by Anna Perrin
“What’s that?”
“Ice cream!”
“Butterscotch ripple, two scoops?”
She beamed at him. “You got it, Grandpa.”
He watched her slow the momentum of the swing. Her sneakers skidded to a stop in the loose dirt, then she was racing toward him. A moment later, he swept her up in his arms and breathed in the scent of sunshine and innocence.
Did he have to lose everything because he’d messed up once? No, he refused to believe that. He would carry on as though nothing had happened. As long as he remained silent, that might be possible.
CLAIRE STARED out the passenger window at the trees whipping past. She’d been surprised to learn they were returning to Cincinnati to search Forrester’s house. She had just assumed they would wait at the cabin until he was arrested. Apparently Brent wasn’t content to do that. In addition to protecting her, he was determined to uncover Forrester’s other target.
She glanced sideways at her companion. His straight, black hair was cut short in a no-nonsense style that matched the expression in his brown eyes. Even though she knew better, his digs about her profession had stung. What had happened to make him feel so negative toward psychology? Had a suspect he’d arrested gotten off because of a psychologist’s testimony? Had a friend’s mental illness been misdiagnosed?
If she knew the basis for Brent’s hostility, she might be able to help him reevaluate the experience. Of course, getting him to open up wasn’t going to be easy. But then, few agents arrived at her office ready to pour out their hearts and souls. She had to build trust slowly.
“Most of the agents I know dreamed of a career with the Bureau when they were young,” she said. “Was that the case for you, too?”
“Pretty much,” he admitted.
“How long have you been an agent?”
“Seven years.”
She judged him to be in his late thirties, so his answer surprised her. “Why did you wait so long to apply?”
He frowned. “Who says I waited?”
“Well, I’m guessing you were older than the average recruit when you joined. There must be a reason for that.”
“Oh, there’s a reason, all right,” he muttered.
She waited for an answer that didn’t come. Finally, she prompted, “Are you going to give me a hint?”
Silence from the other side of the car.
She’d wanted to get him talking but had struck a nerve instead. Nice going, Freud.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “When you were a kid, did you dream of becoming a shrink?”
She wasn’t fond of the word shrink, but maybe if she volunteered some information, he’d reciprocate. “Actually, I dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.”
“What made you change your mind?” he asked.
Her brain responded immediately, but she pressed her lips together so her secret couldn’t slip out.
“Claire?”
She drew in a deep breath and held it, waiting for the sharp pang to recede to the more familiar ache she’d learned to live with. Oh, God. The loss shouldn’t hurt so much. Not after all these years. But it still did.
She made a fist in her lap, released her breath slowly. “I lost interest.”
“Why psychology?” he prompted, braking for a slow-moving vehicle.
Leave it alone. But she knew he wouldn’t. “I wanted to help people cope with the challenges in their lives.”
How idealistic she’d been at twenty. How discouraged she felt at this point in her career.
“Do you think you have?” Brent asked.
She’d been struggling with that question for almost a year. Was she having a positive impact on her patients? If she accepted that job in Minneapolis, she wouldn’t have to agonize anymore. In the meantime, she wasn’t about to broadcast her doubts to someone who was already pre-disposed to think badly of her profession. “I think I’ve been successful with many of my patients.”
“Like Forrester?”
Her temper rose. She ignored it, reminding herself that Brent was only doing what she often did: ask probing questions. “By committing Forrester to Ridsdale, I gave him the opportunity to be thoroughly assessed. I also ensured his safety as well as that of his intended target. Now that he’s out, who knows what might happen.”
“You’re not responsible for Forrester’s actions,” Brent said quietly.
Leaning her head back against the headrest, she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“What were you trying to do?”
She didn’t want to admit her real motive so she said, “Make conversation.”
“Are you sure that’s all?”
She opened her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You ask a lot of personal questions.”
“I’m curious about you.”
He changed lanes to pass a blue minivan. “I think it’s more than curiosity.”
“Like what?”
His soft chuckle made her mouth go dry. “Like maybe you’re hot for me.”
Her jaw dropped, and heat crept up her neck. “You are so wrong.”
“Then explain why your pulse races when I touch you.”
“If you’re referring to last night at my house, don’t forget I thought you were Forrester.”
“Only for a couple of seconds. Then you knew it was me, and your heart beat even faster.”
Damn, he had noticed. The fact that he spoke the truth only made her more determined to deny it. “You misinterpreted what you felt.”
“Is that so?” His hand left the steering wheel and settled on her forearm.
His fingers slid down toward her wrist in a gentle caress. Even though she knew his move was calculated, she couldn’t control her accelerating heart rate. Why was she reacting so intensely? He was hardly touching her.
She willed herself to ignore him and focus on the scenery rushing past the car.
A moment later, he turned his head and spoke in a husky voice. “How about we pull over…”
And do what? Her heart went wild at the possibilities.
