by Anna Perrin
“What’s your decision?” she asked. “Are you willing to discuss the situation with me?”
“No reason to. I’ve already figured out a permanent fix to the problem.”
Even now, the memory of his sly smile sent a shiver up her spine.
“What do you mean?”
He had stared at her, his eyes as devoid of humanity as those of a snake.
Suddenly, she had known Andy Forrester posed an imminent threat to an unknown party.
“Who’s on the receiving end of your ‘permanent fix’?” she demanded.
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Tell me who it is.”
The tape reproduced his theatrical sigh. “I’m just making an observation, doc. No need to get all worked up.”
“I think we need to consider why you’re so angry and find a way to—”
A piercing wail had made further conversation impossible. The fire alarm.
Later, she’d learned there was no fire, that some prankster had pulled the alarm. But by then the damage had been done. Forrester had refused to continue the session. However, his “permanent fix” remark coupled with his cold eyes and sly smile had her believing him capable of violence, possibly murder. So she’d arranged for him to be taken to Ridsdale for a full assessment.
She rewound the tape and played it again, this time cranking up the volume and stopping at intervals throughout their conversation. Forrester’s references to “MIOG op” and “IPO” remained unfathomable, but her anxiety deepened. A would-be killer wouldn’t take kindly to her interference.
Had Forrester been the shooter last night? Gene believed the man wanted to harm her, and Brent clearly thought Forrester was responsible for the bullets that had smashed through her window, but she still wasn’t convinced.
During their first session, Forrester had openly admitted that after growing up in foster care, he had joined the FBI because he wanted respect. Then he’d asked her what she thought was fair compensation for risking his life. She hadn’t known how to answer him, but the question had prompted her to delve deeper into his priorities since it was apparent the financial aspect of the job had not lived up to his expectations.
Money was a recurring issue with him. One bitter childhood memory was of his third foster mother stealing his paper route money. He had contemplated pouring drain opener in her drink, but fear of her boyfriend’s rock-hard fists had stopped him from doing it. Forrester might kill if he felt cheated out of money, but not because she’d sent him to Ridsdale for a few days. The outburst to the nurse had been angry venting, not proof of deadly intent toward her.
Of course, her opinion would have to change if physical evidence linked him to the crime scene that encompassed her house.
A tantalizing smell redirected her thoughts to her immediate surroundings. Was that coffee? Brent must be awake. She could use a cup. Or three. But to get to the coffee, she’d have to see Brent, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that just yet. Following his revelations the night before, he’d clammed up, then stalked off to his room.
She’d made her way to the other bedroom, the one that had been Sanderson’s. Even though she was exhausted, she’d had trouble falling asleep, her mind filled with unanswered questions and images, many of them involving her cabinmate.
The unwelcome attraction she felt continued to baffle her. And her late-night sensual fantasies starring Brent had to be a manifestation of stress. She certainly wasn’t going to have hot, grinding sex with him to relieve it. If the symptoms persisted, she would try a different solution. Like a career change.
She checked her watch. 9:04 a.m. She’d been awake and without caffeine for over an hour. Time for a break. Maybe even time to admit she needed assistance deciphering Forrester’s tapes.
The obvious person to do that was Brent Young. He and Forrester worked in the same office, shared the same FBI training and job classification. If Forrester was using work-related jargon—which she suspected was the case—Brent would be familiar with it. That might lead to the person Forrester blamed for wronging him.
Last night, she’d been too rattled to ask Brent what he knew about Forrester. And even if she had, he hadn’t been in a communicative frame of mind after their conversation about Sanderson.
Hopefully, this morning they could start off fresh.
Because if he couldn’t help her decode Forrester’s cryptic words, someone would die.
“GOOD MORNING.”
Brent finished pouring coffee into a mug before turning from the counter.
Claire stood in the doorway, her dark blond hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Her green eyes looked clear and alert as if she’d been up for a while, and he wondered why it had taken her so long to emerge from the other bedroom. Was the prospect of his company so distasteful?
The thought bothered him more than it should have, which irked him further.
“That smells good,” she said, gesturing to the coffee.
“Help yourself.” He stalked over to the oak table on the far side of the kitchen. His job was to protect her, not fetch and carry for her. He might as well make that clear.
If she noticed his brusque tone, she gave no sign of it as she wandered over to the cupboards and checked through them.
“There’s sugar next to the stove,” he said, relenting. “But if you want cream, you’ll have to wait until we pick up groceries later.”
“That’s okay. I take mine black.”
After she’d filled a mug with coffee, she turned and leaned against the counter. “How well do you know Andy Forrester?”
After their disagreement over Forrester’s involvement in last night’s events, her question surprised him. “We’ve attended the same staff meetings, but I’ve never worked an assignment with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Have you ever talked to him outside of work? Maybe gone out for a beer with him?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have.” He tipped his chair back against the wall. “In retrospect, I’m glad. If I’m going to be shot at, I’d rather it’s done by a stranger than a friend.”
