Free Trouble on Reserve by Kim Harrison Page B

eyes. Trent had touched me before. This wasn’t the first time I’d worked with him, and he was a tactile person—even if he was somewhat aloof—but ever since a half-drunk confession and not one but two mutually consenting and poorly thought-out lip locks, even his casual touch zinged through me.
    I’m not going to do this, I thought, head down as I dug through my bag for a scrunchie. I am not going to get involved with a man ten times my tax bracket who deals in brimstone to fund his illegal genetic studies.
    Easing around a stand of empty boat cradles, Trent looked at me. “It wasn’t brimstone. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
    I hated it when he seemed to read my mind, and I turned the vents to try to drive the damp out of me. “Yeah?”
    He sighed, slowing to almost a crawl when he saw the car ahead of us still working through the unattended gate. “Diabetes runs in Amos’s family. Why shouldn’t his children and grandchildren grow up free of it?”
    I frowned. Because genetic medicines are illegal? Because only the wealthy can get them? Because if it was found out, he’d be railroaded through the system and executed? The Turn wasn’t that long ago, and people were still scared.
    “Rachel,” he prompted, and I quit fiddling with the vents. I wasn’t his employee and I wasn’t his girlfriend, but he cared what I thought of him—which made me uncomfortable even as it flattered the hell out of me.
    “What did he give you? Votes?” I said bitterly. Damn it, why did every man I like end up to be dirty or too scared to put up with the crap my life could dish out? I do not like Trent. Why am I doing this?
    “He gave me his silence,” Trent said flatly.
    Exhaling, I slumped where I sat. It was more than likely that Trent was being blackmailed, even if he did seem to like the man. Part of me was all for walking away, but another knew how vulnerable Trent was. A lot of good came out of Kalamack Industries too.
    I’m too tired to figure this out right now , I thought, feeling like a hypocrite. “I don’t like being tricked into doing something illegal.” I looked across the car at him, my eyebrows high. “You should have asked.”
    His hair shifted in the wind off the river, and he brushed it aside as I smothered the urge to do it myself. “You wouldn’t have done it if I had asked,” he muttered. “And to say otherwise is both insulting and ridiculous, but if it means anything, I’m sorry.”
    My air puffed out, and I looked over the dark dockyard as it passed. “Not for the right reason, you aren’t.”
    “I said I was sorry. What more do you want me to say?”
    The tension in his voice pulled my attention back to him. “Look. Reading people is my job. If I do it wrong, I might end up on the pavement, and you, Trent, are not sorry.” He frowned and I added, “Okay, maybe you’re sorry that your evening was marred by some unexpected blackmail, but you’re not sorry that you used me to watch your back when you knew damn well I wouldn’t have said yes if you had asked me flat out.”
    “Then you admit you would have said no,” he accused, his hands white-knuckled on the leather-covered wheel.
    “If you were sitting in your office, yes! I’m not naive, Trent. I know things happen, things that need to be taken care of immediately, and I’m not so callous that I would’ve walked off and left you to fend for yourself in the middle of the street!”
    He turned to the gate, the expensive car bouncing over a rut. “I’m not helpless.”
    “I never said you were, but working the Hollows with no one watching your back is dumb. Dumber than not asking me to help .”
    The car jerked forward as his foot slipped off the clutch. His eyes were narrowed in the scant light coming off the dash, and something in me liked seeing him like this. He was always so calm, so in control. It was nice knowing he was as human as the rest of us. “Then what are you mad about!” he exclaimed, and my elbow