"I didn't say that," Evelyn said quickly, although the defense was already useless.

"You didn't," Mr. Johnson agreed.

Evelyn continued.

"And it has nothing to do with my ability to perform an assistant's duties."

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"You came to an agency that handles anomalous crime after two years of private research you don't want to discuss. Before that, you lost your position for asking questions beyond your authority. I haven't yet decided whether any of that is relevant to your future work here."

Evelyn clenched his jaw.

He had expected a tired, mediocre detective. Someone who could be persuaded by a good resume, the right clothes, and a few polished professional phrases.

Instead, a huge, beautiful monster sat behind the desk and had reached, in the space of several minutes, the exact subject Evelyn had spent two years carefully concealing.

It was deeply inconvenient.

And, to Evelyn's shame, even more attractive than everything else.

"Do you always interrogate applicants?" he asked.

"Only the ones hiding something."

"I assume most people don't tell a potential employer their entire life story."

"I don't need the entire story."

"Just the part I don't want to tell you?"

That broad mouth twitched again.

"It's usually the interesting part."

Evelyn exhaled slowly.

"I haven't broken any laws."

"I didn't say you had."

"I haven't used unauthorized access to government systems."

"Did you want to?"

Evelyn said nothing.

"That's an answer too," Mr. Johnson observed.

"Are you going to tell the Department I came here?"

"No."

The answer was immediate.

Evelyn's fingers loosened despite himself.

Mr. Johnson noticed that as well.

"I don't currently see any reason to report you to anyone," he continued. "But if you're planning to use my license, my employees, or my access to police files for a personal investigation, then it becomes my problem."

"I am not planning to access police materials without permission," Evelyn replied evenly.

"Good wording."

"Thank you."

Mr. Johnson closed the resume with one smooth motion, and Evelyn's stomach dropped unpleasantly.

He could not tell whether the interview was over or merely moving on to another stage.

It turned out to be the latter.

"What do you know about field work?" Mr. Johnson asked.

"I've attended inspections of anomalous sites."

"After the police?"

"Usually."

"After bomb disposal, medics, and containment?"

Evelyn hesitated.

"Yes."

"Then you've inspected sites after they'd already been secured."

"Mostly."

"Weapons?"

"No."

"None at all?"

"I'm an analyst, Mr. Johnson. Not a field operative."

"Here, sometimes you have to be the field operative."

Evelyn frowned slightly.

"The advertisement asked for an assistant, not a bodyguard."

"Which is why I'm asking. Can you drive?"

"Of course."

"At night?"

"My driver's license has no restrictions based on the time of day."

The corner of that broad mouth moved again.

"That's not an answer."

"Yes. I can drive at night."

Mr. Johnson nodded, then continued more seriously.

"Mr. Gilmore, I'm not asking these questions for entertainment. The position involves more than analysis. You'll speak with clients, go to scenes, keep records, sometimes work nights. Sometimes you'll sit in a car for a very long time. Sometimes you'll listen to people lie and pretend you didn't notice."

"I'm familiar with the last one."

"From the Department?"

"Mostly from people insisting they'd already explained everything to me."

Mr. Johnson let out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

The sound was low, brief, and unexpectedly warm.

A completely inappropriate shiver ran down Evelyn's spine.

He was doomed.

Not in the sense that he could no longer turn down the job. Turning it down was exactly what he should do, immediately, while some fragment of common sense remained intact.

The problem was that now he wanted the job more than ever.

This was insane.

Mr. Johnson asked several more questions about working with clients, irregular hours, report writing, confidentiality. Evelyn answered — at least he thought he answered coherently — but his own voice seemed to come from somewhere far away.

Concentration was becoming increasingly difficult.

Mr. Johnson spoke calmly, occasionally glancing down at the papers on the desk. His long fingers idly worried the corner of the folder.

A perfectly innocent movement.

Entirely unrelated to Evelyn or to anything happening inside Evelyn's head.

It did not help.

The low voice did not help.

The occasional half-smile, sharp teeth and tongue visible between pale lips, did not help.