Claire frowned, apparently disappointed with his answer.
“You think that’s a bad attitude?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.” Her tone implied that he was getting his back up over nothing.
Maybe so, but it was hard for him not to feel defensive in the presence of a psychologist. “You’re the one he shared his deep, dark secrets with.”
She stared at her coffee. “He said only enough to alarm me. But he didn’t stay at Ridsdale long enough for a full psychological evaluation—”
“Psychological evaluations are a load of crap.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”
He smiled tightly. “We’re not here for you to question me.”
“Look, I’m sorry if you had a negative experience—”
The “negative experience” she alluded to had almost wrecked his life. But he had no intention of unloading his personal history to an FBI shrink.
“Nobody can know what Forrester is capable of just because of some boxes ticked yes on a questionnaire.”
“Is that how you think I evaluate patients?” she sputtered.
No doubt about it. This time, she was the one feeling defensive. That was a whole lot better than her believing they were buddies just because they’d escaped from her house together.
A muscle twitched in Claire’s jaw, but when she spoke her voice was calm. “I don’t use questionnaires. I ask whatever questions I think will give me an understanding of the patient.”
Nice recovery. He caught himself wondering if she ever lost control—and not just of her temper. Because something about her suggested she kept a lot more than anger bottled up inside her.
What would it take for her to let loose? He wanted to witness that explosion. Hell, he wanted to trigger it.
“I even tape our conversations,”
she said, “so I can listen to them again later.”
“Is that legal?” he asked, goading her just because he felt like it.
“With my patient’s consent.” Her tone was still mild, but she set her mug on the counter with a solid thunk. “Wow, you really don’t like psychologists, do you?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’d have to tick the yes box on that one.”
She considered him for a long moment. Then her lips curved in a smile. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Which is more than I can say for some people.”
Her words defused a little bit of his resentment, and he found himself wanting to smile back at her. He frowned instead.
She shifted uneasily. “If this assignment is a problem for you, maybe Gene could find somebody else—”
“How I feel about your profession won’t affect my ability to protect you. As I proved last night.”
“You saved my life,” she agreed. “Now I’m hoping you can do the same for Forrester’s other target.”
“How am I supposed to do that? You said you don’t know who it is.”
“The case I brought with me last night contains tapes of my sessions with Forrester.”
Brent gave a low whistle. “No wonder he came to your house. He wanted to get rid of you and your tapes.”
She flinched.
For a moment, he was sorry he’d been so blunt. He pushed the regret aside. He always called a spade a spade. Claire should get used to that about him. “I want to listen to them.”
She smiled faintly.
He racked his brain but couldn’t come up with anything amusing about her situation. “What am I missing?”
She shrugged. “After the way you dismissed psychologists and their methods, I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help me.”
“Just what kind of help are you talking about?”
“I don’t understand certain terms Forrester used,” she admitted. “I’m hoping you will.”
Even though he knew it was a cheap shot, he couldn’t resist. “And I thought shrinks had all the answers.”
She turned and walked down the hall. “Not this one.”
He caught himself admiring her honesty and humility—and the way her jeans hugged her backside. Dangerous thinking. Especially since the two of them were stuck alone together in a remote cabin. A few minutes later, she returned to the kitchen table with the tapes and player. While she fiddled with the equipment, he tried not to notice the long curve of her neck or the shadowed cleavage revealed by her tank top—and failed miserably. She wasn’t trying to entice him. But the effect was every bit as powerful. He cursed under his breath as his trousers became uncomfortably tight.
She handed him the headphones, but he needed a moment to refocus before listening to the tape. “Why would Forrester admit to anything incriminating?”
“I think his ego got in the way, and he let slip more than he intended to.”
“Or maybe he was yanking your chain.”
“That was my first reaction, too, but I changed my mind. Listen for yourself.”
When he had the headphones in place, she started the tape.
After he’d listened to it twice, she asked, “What do you think?”
“The tape’s ambiguous, but after last night, I agree that he’s dangerous.”
“Can you explain ‘MIOG op’ to me?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “MIOG refers to the FBI Manual of Investigative Operations and Guidelines. So a perfect MIOG op would be an operation that goes like clockwork.”
“Any idea which operation he’s referring to?”
“Maybe it’s one he worked on recently. I’ll ask Gene to review Forrester’s timesheets.”
“Could he have been involved in a financial investigation?” she asked. “That might explain his reference to an IPO.”
He shook his head. “The Cincinnati office doesn’t handle them.”
“If IPO isn’t an initial public offering, then what is it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It isn’t any FBI acronym that I’ve heard of.”
She pressed her fingers against her lips, clearly distraught. “Why did he have to talk in riddles? I can’t stop him from killing if I don’t know who’s at risk.”
