“Before you say anything, let me point out that I was on the grounds, in a public place, under a spotlight, where you could see me and I could see anyone approaching. Plus I left you a note. If that’s not safe, I don’t know what is.”

“Staying in your room? Alone?”

“He was upset about tonight and he wanted someone to talk to. Is that a crime?”

He answered by pouring shots of whiskey into plastic glasses.

“What about Felix?” he said as he handed me one.

“What about Felix?”

“Quinn wanted to talk? Could talk to Felix.” He paused. “Couldn’t hold his hand, though. Felix might complain. But maybe not. You never know.”

“He wasn’t—” I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Looked like that.”

“He was upset, Jack. When people are upset, sometimes they just need someone around, some human contact.”

“So that’s what he wanted. Contact.”

I felt myself blush and covered it by gulping my whiskey. Big mistake. The second it scorched my throat, I coughed, sputtering whiskey everywhere.

Jack shook his head and handed me a tissue. “Not much of a drinker, huh?”

“It went down wrong.”

“Huh.”

“Not like this dress wasn’t a write-off to begin with. If it’s okay with you, I’m getting out of this thing and taking a shower—”

I got halfway to the bathroom before his fingers closed lightly around my wrist.

“Maybe Quinn was upset. Maybe he was lonely. But give him the chance? He’d do the same tomorrow night. And the next night. He’s interested. He’s going to make sure you know it. Staring at you. Complimenting you. Holding your hand. It’s inappropriate.” He paused. “Quinn can be careless. Not with work. He’s good at that. But other stuff? Personal stuff? Shows too much. Lets his guard down. Careless.”

Don’t you ever want to be careless, Jack? I wanted to ask.

He continued, “You’re here on a job, Nadia. Both of you. He should respect that. Hitting on a colleague—”

“—is inappropriate. I get it. Don’t worry. I’m not giving him my phone number until all this is over.”

From the look on Jack’s face, you’d think I’d suggested taking up a third career as a street whore.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “Please. You think I’m here to widen my dating pool? A hitman boyfriend—exactly what my life needs.”

He grunted “good”—or something like that—then downed his drink and gestured at the bathroom. “Shower’s yours.”

I laid my drink down and walked into the bathroom.

After we both showered and retired, I lay there, eyes open in the dark, afraid to close them, knowing those dark dreams waited.