A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

GULLIBLE

Despite his grave misgivings about his ability to succeed, Harry suddenly felt a welcome calm and determination sweep through him, banishing his fear and leaving his head clearer. He waited several moments before speaking, so that his capitulation wouldn't seem too sudden and suspicious to Zayn, then he drew a steadying breath and tried to inject a rueful note into his voice: "Mr. Malik," he said, actually managing to cast him a slight, sideways smile, "I appreciate what you said about not intending to hurt me. I didn't mean to be sarcastic. I was afraid, that's all."

"And now you aren't afraid?" he countered; his voice laced with skepticism.

"Well, yes," Harry hastened to assure him. "But not nearly so much. That's what I meant."

"May I inquire what brought about this sudden transformation? What were you thinking about while you were so quiet?"

"A book," he said because it seemed safe. "A mystery."

"One you've read? Or one you're thinking about writing?"

His mouth opened, but no words came out, and then he realized Zayn had inadvertently handed him the perfect means to his own defeat. "I've always wanted to write a mystery someday," he improvised madly, "and it occurred to me that this could be, well, first-hand research."

"I see."

He darted another glance at Zayn and was startled by the warmth of his smile. This devil could charm a snake, he realized, recalling that same smile from the days when it had flashed across movie screens and raised the temperature of the entire female audience (Harry's too).

"You are a remarkably brave young man, Harry."

Zayn choked his irate demand to be called Mr. Styles. "Actually, I'm the world's greatest coward, Mr.—"

"My name is Zayn Malik," he interrupted, and in his impassive tone he sensed a return of his suspicion.

"Zayn Malik," he hastily agreed. "You're quite right. We ought to use first names, since we're apparently going to be together for—?"

"A while," he provided, and Harry made a Herculean effort to conceal his frustrated fury at his oblique reply.

"A while," he agreed, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Well, that's probably long enough for you to help me with some preliminary research," he hesitated, thinking of what to ask him. "Would you, well, consider giving me some insight into what prison is really like. That would be helpful for my story."

"Would it?"

Zayn was scaring the hell out of him with the subtle, ever-changing nuances in his voice. Never before had he known a man or woman who could convey so much with imperceptible changes in his voice, nor had he heard a voice like Zayn's in his life. It had a rich baritone timbre that could switch instantly and unaccountably from polite to amused to icy and ominous. In answer to his question, Harry nodded vigorously, trying to counteract his skeptical tone by injecting energy and conviction in his own. "Absolutely." In a flash of inspiration, he realized that if he thought he might be on his side, he'd be even more likely to lower his guard. "I've heard that a lot of innocent people get sent to prison. Were you innocent?"

"Every convict claims he's innocent."

"Yes, but are you?" he persisted, dying for him to say he was so he could pretend to believe him.

"The jury said I was guilty."

"Juries have been wrong before."

"Twelve honest, upstanding citizens," he replied in a voice suddenly iced with loathing, "decided I was."