He said all of this without ever taking his eyes off the road. My gaze flitted to the speedometer, and I realized how fast we were going.
“Do you want to get pulled over?” I squeaked.
He shrugged. “You’re the profiler,” he said. “You tell me.” He eased off the accelerator ever so slightly. “That’s what profilers do, isn’t it? You look at the way a person is dressed, or the way a person talks, every little detail, and you put that person in a box. You figure out what kind of individual you’re dealing with, and you convince yourself that you know exactly what everyone else wants.”
Okay, so he’d had an experience—and not a good one—with a profiler in the past. I took that to mean that the difficulty I’d been having getting a read on him was no accident. He liked keeping me guessing.
“You wear a different style of clothing every time I see you,” I said. “You stand differently. You talk differently. You never say anything about yourself.”
“Maybe I like being tall, dark, and mysterious,” Michael replied, taking a turn so quickly that I had to remind myself to breathe.
“You’re not that tall,” I gritted out. He laughed.
“You’re annoyed with me,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “But also intrigued.”
“Would you stop that?” I’d never realized how irritating it was to be the one under the microscope.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Michael said. “I’ll stop trying to read your emotions if you stop trying to profile me.”
I had so many questions—about the way he’d grown up, about his ability, about why he’d warned me to stay away—but unless I wanted him making an intense study of my emotions, I’d have to get my answers the normal way.
“Fine,” I said. “Deal.”
He smiled. “Excellent. Now, as a show of good faith, since I’ve already spent a good chunk of time getting inside your head, I’ll give you three questions to try to get inside mine.”
The puzzle solver in me wanted to ask what kind of clothes he wore when there was no one around to see him, how many siblings he had, and which one of his parents had turned him into the kind of guy who was a little angry at the world.
But I didn’t.
Anyone comfortable driving this fast wasn’t going to shy away from a few little white lies. If I asked him what I wanted to know, all I would get was more mixed messages—so I asked him the only question I was fairly certain he’d answer honestly.
“What’s with the Porsche?”
Michael took his eyes off the road just long enough to flick his gaze over to me, and I knew that I’d surprised him.
“The Porsche?” he repeated.
I nodded. “I’m pretty sure it’s not standard FBI issue.”
The edges of his lips curved upward, and for once, there was no dark undercurrent to the expression. “The Porsche was a present,” he told me. “From my life before. Getting to keep it was one of the conditions I gave Briggs for joining up.”
“Why wouldn’t he have let you keep it?” I asked, realizing belatedly that I’d just burned question number two.
“Tax fraud,” Michael replied. “Not mine. My father’s.”
From the tightness in his voice, I got the feeling that keeping the Porsche probably hadn’t been the only condition of Michael’s participation in the program. Whether he’d asked for the government to overlook his father’s crimes or his father had bartered away his son in exchange for immunity, I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t ask.
Instead, I stuck to safer ground. “What’s it like? The program?”
“I’ve only been there for a few months,” Michael said. “Briggs sprung me to come get you. Good behavior, I guess.”
Somehow, I doubted that.
Michael seemed to sense that I wasn’t buying it. “And also possibly because Briggs needed someone to read your emotions and figure out whether or not you’re a secret bottle of rage who shouldn’t be granted access to confidential files.”
“Did I pass?” I asked, a teasing note making its way into my voice.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Michael replied. “That’s four questions.”
With no warning, he jerked the steering wheel to the left, pulled a U-turn, and then took a fast right. A few seconds later, the two of us slammed into a parking space at what appeared to be some kind of airport hangar.
“What,” I said, my eyes widening as I took in the sleek hunk of metal in front of us, “is that?”
“That?” Michael repeated. “That’s the jet.”
“Let me guess,” I said, only half joking. “You made getting to keep your private jet a condition of your acceptance into the program?”
Michael snorted. “Sadly, it belongs to the FBI. When Briggs isn’t out roping the young and impressionable into doing his dirty work for him, he belongs to a specialized team that works with law enforcement across the country. The jet cuts down on travel time. For us, it’s just a perk.”
“Cassie,” Agent Briggs greeted me the second I stepped out of the car. Just my name, nothing else.
Michael hit a button, and the trunk popped open. I went to retrieve my bag, and Michael shot Briggs a very good imitation of Nonna’s scowl. “You just going to stand there?” he asked the FBI agent.
Briggs helped me with my bag, and Michael caught my eye. “Amused,” he whispered. “And also some residual embarrassment.”
It took me a second to realize that Michael wasn’t interpreting Briggs’s facial expression. He was interpreting mine.
I’ll stop trying to read your emotions if you stop trying to profile me.
Liar.
Without another word, Michael turned and sauntered to the jet. By the time I climbed aboard, he was already lounging in the back row of seats. He looked up, his posture inviting, his eyes telling me to stay away.
Tearing my gaze from his, I took a seat in the row in front of him, facing the cockpit. We’d see how good he was at reading my emotions based on nothing more than the back of my head.
“Tell you what,” Michael whispered, his voice loud enough to reach my ears, but not Briggs’s. “If you promise not to give me the silent treatment, I’ll give you a fourth question, free of charge.”