There was no time to analyze the situation. Olivia was on her way to the front of the restaurant, moving fast. He hurried to catch up with her.

Okay, he had not expected a joyous welcome—he was well aware the Rancourt name was anathema to many of those currently connected to the Foundation. His father’s old loyalists had been kicked out or otherwise sidelined, and there were probably more than a few of Stenson’s enemies deeply embedded in the organization. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason he was jolted by Olivia LeClair’s lack of warmth.

Focus, man. You’ve got a job to do. You’re not here to get laid.

Maybe that was the problem. It had been a long time since he’d been involved in a sexual relationship. Vortex had taken over his life in the past few months. But he would be willing to allow an interruption to his monastic routine for Olivia. He had been studying her from afar for the past few weeks, researching her online, pulling what information he could from the Rancourt files.

He had discovered she had an edgy, stylish vibe and that she spent a lot of time in art galleries. Her auburn hair was cut in a sleek wedge. If he had not known she was a private investigator he would have assumed she was an artist or an interior designer. He did not possess an edgy, stylish vibe—to his knowledge he did not possess any particular vibe—and he could not remember the last time he had walked into an art gallery for the sake of the experience. If he happened to be in one it was because he was looking for a picture that involved an oracle.

At the entrance of the restaurant he shrugged into his well-traveled trench coat and retrieved his duffel bag from the seating host. He waited while Olivia slipped on a sleek dark green coat that framed her face with a high, wide collar. He did not offer to assist her. He was pretty sure she would not thank him. And, all right, he was afraid to touch her. He did not need another psychic rush like the one that had made him stop breathing a few minutes ago.

When she was ready he opened the door of the restaurant and ushered her out into the chilly Seattle night. He glanced back at the sign in the window. Closed for a private event.

“Does that speed date concept really work?” he asked.

“Not for me; not yet, at any rate.” Olivia gripped the strap of her handbag very tightly, evidently afraid he would try to steal it. “I’ve been told that I’m sabotaging myself with my first question.”

“The one about walking into hell? Well, I showed up, gave you the right answer, and here we are, leaving together.”

Olivia shot him a withering look. “Not funny.”