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“Sure, so could I,” I said, grinning widely. “It’s always much more fun to have someone help you with that.”

“I like to know what I’m getting before I buy,” she said, a smug look on her face. “You know – kick the tires, look under the hood so I don’t end up with a lemon.”

I laughed out loud. “You can look under my hood any time.” I glanced her way only to see her trying her best not to smile. “But I’m not for sale or rent. I’m all about giving it away. Helping those in need, Philanthropy, you know.”

She grinned at that. “I’m sure there’s always someone in need that you can help.”

I smiled as we arrived at the coffee shop and I held the door for her. “Beautiful ladies first.”

We went inside and stood in front of the display of pastries. The staff person came over to the counter.

“We’ll take a couple of coffees and a Napoleon slice, two forks,” I said.

Mira turned to me, a look of amusement on her pretty face. “Do you always order for your date?”

“Always,” I said and leaned closer to her, trapping her against the counter, my arms almost around her. “I like to take control. When I dance, I lead.”

That was the truth. I did like to lead – in all things in business and mostly in pleasure, although I loved it when a woman felt secure enough to take charge during sex.

I led her to a small table by the window and pulled out her chair. We sat and watched the traffic on the street while we waited for the server to bring our food.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” Mira asked, her eyes on me, an inquisitive expression on her face. “How is it you have a DEA badge and run a business?”

I had to tell her something, but I didn’t want to get into the whole business of my DEA career. Or my family, for that matter.

“I showed you my badge so you wouldn’t worry about the gun. You should just forget you ever saw that badge.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively.

Mira nodded and appeared satisfied. Her life growing up as the child of an FBI Special Agent must have prepared her for dealing with clandestine business. Plus, if she intended to get into the FBI, she understood discretion.

After our food arrived, we talked about ourselves for a while, and she asked me question after question about who I was and why I signed up.

“I was too young on 9/11 or I would have signed up right away,” I said, remembering how I felt after the attacks. “When I was old enough, I’d already started at Stanford. When we started getting reports about how bad it was in Fallujah, I decided it was now or never.”

She looked at me like she respected my answer. “How long were you in?”

“Only five years. When I came back home, I finished my degree at Stanford and started my own business. The rest is history.”

That was just about enough info on me. I decided to turn the tables and focus on her. I didn’t want to talk about myself anymore, especially my father’s side of the family, and I was genuinely interested in her. I knew a lot about her fallen husband, but very little about her.

“So tell me about you. You want to work for the FBI…”

She told me about her father, and how he was killed in the line of duty.

“Some guy wanted for racketeering. I guess the man didn’t want to go back to jail and there was a shootout.”

“Did the bad guy die?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, her eyes distant like she was remembering. “He went to jail.”

I nodded, but something about her story rang a bell with me. I remembered hearing about a shootout in Hell’s Kitchen and an FBI Agent being killed. There was a lot of talk about it among my uncle’s thugs. “That must have been hard. When did he die?”

“Five years ago. It was hard,” she said, and I could see she was still affected by the memory. “My mother fell apart. She hasn’t been the same since.”

“So you have law enforcement in your blood,” I said, trying to change the subject to something less painful.

“Born and bred. Gramps was in Korea and then NYPD until he retired to run a bar in Queens.”

“See?” I said and held out my hand. “You and I have so mu