The Globalist. John Walsh

get one thing straight.” He paused.

      Relieved to see that the taxi had stopped, Claire leaned against the door, ready to get out.

      Jason put a hand on her arm. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “I will make sure that everything goes okay for Trish at the wedding. But get one thing clear, crystal-clear.” He tightened his grip on her arm. Claire looked at the hand on her jacket sleeve, then at his face. There wasn’t a grin in sight. And just when she would have preferred him to tease her in some good-natured, tasteless way, he said, in a deadly serious tone, “I’m not doing this because it’s important to Trish. I’m doing it because it’s important to you.” And then he let go of her arm.

      CLAIRE SWUNG open the door, climbed out, and adjusted the awkward load of her camera bag. She gulped for air, any air, to counter the sudden attack of hyperventilation that had seized her. And she was having a hard time blaming it on laundry products.

      Jason Doyle is an assignment, she told herself firmly. And he’s the means to helping out a good friend. Period. What she needed now in her life was the safety of simplicity. No complications. No risks. Just uninterrupted nights of sleep, regular meals and a paycheck every two weeks.

      What she didn’t need was Jason Doyle messing with her brain, and messing with the rest of her insides. And right now she was definitely having a mind-body experience, one that wasn’t leading to a greater state of bliss. No amount of self-help gurus, green tea or lavender bath salts was going to provide an antidote, either. What she needed had to be far more potent—one-hundred-percent caffeine.

      She turned back and watched as Jason paid the driver. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. His jacket rose to expose his hipbones, jutting against the low-slung, soft fabric of his sweatpants. She gulped and turned away quickly. “I desperately need coffee,” she gasped. She was going to need it intravenously if his pants slipped any lower.

      She looked around for a coffee shop, taking in her surroundings for the first time. “What are we doing in the Village?” So intent had she been during the conversation in the cab that she hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going. “I thought we were going to the gym.” She’d naturally assumed they were using a training facility at the Garden. Or if not, some posh health club, with state-of-the-art machines and freshly squeezed carrot and guava juice in a carefully constructed snack bar.

      She turned a three-sixty on her heels. When she thought of the Village, she thought of jazz clubs, wacky Halloween parades, and shops selling rhinestone handcuffs and crotchless underpants. She didn’t think of strapping specimens of male beauty—at least not in the context of professional sports. But here they were, on the edge of the New York University campus, not exactly a powerhouse in hockey.

      “I would have thought you usually worked out with the team,” she said again.

      “That’s true. They have special equipment tailored to building up quads and hamstrings for lateral movement.”

      Claire nodded, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

      “But I also like to scout out universities. It’s something I got into the habit of doing when I was with my last team. Their gyms may not have the shiniest equipment, but the gym rats are really eager. Nothing pushes you harder than a bunch of cocky twenty-year-olds watching your every move.”

      Why anyone would voluntarily want to compete against guys who could party all night, live on bags of Oreos, and still come out and run a sub-five-minute mile, was beyond her comprehension. Unless you still felt you could do the same thing. She studied Jason. “I suppose you think you can drink shots of tequila all night and still outrun, out jump and out lift any of them.”

      “I can’t?” Jason looked incredulous.

      If he didn’t look so boyishly handsome in his sloppy clothes and unkempt hair—no, there was nothing boyish about Jason Doyle—Claire would have clocked him right there and then. Talk about delusional. The man thought he was immortal, or at least immortally young. Chalk up another reason for her to steer clear. In her experience, people with an unnatural sense of their own invincibility tended to do reckless things that got themselves and others into trouble. Big trouble.

      “Well, some of us are mature enough to realize that we need to take care of our bodies, to nourish them with essential vitamins. That being the case, I’m going over there to get coffee.” She pointed to an espresso bar on the corner. “Can I get you something?”

      “No, I never drink coffee. Do you know what coffee does to your system?”

      “It’s the one thing that my body responds to in a predictable way.” She rummaged in a side pocket of her bag for some money.

      “Maybe it’s time to generate some unpredictable responses?”

      “And you’re just the guy to do it, right?” Claire shook her head and managed to pull a five-dollar bill free of some tissues and gum wrappers. “Talk about being predictable.”

      “Honey, nothing’s predictable when it comes to me.”