"Occasionally. When we've both got free time."
Which confirmed what she'd thought earlier. And shot to hell the opinion she'd had that Gabriel was little more than a hermit who lived for work. "That's nice."
"It usually is," she agreed, glancing up.
The look in her blue eyes left Sam in no doubt that she was referring to horizontal rather than vertical pursuits. And somewhere deep inside, a vague spark of jealously stirred. This woman saw a side of Gabriel she probably never would. But it was a side she wanted to see, and with a fierceness that was totally surprising.
Of course, to have a chance of seeing that side, she'd either have to stop being his partner, or stop constantly sniping at him. She wasn't sure which was the lesser of two evils.
"You can change in the car, if you like. I'll make sure the men don't bother you."
Like that was going to worry her, especially after ten years of sharing locker rooms with the men in State. But she nodded and swung her legs into the car. Sandy picked up the medikit and shut the door, then minced across to the fire trucks to join Gabriel and the three other agents.
The pants turned out to be a pair of black denim jeans that fit like a glove. She wondered how Gabriel had guessed her size so precisely, because she and Sandy definitely weren't the same size. He'd certainly never got into her pants, and waist size wasn't something she'd felt inclined to mention. She threw her dark gray slacks into the bag, then climbed out of the car.
Sandy had finished tending to Gabriel's wounds, and she was currently standing shoulder to shoulder with the man. They made a good-looking couple, she thought, and resolutely stomped on the desire to run over there and wedge them apart.
Instead, she leaned against the trunk of the car, crossed her legs to take the weight of her injured calf, and waited. He finally walked over about ten minutes later, but not before giving Sandy a nice little kiss on the forehead.
God, anyone would think the man meant more to her than just an attraction that was never going to happen.
"Ready to go?" he said, stopping several feet away and regarding her somewhat warily.
She waved a hand. "After you."
He didn't move. "Sandy's just a friend."
"Look, it's really none of my business, is it? Let's just go."
He regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "We're taking Sandy's car. Mine's probably too bent to drive."
Just like its driver. The retort tingled on the tip of her tongue, itching for release. But if she annoyed him too much, he was likely to give her some inane task and send her hiking back to headquarters. She climbed into the front seat and slammed the door instead. Slamming doors was undoubtedly childish, but right then, she was feeling particularly childish.
He started the car and headed back to Kensington. A third gray ford sat outside Roy Benson's retirement home — obviously, Gabriel had called in a cleanup team to tend to the second kite attack. She wondered why. Surely it was a task he would normally have forced her to handle, especially given it might be connected to Lyle's murder.
He drove on. Mark Allars lived a block away from the retirement home in a single fronted Victorian-style house that was probably worth a fortune, despite its rundown appearance. She studied the building as she climbed out of the car. The small front yard was filled with gate high weeds, and the window to the right of the door was boarded up with wood. It looked abandoned — until you looked up and saw the state-of-the-art satellite dishes sitting on the roof.
The gate creaked when Gabriel opened it. She limped through and knocked on the door.
"Who the hell is it?" a rough voice demanded.
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at Gabriel.
"He's your average, cranky old recluse," he said, then raised his voice slightly. "It's Gabriel Stern. Charles's son."
Footsteps shuffled towards the door. Seconds later it was flung open. An old man stood before them, wearing blue pajama bottoms and a battered, smoke-stained sweatshirt. His feet were bare, toenails yellow and a good inch longer than his toes.
He leaned forward, peering at Gabriel with red ringed, weepy eyes. "So it is. Fancy that."
His gaze turned to her and recognition flickered through the rheumy eyes. He stiffened, his knuckles white as he clenched the door.
"You," he breathed softly. "You're dead. They said you were dead."
Chapter Seven
Sam glanced briefly at Gabriel, then back to Allars. "I have to say, I don't feel dead."
The old man blinked, and then he smiled. "You don't look it, either." His red-rimmed gaze went back to Gabriel. "What game you playing here, son?"