flashed her creds. The FBI emblem did carry a bit more weight than Rainie's puny PI's license. Rainie scowled and tried to figure out what was going on.

"I'm here to see Quincy," she said.

"Why?"

"That would be Quincy 's business, not yours."

"At the moment, his business is my business."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

Dour Chic blinked. "I believe you misunderstand the nature of my business – "

"So you're not sleeping with him. Then my business and his business isn't your business."

Rainie let the female agent sort that out. She knew the instant the woman had arrived at the implied conclusion, because she blushed.

"I thought you said you were a private investigator," Dour Chic said with a scowl.

"Yeah, well, I thought you might be his ex-wife," Rainie lied. "Now, if you don't mind, I've given my name and I've traded IDs, so where's Quincy?"

The woman seemed to be debating with herself. "You might be able to find him at Quantico," she allowed brusquely. "That's all I'm at liberty to say."

"You don't expect him to come home tonight?"

"That's all I'm at liberty to say."

"Oh, I get it," Rainie said. "The phone calls. You're the cavalry."

The agent didn't answer right away. Then she gave a slow nod. Rainie nodded back. She looked at the woman with new interest, and what she saw now made her feel small and more than a bit bad. Not a stern suit, but a professional suit fashioned to hide a handgun. Not a severe hairstyle, but one suitable for running down master criminals. Not a dour face, but the intelligent face of a smart, successful woman. In short, a genuine, certified one hundred percent well-trained federal agent. And then there was Rainie, a freshly hatched PI who had been fired from the policing job she'd loved because she'd once been driven to kill.

This was Quincy 's world. And that quickly, Rainie was sorry that she'd intruded.

"Well, I'll be going now," she said.

"I'll tell him you came."

Rainie bit her lower lip. Of course the agent would tell him. That was her job, and Dour Chic obviously lived for her job.

"You do that. In the meantime, I'll try him at his office – "

"Quantico."

"Yeah, Quantico – "

"It's a Marine base."

"I know it's a Marine base!"

Dour Chic formed another thin-lipped smile. She was giving Rainie a fresh perusal as well, and her first impression was clearly sliding downhill.

Fuck it. Rainie didn't bother with good-bye. She turned around, climbed back into her car and tried not to let the gate hit her ass on the way out.

"Goddamn know-it-all," she muttered a moment later, but she was driving too fast. She was thinking again of nights much too long ago to change. And she was thinking again that admitting to your past still didn't allow you to escape it. Some people grew up to be federal agents. And other people?

"Fuck it," she said again.

Rainie should've quit while she was ahead. She found the turnoff to Quantico, then drove for fifteen minutes through a heavily wooded road where Marines jogged

in formation along the edge of the blacktop and the air was repeatedly split by the crack of gunfire. She passed a number of indistinguishable buildings, heading deeper into the Marine base and feeling more and more like an interloper at Uncle Sam's private club. No one stopped her. No one asked for ID. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful or worried.

She had just started to relax when the Marine base ended, and a guard post abruptly loomed ahead. Apparently, someone had decided that the Marines could take care of themselves. The FBI Academy, however, required a great deal of protection. She halted at the guard post, where a stony-faced security officer took her name, studied her Pi's license and told her she was not permitted to enter. She gave her name again. She flashed her ID. He told her that she was not permitted to enter.

"Look, I'm an associate of SupSpAg – er, Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy," she tried.

The grim guard was not impressed.

"I don't need full access or anything," she attempted next. "Don't you guys offer a visitor's pass?"

She learned she could indeed be a visitor. If her name had been given to him ahead of time. With appropriate clearance.

"So what the hell do I do now? Wait, wait," she held up a hand upon seeing the firm expression on his chiseled face. "I remember: I am not permitted to enter."

After a little more wrangling, she finally agreed to wait in her car under the officer's tight scrutiny. In turn, he agreed to contact the BSU office and inquire if Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy would like to come out and see a guest.

Fifteen minutes later, Quincy 's car appeared. He looked tired, stressed, and not at all happy to see her. So much for the reunion scene where they ran to each other with open arms. Instead, she meekly followed his car off the Marine base into the nearby little town where he pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant.

"I want some coffee," he said as he climbed out of his car.

"Hello to you, too," she replied.

"You crash government facilities often?"

"I didn't realize it would be so hard."

"Rainie, it's the FBI Academy. We have procedures and protocol. If just anyone could walk in, it would ruin the point."

"Fine. Next time I'll wear my best cocktail dress."

"Christ," he said. "You really can be childish."

He headed for the restaurant. She stood rooted in the parking lot, stunned by the coldness in his voice. Then the shock wore off, and she went after him.

"What the hell is with you?" Rainie demanded, catching up with Quincy as he approached the cashier and grabbing his arm.

"Two coffees," he ordered. "One black, one with way too much cream and sugar."

"I don't need coffee. I want an explanation."

"Coffee's easier," he told her, and wouldn't say another word until the amused cashier delivered both cups. Then he made Rainie follow him back outside, to a picnic table in a grove of trees she hadn't noticed before. The walk was long and didn't do a thing to calm her temper.

"Okay," she announced the instant he sat at the table. "What the hell is going on, Quincy? And you'd better start talking or you'll be wearing this coffee with way too much cream and sugar.' "

Quincy blew on his black, steaming brew. She could see now that the shadows had deepened under his eyes and his cheeks had gained the hollowed look of a man not sleeping at night. It was funny, she thought. Last year, she had been the one looking like walking death, and Quincy had been the one lecturing her to eat and sleep anyway. Stress is an even better reason to take care of yourself, he'd told her. Taking care of the body helps take care of the mind. If she repeated his own lecture back to him now, she wondered, how childish would that be?