Your dining alfresco at a high-end Baltimore cafe. Another hour, and you’ll be back in Quatico. Jack Crawford’s growling insistence and the macabre crime scenes.

You frown at the man sitting three tables away. Staring.

Taupe. Harmless. Camouflage? Handsome. Older. Monied. And still staring. Fuck!

Ire up, you push back your chair. 'Harmless' handsome is about to get an earful.

There’s no sign of embarrassment on the stranger’s angular face as you stalk across the sun-warmed terrace. For a moment, your eyes meet, and your stomach flips. Your gaze slides quickly away.

"I apologise if I appeared to leer. That was certainly not my intention."

The man’s smooth tones are a perfect accompaniment to his elegant dress and cultured demeanor. "What exactly was your intention?" And then your eyes fall upon the sketchpad lying open on the table, and you shut the hell up. "Oh."

Faces, lined and youthful. Animated and closed. A parade on paper. And there you are. Charcoaled, like a fucking fairytale princess. Trouble is, you like it - him.

With an effort, you find you're tongue again. "You’re an artist?"

"In my spare time." He indicates the seat opposite. "Would you care to join me?"

It’s been years since you've been charmed by anything that didn’t run on four legs. You grab your things, claim the empty seat, trying not to see it as symbolic of anything. "And in your not spare time?"

You listen as you finish your breakfast. Doctor of psychiatry. Baltimore resident. And reading between the lines, unattached.

You find yourself wanting to skip Quantico altogether. Especially when Hannibal starts relating an entertaining anecdote about a hunting trip and a slow-hopping rabbit - and you can't help but suspect -...

"I hope it performed better on the plate," you chuckle, realising belatedly that you can’t remember when you last laughed.

"Of course." Hannibal leans forward, all engaging huskiness. "A little tenderising works wonders, even on the most obstinate of creatures."