Free Alpha Kill - 03 by Tim Stevens Page B

face. She closed the door behind him and his arms came around her. Their mouths met, briefly.
    He stepped back to hold her at arm’s length, gazing at her. “Tough day?”
    “You wouldn’t believe.” Beth ran a hand through her hair, thankful that she could be honest.
    Paul held up a paper sack in one hand, from which a bottle neck protruded. “Pinot Noir help?”
    “Yes.” Beth sagged against him gratefully. “That would be great.”
    They stood like that for a few moments, Beth with her face pressed against his neck, breathing in his clean, warm smell, Paul with his free arms clasped round her waist. For a brief time, she was able to empty her thoughts, just bask in the simple intimacy of physical closeness with another human being.
    She disengaged, took him by the hand, and drew him into the living room. “Sorry. How was your flight? I’m a million miles away.”
    Paul stood the sack with the wine on top of a sideboard and slipped out of his jacket. “Pretty good, as a matter of fact. Apart from the usual holdups at security.” He kicked off his loafers. “Do these really look to you like they might contain explosive material?”
    Beth smiled. “No. But you tick all of the demographic boxes. You’re a suspicious-looking character.”
    Paul was forty years old, white, and five feet ten. He dressed in tweed jackets and linen shirts and plain Brooks Brothers trousers. In the dictionary next to WASP, you’d see a picture of him.
    While he busied himself with a corkscrew, Beth selected a Pink Martini CD for the stereo. She was determined to make this a normal evening. Which was going to be difficult, considering the highly abnormal day she’d had.
    He handed her a glass, sat down beside her on the sofa. They clinked. “Cheers,” he said.
    The warmth of the wine spread down into Beth’s belly and along her limbs, soothing her.
    Dr Paul Brogan was an attending psychiatrist at the same hospital as Beth. They’d known one another casually for the better part of two years, from back when she was a resident. After the events of last July, after the separation from Venn, it was Paul who noticed things weren’t going so great with her at work. Paul who’d listened to her pour out the craziness in her head, something she was embarrassed to do with any of her other co-workers. Paul who’d recommended – urged – that she consult his colleague, Dr Abrams.
    Paul, whom she’d kissed one evening, quite without warning and surprising herself more than him, when they were having coffee.
    They’d been seeing one another now for a little over five weeks. Two months ago, if anybody had told her she’d throw herself into an affair with another man so soon after separating from Venn, she’d have been appalled. But the progression in her and Paul’s relationship – from friends, to confidantes, to lovers – had been so subtle, so natural, that it didn’t feel at all strange to her. She sensed that she should feel guilty about it, but she didn’t, and this lack of guilt unsettled her.
    In any case, she hadn’t thrown herself into the relationship at all. Paul seemed to understand her need to go slowly, and he didn’t push her in the least. They still kept separate apartments, Beth’s here on the Upper East Side, Paul’s in Tribeca. They didn’t see one another every night, but more like one night in every three. They hadn’t been away together anywhere for the weekend.
    Beth didn’t think about a future with Paul, nor did she rule one out. She was content simply to enjoy the company of this gentle, funny, thoughtful man with his easy charm and unflappable demeanor. They’d talked about Venn, of course, and Beth had been honest with Paul – he was a psychiatrist, after all – and admitted she still had strong feelings for the detective.
    “And how could you not?” Paul said.
    It wasn’t as if Paul represented the antithesis of Venn, and therefore somebody in whom she was seeking convenient refuge. True,