by Anna Perrin
A gray haze of smoke soon filled the office.
Dragging the neckline of her tank top up to cover her mouth, she sucked air raggedly through the fabric. Her throat was already so raw that every breath she took hurt more than the last. She swayed to one side, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Losing consciousness wasn’t far off. And even though her stomach churned at the possibility of being shot, she decided a bullet wound couldn’t feel worse than this slow suffocation.
She eyed the narrow opening, psyching up to plunge through it, no matter what she’d encounter on the other side.
Brent must have sensed her intent because he moved to trap her against the wall.
“Trust me,” he murmured. “I’ll get you out of this alive.”
She wouldn’t have believed those words from anyone else, but last night this man had proved he could protect her. So even though her instincts screamed for her to shove him out of the way, she didn’t surrender to them.
She closed her eyes, breathed shallowly.
Despite the dire situation, she was supremely conscious of his naked chest. The smooth skin…taut muscles…tangy masculine smell. As his body pressed against hers, his labored breathing mirrored her own.
“Hold on,” Brent said. “We’ll leave when the emergency crews arrive. Whoever set this fire won’t risk being spotted.”
She nodded to show she understood and struggled to stay alert, knowing that her survival depended on reacting quickly to changing circumstances.
Hold on. Hold on.
The words were a mantra in her mind. She clung to them for comfort. Belatedly, she realized that she was also clinging to Brent, her arms locked around his waist. She knew she should release him. She also knew she should be mortified. She had no business touching him, especially after denying her attraction to him in the car. But this wasn’t about attraction. This was about need. She needed to be close to him right now. She needed to share his strength, absorb his courage. His lack of fear was the only thing keeping her from full-scale panic.
He didn’t seem to mind or even be aware of her fierce embrace. His gaze was directed outside, scanning the area around the house.
Sirens wailed nearby.
“Let’s go,” he said abruptly.
Claire felt her legs go weak. Finally.
But her relief evaporated when the tongues of flame began to lick at the frame of the door. The spark and crackle of the fire was so close. It wouldn’t be long before it had consumed everything in its path.
Brent stepped in front of the window, then paused for a long moment before he grasped her by the waist and hoisted her through the opening in a single, smooth movement. Only when she was kneeling outside on the roof of the garage did she realize why he had stopped in front of the window first—to offer himself as a target. The reminder that Brent would take a bullet for her made her grateful that he was protecting her, and worried what could happen to him.
She waited, expecting him to join her immediately. When he didn’t, fear stabbed her. Had he been cut off by the fire? Or had he passed out from smoke inhalation? The thought of climbing back into the burning office terrified her, but she couldn’t leave him to die. She gripped the window frame, anxious that she might not be strong enough to drag him to safety.
He appeared in the opening, brandishing Forrester’s briefcase like a trophy.
Her happiness at seeing him turned to anger. “You risked your life for a briefcase? Are you crazy?”
He swung a leg out the window. “I didn’t think shrinks liked that word. Too derogatory.”
Flames leapt behind him as the fire advanced into the office. So close. Too damn close. The man was in denial about his own mortality.
“I know a lot more derogatory words than ‘crazy’,” she said, through gritted teeth.
“I’ll bet,” he said, with a grin. “You can enlighten me later.”
He pointed to the street where half a dozen men in protective clothing swarmed around a fire engine. “Those hoses look set to go. Unless you want an impromptu shower, I suggest we get off this roof right away.”
Following his lead, she crawled over the shingles to the far side of the roof. But when she saw him swing over the edge, hang by his fingers for a moment, then drop to the ground, she groaned inwardly. There was no way she could do that. Her burned hand hurt so much, she’d probably faint from the pain.
“Throw me the briefcase,” he called out.
She did, using her left hand.
Brent looked up at her, waiting. “I know it seems like a long way down, but it’s not that far. Jump and I’ll catch you.”
He obviously thought she was afraid of heights, and she didn’t bother to contradict him. Her injury was nothing compared to the ones he’d likely collected over the course of his career.
Rolling onto her stomach, she pushed off the roof. As promised, he caught her before her feet hit the grass.
“Thanks,” she said breathlessly. Was it her imagination or did his hands linger on her?
“No problem,” he said, releasing her.
Seconds later, a fire hose spewed jets of water onto the east side of the house.
They sprinted across the lawn, then headed for the fire engine, where Brent let the crew know that the house was empty and the fire had likely been started by its owner, who was wanted by the FBI.
Reminded of the surveillance team, Claire murmured, “Where do you suppose your colleagues are?”
“I don’t know,” Brent said grimly, “but I intend to find out.”
He strode along the street past numerous parked cars until he reached a green Chevy Impala. Peering through the window, he let out a guttural curse.
“What is it?” Claire said, unable to see past him into the car.
“Harris has been shot.” He opened the door and reached inside.
She glimpsed bloody clothing and a slumped-over body before she turned away, sickened. “How bad is it?”
“He’s dead.”
Oh, God. She swallowed. “Where’s McKenna?”
“Let’s go find out.”