“…and check out that pulse of yours?”
Shrugging off his hand, she said more sharply than she intended, “Watch the road. I saw a deer-crossing sign a few yards back.”
She stared straight ahead, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Sooner or later you’re going to run out of excuses to avoid the attraction between us.”
His self-satisfied tone irked her. “Are you familiar with the term ‘delusional’?”
“Are you familiar with the term ‘coward’?”
Her head whipped around. “What?”
“Why can’t you be honest about your feelings instead of hiding behind that psychobabble?”
“Psychobabble?” she said. “Why on earth would I be attracted to somebody who disparages what I do for a living?”
He had the gall to smile. “I don’t know.”
The man was impossible. No matter how much she denied the sparks between them, he wouldn’t believe her. But maybe she could convince him that the point was moot. “Even if I were attracted to you, nothing would happen between us.”
“Why not?”
“Given my position, it would be wrong to become personally involved—”
“—with a patient. I’m not a patient.”
“Not now.”
“Not ever,” he amended tartly.
“Doesn’t matter. I consider all agents to be off limits.”
He gave her a penetrating stare. “Why?”
“I have a rule about it.”
“Haven’t you heard? Rules are made—”
“—to be broken.” She shook her head. “Hardly reassuring words coming from a federal agent.” But she couldn’t prevent the hint of a smile that curved her lips. “You’re supposed to enforce the law.”
“Hey, I follow the rules in my job.”
“Like breaking and entering my house?”
; He grinned. “Sometimes the rules require liberal interpretation.”
“Does Gene know that?”
“Gene knows I’d never cut the wrong corner.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“My personal life is a different story,” he told her. “There, I don’t worry about rules. I go with my impulses.”
And what impulses would those be? she couldn’t help but wonder. It would be better not to speculate. She was already finding him dangerously appealing. “I commend your flexible approach. But it doesn’t change how I feel.”
“Maybe you’re harboring resentment against my profession. And that’s the real reason you don’t date FBI guys.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” she said with a shrug. “However wrong it may be.”
A sign appeared on the side of the road, indicating they’d arrived at the outskirts of the city.
The last few minutes had distracted her, but now a shiver ran up her spine. Until Forrester was in custody, she wouldn’t feel safe here. But her fear didn’t matter. What mattered was tracking down his target before he did.
She only hoped they weren’t already too late.
BRENT DRUMMED HIS THUMBS on the steering wheel. Claire’s conviction not to get involved with an agent intrigued him. What was she hiding? Because he was certain she was hiding more than her feelings for him. Had she been burned before, maybe in a relationship with one of his colleagues? The possibility made him uncomfortable. He didn’t go for long-term relationships, but a woman who became involved with him did so knowing the score. Lots of men made promises they had no intention of keeping. Is that what had happened to make Claire wary?
Or maybe her “rule” was just a smokescreen? A way of not having to admit she was attracted to him. What did psychologists call that? Denial?
He, on the other hand, had no problem owning up to the attraction he felt. Their disagreements revved his engine because she was smart and focused. Her mouth looked infinitely kissable, and her thick, blond hair was sure to feel amazing against his bare skin. Last, but certainly not least, her curves had him hungering to learn every contour.
She didn’t know him well enough to realize that telling him about her “rule” had been a tactical error. He never accepted rules at face value. They always had to make sense to him. This one didn’t. This one seemed more like a challenge. And he never backed down from one of those.
Thinking of challenges reminded him of Forrester’s comments on the tape. What had happened to bend the bastard so out of shape? And whose life was in danger? Of course, the most pertinent question right now was, would a search of his house be productive or a colossal waste of time?
As he turned the corner onto Forrester’s street, he counted a dozen vehicles parked along the curb, including the one assigned to the surveillance team. He pulled into an empty spot and called the number Gene had given him.
“Riley Harris,” a voice answered.
The name wasn’t familiar, but frequent transfers made it hard to keep track of everyone in the Cincinnati office. Brent identified himself.
“Gene said you’d be checking in,” the other man said.
“Any sign of Forrester?”
“Negative. McKenna’s walking the perimeter. If Forrester shows up, he’ll attempt to talk him into giving himself up.”
It was worth a try, Brent supposed. And Alec McKenna had been around long enough to know not to let down his guard.
“I’ll let McKenna know you’ve arrived,” Harris said.
Brent closed his cell phone and turned to Claire. She hadn’t spoken since they’d reached the city and was hugging her arms to her body even though it wasn’t cold in the car.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The surveillance team hasn’t seen any sign of Forrester.”
She nodded, but her arms remained locked across her torso.
He cupped her shoulder with his palm, drew her gaze to meet his. “If he shows his face, you have me and two other agents to protect you. But it’s more likely he’s gone to ground miles from here.” He didn’t know if that was true—all he knew was that he felt compelled to ease Claire’s tension.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Leaving town may force him to postpone going after the person on the tape.”
