Dim Sum Diaries
Yes! I just picked up the book I've been waiting for, Flashpoint, by Suzanne Brockmann. Here is an excerpt.

Scene takes place at a seedy strip bar...

A rumor had come in that Lawrence Decker's cover had been blown, and there was an ambush being set to kill him. The Agency's nightshift support staff had attempted to contact him, but had been able to do little more than leave a message on his voicemail.

No one in the office had bothered to get in touch with Diego Nash.

"Nash isn't working this case with Decker," Suellen Foster had informed Tess. "Besides, it's just a rumor."

Nash was more than Decker's partner. He was Decker's friend. Tess had called him even as she ran for the parking lot.

"So what do we do?" Tess asked now, looking up at Nash.

He had eyes the color of melted chocolate -- warm eyes that held a perpetual glint of amusement whenever he came into the office in HQ and flirted with the mostly female support staff. He liked to perch on the edge of Tess's desk in particular, and the other Agency analysts and staffers teased her about his attention. They also warned her of the dangers of dating a field agent, particularly one like Diego Nash, who had a serious double-oh-seven complex.

As if she needed their warning.

Nash sat on her desk because he liked her little bowl of lemon mints, and because she called him "tall, dark and egotistical" right to his perfect cheekbones, and refused to take him seriously.

Right now, though, she was in his world, and she was taking him extremely seriously.

Right now his usually warm eyes were cold and almost flat-looking, as if part of him were a million miles away.

"We do nothing," Nash told Tess now. "You go home."

"I can help."

He'd already dismissed her. "You'll help more by leaving."


"I can get a message to Decker," Tess pointed out. "No one in that bar has ever seen me before."

Nash laughed in her face. "Yeah, what? Are you going to walk over to him with your freckles and your Sunday Church Picnic clothes--"

"These aren't Sunday Church Picnic clothes!" They were running-into-work-on-a-Friday-night-at-10:30-to-pick- up-a-file clothes. Jeans. Sneakers. T-shirt.


Tess looked back down the hall toward the bar, toward the ordering station where the waitresses came to pick up drinks and drop off empty glasses.

"You stand out in this shithole as much as I do wearing this suit," Nash told her. "More. If you walk up to Decker looking the way you're looking..."

There was a stack of small serving trays, right there, by the bartender's cash register.

"He's my friend, too," Tess said. "He needs to be warned, and I can do it."

"No." Finality rang in his voice. "Just walk out the front door, Bailey, get back into your car and--"

Tess took off her T-shirt, unhooked her bra, peeled it down her arms, and handed them both to him.

"What message should I give him?" she asked.

Nash appeared to be completely dumbstruck. He looked at her, looked at the shirt and wispy lace of bra dangling from his hand, looked at her again.

Looked at her. "Jeez, Bailey."

Tess knew she was blushing, she felt the heat in her cheeks as clearly as she felt the coolness from the air conditioning against her bare back and shoulders.

"What should I tell him?" she asked Nash again.

"Damn," he said, laughing a little bit. "Okay. O-kay." He stuffed her clothes into his jacket pocket. "Except you still look like a Sunday School teacher."

Doesn't that sound great? :)