For the next ten minutes, they trekked through the surrounding yards, climbed over fences and checked behind hedges. Nobody objected to their presence, perhaps because those who might have were distracted by the fire engine in front of Forrester’s house. With every step, Claire felt a deepening sense of dread. A few minutes later, they rounded the corner of a garage and found a man lying face down on the grass. Blood oozed from his scalp, matting his dark red hair.
She held her breath as Brent knelt beside him and touched the side of his neck.
“I feel a pulse,” he said.
McKenna’s eyelashes flickered and the lips under a generous mustache uttered a groan. “What the hell?” he muttered.
“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Brent said.
“All I know is my head feels ready to explode.”
“You’re lucky to be alive. Harris isn’t.”
“Sonovabitch.” The agent sat up gingerly. “Did you see who did this?”
Brent shook his head. “I just came from the house.” He explained about the fire and how he and Claire had escaped onto the roof of the garage.
McKenna exhaled heavily. “How the hell did he get past me?”
“Forrester knows all the tricks.”
“I can’t believe he’d do this. I’ve worked with him a few times, and I liked him.”
“That probably explains why you’re still alive,” Brent said. “He knew you, but Harris was a stranger to him.”
“Being locked up must have messed with his mind,” McKenna muttered.
“You believe he’d kill a fellow agent because of two days at Ridsdale?” Claire asked incredulously.
McKenna treated her to a long, hard stare. Did he resent her for confining Forrester to a psychiatric facility? After the roller-coaster events of the last hour, she was uncertain how to interpret his expression.
McKenna fingered his bloody scalp.
“You should see the paramedics,” she said.
“Nah. A couple of Tylenol, and I’ll be fine.”
She wasn’t surprised he’d refuse medical treatment. He was, after all, a G-man. Too stubborn and proud to admit to any human frailties. Just like her father had been before his breakdown.
The memory of her father had her clenching her fists. But the pain it dredged up was superceded by a more immediate one: the blistered skin on her right palm. She relaxed her hands immediately and bit her lip to keep from voicing her discomfort.
“You’d better head to the hospital,” Brent said to the injured agent. “Gene won’t let you get back to work without a doctor’s okay.”
“Waste of time, in my opinion, but you’re right.”
“While you’re doing that, I’m going after Forrester.”
“If you find him, don’t underestimate him.”
“I’m not the one with the concussion,” Brent said.
McKenna grimaced. “Good point.”
As Claire walked with Brent back to his car, she asked, “Why would Forrester set fire to his own home?”
Brent laid the briefcase in his trunk and rummaged through his gym bag for a T-shirt. “There must have been something inside he wanted destroyed.”
She watched the muscles in his bare back shift with his movements, remembering the feel of his supple skin, the tangy scent of his sweat. As he raised his arms to tug on his shirt, her mind stalled out, and she had to shake herself mentally to restart it. “You mean us?”
“Or incriminating evidence.”
“I think he’s too smart for that.”
“He didn’t expect you to commit him to Ridsdale.”
“He’s an experienced agent. He knows to be prepared for the unexpected.”
“You have a better theory?”
A full minute ticked by as she tried to come up with a plausible one.
“Not at this point,” she admitted. “But I don’t believe Forrester set fire to his home or killed Harris. The agent I interviewed wouldn’t risk prison without a huge financial incentive.”
Brent shrugged, then strode toward the neighboring house. She hurried to catch up.
A middle-aged couple stood in the driveway, watching the comings and goings of the firefighters with keen interest.
Brent introduced Claire and then himself.
The woman’s pale blue eyes widened. “What’s the FBI doing at a house fire?”
Brent sidestepped her question. “I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.”
“Jolene Blackburne. And this is my husband, Rod.” She patted the sleeve of the man’s yellow T-shirt with obvious affection.
Brent jotted down the information. “Are you well acquainted with the person who lives next door?”
“Andy Forrester keeps his grass cut and his trash inside till garbage day. Got no complaints with him. Unlike some others around here.” Lips twisted in disgust, she glared at the house directly across the street.
“When did you last see him?”
Jolene turned to her husband. “A couple of days ago, right, hon?”
Her husband nodded.
She heaved a sigh, her gaze resting on the still-burning hulk that was Forrester’s residence. “A terrible thing for him to come home to. Do you know how it started?”
Claire figured Brent would plead ignorance, so his next words surprised her.
“Looks like it might be arson.”
“Arson? Oh, my God. Did you hear that, Rod?”
The man rolled his eyes. “I’m standing right here, Jolene. Of course I heard.”
The woman pressed her fingers to her lips. “That could have been our house up in flames. All our furniture, photographs, my mother’s Royal Doulton china, every last thing burned to a crisp.” Her distraught expression changed to angry speculation. “Was it kids playing with matches?”
“I don’t think so,” Brent said. “Did you see anybody around his house today?”
Rod scratched under his baseball cap. “Nope. But I worked the late shift last night so I was sleeping until the sirens woke me up.”
“And I was doing laundry in the basement all morning.” She added, “What about his fancy car? Did it go up in flames, too?”