He checked his gun just in case he was wrong. “Let’s go.”
They didn’t encounter Alec McKenna on their way to the back of the house, but Brent hadn’t expected to. The agent would be focused on watching out for Forrester, and their presence couldn’t act as a distraction.
At the house, Brent picked the lock on the front door, then he and Claire ventured inside. The main level consisted of a galley-style kitchen and an L-shaped living-room-and-dining-room area. A quick search through the stacks of opened mail on the coffee table revealed utility bills and junk mail, certainly nothing of interest. He checked the garage next. Empty. Wordlessly, he motioned for Claire to proceed to the second floor.
“What a mess,” Claire murmured, advancing into the room at the top of the stairs.
The space, which had been set up as a home office, overflowed with books, magazines and loose papers. Suddenly, he was glad Gene had made him bring Claire along. Two people could search through this pigsty faster than one.
The office door slid shut.
Claire crossed the room to reopen it. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Try the stack of paper next to the bookcase,” he said, his attention caught by the framed photo of Forrester on the desk. Sporting a wide smile, the agent stood next to a shiny classic Trans Am.
The door closed again due to the sloped floor, and this time Claire gave up and left it that way.
Opening the top drawer of the desk, Brent leafed through its contents which included an address book and six months’ worth of bank statements. He flipped to the most current one. No immediate red flags. All the deposits and withdrawals appeared to be of reasonable magnitude. Setting the statement aside, he turned to the next one.
Paper rustled in the vicinity of the bookcase. Claire let out a sigh.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Only if car specifications and parts catalogues float your boat. Forrester mentioned in one of our sessions that classic cars were his hobby, but it looks more like an obsession.”
Brent moved on to the bottom drawer where he found a nearly empty briefcase and a stack of credit-card receipts. It would take hours to review all the receipts, and he didn’t want to spend that much time here.
He placed the address book, credit-card receipts and bank statements inside the briefcase, then added the photo from the desk.
“It’s getting stuffy in here,” she murmured, moving past him.
She unlocked the room’s solitary window, then tugged on the handles without success.
“The house is old. It’s probably been painted shut,” he commented.
She headed for the closed door as he added more items to the briefcase.
A sudden cry jolted him like an electrical charge.
“The knob’s hot,” Claire said, regarding her upturned palm in disbelief.
In a heartbeat, he stood beside her, pressing his ear against the door. From the other side came a crackling sound. His gaze shot to the woman who should have been safe at the cabin, but was trapped here with him instead.
He answered the unspoken question in her eyes with a single word.
“Fire.”
Chapter Four
Claire stared at Brent in stunned disbelief. The stinging in her hand receded under a wave of fear as he pulled out his cell phone. He pressed only three buttons. 9-1-1.
Fire. They had to get out.
Instinctively, she reached for the doorknob again.
“No,” he yelled, jerking her back against him. “The fire’s right outside. If you open the door, it’ll explode into the office.”
Oh, God. He was right. Hungry for oxygen, the fire would gravitate toward any new sourc
e. They had to find another exit. The window.
“Help me,” she said, heading for it.
This time he didn’t suggest reasons why it wouldn’t open. Turning on his heel, he made it there ahead of her. She watched anxiously as he yanked and pulled.
“It won’t…budge,” he said, his words interrupted by coughs.
Her own throat felt raw and scratchy. Smoke seeped under the door like fog in a horror movie. She tugged at Brent’s arm in alarm.
He glanced over his shoulder, then cursed softly and stripped off his shirt.
The sight of his rippling muscles and bronzed flesh had her mouth going dry—or maybe she was just reacting to the heat building inside the room. She couldn’t tear her gaze away as he dropped his shirt to the floor and used his foot to wedge it against the crack. It wasn’t going to stop all the smoke, but it might keep out enough so they could breathe for an extra minute or two.
Unless the door went up in flames.
A mighty crack sounded in another part of the house. Could it be the support beams collapsing? She had no way of knowing, and no intention of staying inside long enough to find out. She looked around for a heavy object to break the window, but Brent was already wheeling the oak desk-chair toward her. Lifting it by the arms, he thrust the chunky legs at the window pane repeatedly.
A spray of glass shards rewarded his efforts. Cooler air from outside rushed into the oven the office had become. Claire almost wept with relief as she moved forward, eagerly breathing in the fresh air.
Brent dropped the chair and blocked her path. “Stay away from the opening.”
“Why?” All she wanted was some air to ease the burning in her lungs and the stinging in her eyes.
“Because the house didn’t burst into flames on its own. The arsonist could be trying to smoke us out.”
She instinctively took a step back, away from the window.
“The surveillance team—”
“He must have got past them to torch the house. I don’t want to take the chance he picks us off as we leave.”
Oh, God. If Brent was right, their only escape route exposed them to another kind of danger.
