Her cheeks turned a rosy pink. "Maybe. But you have to understand, I've worked hard to get where I am. I'm not giving up my career."
"I wouldna want ye to." He resumed his stroll, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from touching her as she walked beside him. "What do ye do at the Bureau?"
"Criminal interrogation and analysis, mostly. When I was working on my master's, I interviewed a bunch of inmates at the Huntsville State Penitentiary in Texas. I convinced a guy on death row to confess to some unsolved murders, and it was covered in all the local papers. When the FBI offered me a job, I jumped on it. I've always wanted to use my gift for something important."
"Then ye shouldna stop."
She smiled wryly. "Tell that to my parents. They want me to get a cozy little private practice in a nice suburb and only see the right kind of mentally disturbed people."
He smiled. "There's a right kind?"
"Nonviolent, or rather, people who only harm themselves. Eating disorders or..." She gave him a pointed look. "Nice guys suffering from post-traumatic stress."
His smile quickly faded. "I'm no' suffering."
"Robby, you were tortured. That's not something you easily recover from."
"I'm fine."
"How long ago did it happen?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "Last summer."
She halted with a small gasp. "That's no time at all. You said they...broke your bones?"
He wiggled his fingers. "All healed." His gaze drifted down her body. "And ready for action."
"Don't make light of this. You've barely had time to heal physically. And mentally - "
"Olivia," he interrupted, then softened his tone. "Sweetheart, I doona want to discuss it. We've all had bad things to deal with. I'm sure ye've seen some verra nasty things on yer job."
She winced, then looked down as she dug the toe of an athletic shoe in the sand. "It's hard, sometimes, to see the horrendous things a person can inflict on a fellow human being. But I guess you know about that firsthand."
"Aye."
She turned her head and gazed into space. Her brow furrowed and a haunted look settled in her eyes.
He touched her shoulder, but she was so far away, she didn't seem aware of him. "Are ye all right, lass?"
"I think so," she whispered. "He can't find me here."
"Who?"
She shuddered, then gave Robby an apologetic look. "It's nothing. I'd rather not talk about it."
"Ah." He recalled her words from the night before. "I've recently heard from an expert that repression can lead to serious side effects down the road. It can even affect yer physical health."
Her eyes narrowed with warning.
His mouth twitched. "Perhaps ye should see a therapist."
She punched him lightly on the arm.
"Och." He rubbed his arm. "I've been traumatized."
She scoffed. "I'll tell you what. I'll do therapy for both of us."
"I'd rather ye hit me again."