“You know he doesn’t keep that one in his garage,” Rod reminded his wife. “He only brings it home on Sundays to shine her up and show her off.”
“What kind of car is it?” Claire asked.
Rod grinned. “A sixty-nine Trans Am.”
“That man sure does love his car,” Jolene added.
“His prize possession, huh?”
Brent made a quick notation on a business card and gave it to the man. “Thanks for your cooperation. Please call if you see Mr. Forrester or if you remember anything else that might help our investigation.”
He headed down the driveway to the street.
Claire waited until they were out of earshot of Forrester’s neighbors. “Too bad they didn’t see who set the fire.”
He stared straight ahead, but she wasn’t sure whether he was deep in thought or ignoring her.
“Brent? Are you okay?”
His pace quickened. “I’m not comfortable with this setup. You’re supposed to be under protection, not out in the field interviewing contacts.”
“I barely took part in the conversation.” She lengthened her strides to match his. “The car is worth following up on, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Brent admitted.
When she started to speak again, he cut her off. “Look, I appreciate your wanting to help, but this isn’t your concern.”
Her temper flared at his tone, and she stopped walking abruptly. “Anything that could help the FBI locate Forrester is my concern.”
“Let me rephrase that. You did your job. You determined that Forrester was a threat and sent him to Ridsdale. Now you have to trust Gene and me to do our job, which is to ascertain his whereabouts and apprehend him.”
“I thought your job was to protect me.”
He locked gazes with her, and she suddenly felt light-headed. A delayed reaction to nearly suffocating earlier, she decided. It was not because his dark, thick-lashed eyes took her breath away.
“You are my primary responsibility,” Brent said, “but I intend to participate in the search for Forrester.”
Was that annoyance she heard in his voice? Did he feel that safeguarding her was diverting him from a more important job?
She forced her thoughts back to his last comment. “I’m sure he’ll be caught faster if you participate.”
He nodded. “I’m glad we agree on something.”
She smiled at the first sign of accord between them. It lasted until he spoke again.
“You can forget about my discussing field operations with you. As I said before, that’s not your concern. The only thing you need to know is that the Bureau will do everything possible to bring Forrester into custody.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t expected to wait passively for the situation to be resolved.
Watching others act while she did nothing went against her grain. Especially when it looked to her like Forrester’s arrest was far from imminent.
Chapter Five
Brent kept a tight rein on his frustration until he was behind the closed door of Gene’s office. “Claire shouldn’t have been at Forrester’s.”
“Her being there wasn’t the problem,” his boss countered, shoving a handful of papers into his out tray. “The problem was the surveillance team that failed to stop a perp from torching his house.”
“They followed Bureau procedures that Forrester, being an insider, is completely familiar with.” He wasn’t making excuses for his colleagues, just pointing out the extenuating circumstances.
Gene glanced up, his pale eyes unyielding, his salt-and-pepper hair reminding Brent that the man had thirty years of experience dealing with tough situations. “The team’s failure endangered lives.”
There was one l
ife that had been placed in jeopardy needlessly. “Harris and McKenna didn’t veto Claire remaining at the cabin. That was you.” The decision had almost had fatal consequences, and he wanted his boss to admit he’d made a mistake. “Dammit, she could have died in that fire.”
The other man’s eyes narrowed and his voice boomed like a drill sergeant’s. “She escaped without a scratch. You know why? Because I assigned the right damn agent to watch over her.”
It was a new experience to be yelled at and complimented at the same time. Before he could shift gears and respond, Gene barked out, “Until I’m convinced she’s not in danger, Claire isn’t to be left alone anywhere, anytime. No exceptions. If you’re not happy with bodyguard duty, I’ll assign somebody else.”
Another agent taking care of Claire?
His reaction was visceral, involuntary. “Don’t even think about replacing me,” he ground out, fists clenched at his sides. “She’s my responsibility.”
Gene stared at him hard. Then he dropped his gaze and carried on with organizing his desk. “Fine. She’s yours for the duration.”
His satisfaction with Gene’s decision was diluted by annoyance that he’d admitted possessive feelings toward the department’s psychologist.
“Where’s Claire now?” Gene inquired.
“With Lisa.”
“Tell me what you found at the house.”
Brent opened Forrester’s briefcase and withdrew the photo of the agent with his cherished Trans Am. “I thought a candid shot of Forrester would be useful when I canvassed his neighborhood. However, it turns out the vehicle in the picture is very important to him.”
“Are our tech guys working on it?”
“The car wasn’t at the house. His neighbors don’t know where he keeps it.”
“I’ll have Mickey look for it,” Gene said, jotting down a note. “What about Forrester? Any leads on him?”
“I snagged his address book. Only a few names to check out.”
“I’ll free up some manpower to do that. What else?”
“Forrester’s Trans Am is a classic. Extremely expensive. I’m wondering how he had the money to buy it.”
“Maybe he borrowed big. Or has a rich lady friend who likes to buy him gifts. He could have a source of income apart from his Bureau wages. Possibly illegal,” Gene mused.