He felt as if he were letting her down by not being able to figure out more of Forrester’s comments. Except he didn’t owe her anything, apart from keeping her safe.
But Claire’s wasn’t the only life at risk.
He headed for the hall to call Gene, but at the doorway, he happened to glance back. Claire’s green eyes were fixated on his body, her lips parted as if breathing were an effort.
He stopped, paralyzed by her hungry stare. A blast of warmth licked along his shoulders and spread through his chest. The burn turned south, traveling into his belly, then lower…
She blinked and looked down at the table. As she gathered up the headset, recorder and tape, he checked her hands. Rock-solid steady. No telltale tremors of arousal. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been throwing out all that heat. He turned back toward the hall, irritated that he’d misread her so completely. But he’d only moved a few strides when he heard something clatter to the floor.
Hah. Her hands weren’t so steady, after all.
No longer irritated, he called Gene. Having already informed his supervisor of the shooting at Claire’s house last night and their safe arrival at the cabin, his words were brief and direct. “I want to search Forrester’s place.”
As usual, Gene was all over the situation. “I had the warrant drawn up right after he escaped from Ridsdale. There’s a surveillance team watching his house, in case he shows up. I’ll let them know to expect you and Claire.”
Hold on. His plans hadn’t included Claire tagging along. “I think I should go alone.”
“And leave Claire on her own?”
“She’s safe here.”
“What if Forrester saw you last night?”
“No amount of digging will connect me to the cabin. It’s still registered to that offshore holding company Sanderson set up.” His mentor had been fanatical about privacy after a suspect had killed a colleague in her home.
“Claire should remain with you.”
“Gene—”
“That point’s not negotiable. The only reason I’m letting you go is because the department’s short three agents. If you want to check out his house, you take her with you.”
When Gene pulled rank, no amount of arguing could change his mind. “What’s the address?”
Gene gave it to him. Also, a description of the surveillance team’s vehicle and both agents’ cell numbers. He added, “I’ll update them. What’s your ETA?”
“Tell them to expect us around noon,” Brent said, and disconnected.
Damn. He’d planned on giving Claire a wide berth today. Instead, the trip to Forrester’s meant they’d be together for most of the afternoon.
Plenty of time for her to try poking around his brain.
Plenty of time for him to try figuring out if the attraction he felt for her was mutual.
Who would end up with the most interesting revelations?
Claire might have the psych degree, but he’d interrogated lots of tough suspects over the years. If nothing else, it should make for an interesting trip.
He smiled for the first time that morning.
HOW MUCH DID DR. LAMONT really know? Enough to jeopardize his plan?
The psychologist excelled at drawing out thoughts and feelings. No easy feat considering the tough-minded agents who were her patients. And it wasn’t as if many of them sought her out on their own. Supervisors usually had to order their staff to meet with her. At least the first time.
Then a lot of the guys figured out there were worse ways to pass the time than hanging out with the lovely Claire Lamont. So they signed up to see her again and again, assuming they could stonewall her.
But she didn’t tolerate idle talk for long. She wanted
to know it all—the good, the bad and the ugly. Who’d have guessed a few conversations would cause so much trouble?
He should have put an end to it sooner.
That miscalculation had placed the whole operation at risk.
Next time he set out to kill her, he’d do it right.
Chapter Three
Jim Sharratt had lied to the FBI.
The joints in his hands throbbed as he watched his six-year-old granddaughter, Amy, play on the swings at Cambridge Park. He could call them and come clean, but he knew he wouldn’t. If his family and friends found out what he’d done, they’d lose respect for him. His son might never allow him to take Amy for another outing.
“See me go really high, Grandpa,” she shouted, her skinny, pale legs stretching forward. “I’m flying.”
“You sure are, angel.” He smiled at her even though he felt like crying. These moments were what he lived for. He couldn’t bear to have them taken away from him.
Telling the truth would destroy his life. All because he’d made one terrible error in judgment. Thank God his wife, Jeannie, would never know the man she’d married was capable of such wickedness. He missed her so much. For decades he’d worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Jeannie hadn’t complained through the lean years, but later on she’d grown unhappy with rarely seeing him. She hadn’t wanted more houses or cars or money. She’d wanted more time with him. He’d told her to hang on, just a few more deals…
His retirement had come too late for them to enjoy it. A month before he’d sold off his businesses, Jeannie had caught a virus that became pneumonia and took her life. They couldn’t travel the world or laze on the beach or visit with friends as he’d promised her. And all the wealth he’d accumulated over the years couldn’t ease his crushing grief and loneliness.
If only Jeannie hadn’t died, he would have stayed strong, not become weak and vulnerable to temptation.
Amy giggled, the sound jerking him out of the past.
She swung in a wide arc, her face tilted toward the sun, her fine hair streaming down her back like liquid gold. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she called out to him.
