Ten years older. Ten years harder. Ten years wearier too—as though Cuffe had been chasing Noel for a decade and had finally cornered him. His black eyes held a grim gleam of satisfaction at Noel’s obvious shock.

Noel practically stuttered, “It’s…you.”

“You mean you can still recognize the original? I’m surprised.” Cuffe’s voice was deep, his tone crisp. It had softened considerably in Noel’s memory.

Noel’s eyes went wider, his lips parted. He automatically opened the door, wordless as Cuffe walked into his home.

Occasionally, rarely, he’d let himself fantasize this moment. It had gone differently in his daydreams. To start with, he was generally shaved and not smelling like the stable.

“You read my books?”

Cuffe—faced with the unsmiling, brusque reality of him made it impossible to think of him as “Robbie” now—narrowed his dark eyes. “Let’s just say I’m aware of your…work.”

Oh.

Uh-oh, in fact.

“Actually, I’d like to explain about that. I know I sort of took literary license—”

Cuffe interrupted. “I’m not interested. Consider yourself lucky I’m not a literary critic. You’d already be on your way to jail.”

That stung. “Hey, my books may not be masterpieces, but—”

“Save it, Snow. I’m here to question you in connection with a series of jewel robberies occurring in New York City over the past three months.”

It was the last thing he’d expected. Noel’s previous astonished—if confused—delight deflated. “You’re kidding.”

Cuffe gave one curt shake of his head. Not kidding.

“But I haven’t—” Noel tried again. “But I’m straight. I have been for years.”

“I doubt that,” Cuffe said dryly.

Noel’s heart jolted at that hint of—well, what was it exactly? Hint that Cuffe hadn’t forgotten? How likely was that, after all? Certainly, there was no trace of any softness or humor in that angular, impassive face.

“You can’t seriously think I’m still—” Noel stopped. It was true the statute of limitations had finally run out on the last of his jobs, but there could be some trap here—some technicality he could be pinned with. He’d be the first to admit he was no legal expert, and he wouldn’t put it past the FBI to try and nail him on some obscure loophole. Cuffe certainly might believe he had a score to settle.

Perhaps Cuffe read his indecision. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Whichever you prefer.”

Increasingly bewildered and uneasy, Noel said, “Do what? What’s the easy way?”

Cuffe smiled. It was more a baring of strong, white teeth. “You answer my questions now, cooperate fully. Or you can call your mouthpiece and I’ll drag your ass down to Federal Plaza and you can spend Christmas Eve in the slammer.” He added, “It’ll give you a taste of what the next couple of decades and all your future Christmases are going to be like.”

Noel was silent, trying to make sense of things. Cuffe continued to eye him with that implacable expression as though he held all the cards and they both knew it. As though he finally had Noel where he wanted him.

Finally, Noel shrugged. “I’ll answer your questions. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“No?”

“No. Listen, R-Agent Cuffe, I really am out of that life now. I’m exactly what you see.”

Cuffe looked him up and down with cool deliberation—openly unimpressed. “And that would be what?”

Noel reddened. Definitely not like those pleasant daydreams he’d had through the years.