"You want to try making some sense next?" she whispered, and Jason opened the door, gesturing for her to go in first.
"You going in or not?" he prompted.
It was his eager, proud smile that convinced her, and squaring her shoulders, she exhaled and tugged her jacket down and went inside.
Walter's office continued the dark wood theme, as sophisticated and rich as the man she remembered chatting over champagne and cheese with the rest of the elites. Windows encompassed one entire side of his office, and the light coming in turned the mahogany into a rich, almost glowing red. The rather rotund man was standing before the windows, turned slightly to see them come in. Hoc was sitting at his heel.
"Hoc!" Grace exclaimed, wondering how the dog got here, then flushed. "Excuse me, sir," she said, telling Hoc to stay down with a small finger motion as the excited dog click-clacked his merry way to her.
"Not at all." Walter's rich voice rolled out to fill the office, as warm and dark as the wood he surrounded himself with him. "That's what I like about dogs. They don't give a fig about ribbons and bank accounts. Thank you, Jason. I appreciate you bringing Grace up. And Hoc. He's a part of this, too."
Grace's awe at where she was vanished. "I am not changing my mind," she said, wishing she was brave enough to throw the cap in her hand away.
Jason fidgeted. His smile was the only thing keeping her from storming out of here. That, and Hoc now lying on her feet, his tail thumping happily. "Hurry up, Walter," he demanded, making Grace's eyes widen at his familiarity. "I can't stand it."
The older man smiled as he came forward to sit on the edge of his desk. "So tell her! That's why you're here. Apart from the fact that you're the only one Hoc would go with-and I wanted him here for this."
Here for what?
Nodding sharply, Jason took her cold hands in his as if he was going to ask her to marry him. "Grace, the elite have their own collectors. It's not a formal position, one that we occasionally take from time to time-"
"You want me to be a collector for the elite?" she interrupted, flushing in anger. "I told you no! I am not going to compromise myself just so you can break and twist things to your satisfaction! Allowing Zach in would have been a grave error." She glanced at Walter, her jaw clenched. "Sir."
Hoc's waving tail slowed, and Jason's brow furrowed as he tightened his grip on her hands until she yanked away. "Will you let me finish?"
Walter shifted his bulk. "No wonder the woman refuses to work with you," he grumbled. "You're making a mess of this. Grace, Jason was evaluating you for entrance into the elite. Refusing to pass your latest, unsuitable catch into the Strand won your place with us, not the other way around."
Grace's held breath left her in a rush. Understanding crashed over her, and her knees threatened to buckle. "You lied to me?" she accused Jason, but the man was beaming at her, taking her hands again. "You told me they wanted a high-ability thrower at all costs."
"And they got one," he said, grinning. "Congratulations, Grace."
Shocked, she could do nothing. He'd been testing me? Son of a bitch!
"You've not been scrutinized as most of the elite's members," Walters said as he moved back behind his desk. "Most of them we've known since grade school. The idea of making you part of the elite-a young, untested woman of great power and control . . . No, we had to be sure."
Shocked, she sank down onto a chair, then bounced back up again. The elite? The chance was real? "But . . ." she said, looking frantically at Walter to see if it was a bad joke. The man was smiling, and he gestured to Jason.
"I told Walter how well you and Hoc work in a small force team, even if you did almost kill yourself starting his heart. The Strand wants to see what you and Hoc can do, so I'm taking you into my team, work you in, let you freelance Hoc as you see best. If human/dog teams have an advantage, you'll eventually head up a new group of your own." His smile widened and sparkles of familiar energy prickled through her palms though he wasn't touching her. "That is, if you want to."
Walter turned from where he had been pouring thimble-sized drafts of a dark liquid. "Welcome to the elite, Grace," he rumbled as he handed her one, then another to Jason.
She looked down at it, blinking as she realized it was coffee-the amount of which would give her a mild buzz, nothing more. The memory of Zach dead on the floor of the abandoned granite pit rose up, swamping her. "I can't," she whispered, gently setting the cap with its elite emblem down on the nearby chair. "Sir, this is an honor, but with all respect, I decline."
"Decline!" Jason exclaimed, and Walter rumbled as he backed toward the window as if wanting a better view of the two of them. "Why! It wasn't your fault that Zach died!"
At her feet, Hoc thumped his tail apologetically. Grace set her drink on the desk. "May I be excused, sir?" she barked out, her chest feeling as if it was caving in. She wanted this, and yet she had to say no.
Jason took a breath to protest, and Walter cleared his throat. "Jason, will you excuse us?" the heavy man interrupted smoothly.
Clearly frustrated, Jason eyed Grace's stiff stance and Walter's easy assurance. Ears red, he crisply set his untasted coffee on the desk beside Grace's. "Sir," he said respectfully. "Grace," he added, his tone accusing. Without another word, he spun on a heel, strode to the door, and left, shutting it softly behind him.
Grace stood stiffly, her dog miserable at her feet as she stared past Walter at the empty sky. She was in hell. What else could you call being handed everything you ever wanted and knowing you didn't deserve it?
Walter sighed heavily as he poured himself a second drink. "I love my coffee," he said idly as he took a careful sip. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to steel yourself against the very thing you want the most in the name of balance?"
"Sir," she started.
"I bet you do," he interrupted her, his tone drawing her eyes to his. Her next protest died at the deep expression of thought.
Walter sat behind his desk, the move lacking utterly in any hint of finding a dominate position. He was tired, that was all. She felt a pang of guilt that her failings yesterday had something to do with it.
"I know you want this," he said, touching the single sheet of paper on his desk, and her chest hurt when she realized it was her transfer papers. "What I don't know is why you are refusing it. Is it Boyd?" he questioned, and she shifted her shoulders. "His long-running caffeine addiction is not your failing. We knew about it. We also know that he kept it from you, quite well, actually."