Nor did the fact that every time Evelyn began to think he had finally regained control of himself, Mr. Johnson raised those black eyes to his face and every bit of progress instantly collapsed.

Evelyn tugged discreetly at his shirt collar.

The office had suddenly become stuffy.

The interrogation — interview, though the difference was becoming increasingly theoretical — continued for several more minutes.

Then Mr. Johnson placed both palms on the desk.

"I think that's enough for today."

The relief was so intense Evelyn nearly exhaled aloud.

The torture was ending.

Sweet, completely unexpected, profoundly unprofessional torture — but ending nonetheless.

"We'll consider your application, Mr. Gilmore," Johnson continued. "Mr. Burke or I will contact you."

Neither yes nor no.

"All right," Evelyn said, trying not to show his disappointment. "Thank you for your time."

"Of course."

Evelyn gathered his documents, though they were already stacked with perfect neatness, stood, and tucked the folder against his side.

Almost safe.

He would leave the office, breathe normal air, and restore circulation to his brain. Perhaps, on the way back to the subway, he could even convince himself that the interview had not been quite as catastrophic as it appeared to have been.

Then Mr. Johnson stood up too.

Evelyn froze.

The desk had not merely been concealing a significant portion of the man's body.

The desk had been concealing a localized natural disaster for Evelyn's cardiovascular system.

Mr. Johnson rose to his full height, and Evelyn had to tilt his head back.

Evelyn had never considered himself short. Five foot ten seemed perfectly respectable — at least until this exact moment.

Apparently nature disagreed.

Mr. Johnson was about six foot seven.

Possibly a little taller.

Huge, broad-shouldered, perfectly proportioned, he towered over Evelyn so thoroughly that Evelyn had to make a conscious effort not to take a step back.

The suit, which had previously seemed merely well tailored, now revealed an additional virtue: it followed the long, powerful lines of his body as though the tailor had fully understood what a crime against society it would have been to let the fabric fit any worse.

This was unfair.

The face, the voice, the hands, the tongue — and now this.

Mr. Johnson looked down at him.

That barely visible crease appeared at the corner of his mouth again.

He'd noticed.

Of course he'd noticed.

"Anything else, Mr. Gilmore?"

"No."

The answer came out too sharply.

Evelyn immediately corrected himself.

"No, sir. Thank you. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Gilmore."

Johnson walked around the desk and opened the door for him.

That only made things worse.

Now Evelyn could see all of him at once and finally understood, with devastating certainty, that his potential employer was the physical embodiment of every erotic preference Evelyn possessed.

Every single one.

He left the office with as much dignity as a man could reasonably maintain under the circumstances.

Which meant holding his back too straight, barely bending his knees, and staring rigidly ahead.

"Good evening, Mr. Burke."

"Good evening," Oliver replied, looking up from his monitor.

Evelyn took one step toward the exit and nearly rammed his thigh into the corner of the desk.

The folder slipped from under his arm. He caught it before the papers could scatter, clutched it to his chest, and continued walking as though the entire movement had been intentional.

The heavy front door shut behind him.

Only when he reached the wet steps did Evelyn allow himself to stop.

The evening air felt almost icy against his overheated skin. He took one breath, then another, and rubbed a hand over his face in an attempt to restore a normal expression.

It did not work.

His knees still felt suspiciously unreliable. His heart was pounding as if he had run several blocks instead of spending twenty minutes in a chair. His trousers had become distinctly uncomfortable across his tense groin, making the descent down the steps considerably more difficult.

"Good Lord," Evelyn muttered.

He glanced back at the agency windows.

Behind one of them, only a few yards above him, was Mr. Johnson.

Marcus Johnson.

A man — no, a monster — who looked as though he had been created specifically to destroy other people's composure and then observe the consequences with polite interest.

Perfection.

The word was ridiculous, excessive, and entirely accurate.

Evelyn slowly made his way down to the sidewalk.

Now all he could do was wait for a decision.

He desperately wanted the job and, at the exact same time, hoped he would never see Mr. Johnson again.

The first possibility was frightening.

For some reason, the second felt worse.