“What we do after hours is our business,”

Duncan said, slipping his fingers beneath the hem of her shorts.

His lazy smile widened when he ran his finger along the inside of her thigh. Sunny shifted, easing her legs slightly apart. He took her hands and placed them behind her, narrowing the space between them. Holding her immobile, he dipped his head and kissed her.

This was what she would be giving up, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength. Was she really willing to risk everything she’d worked for just for a few nights of what promised to be unbelievably memorable sex?

She tore her mouth from his. “Duncan, what if we get caught?”

He lifted his head to look at her. Desire burned in his gray eyes. Oh hell, the way he was looking at her, she decided she didn’t care about tomorrow. No way was she letting this man out of her sight until they finished what he’d started.

“Forget I said anything….”

Dear Reader,

When FBI agent Sunny MacGregor first appeared in my RITA® Award-nominated Blaze novel, Seduced by the Enemy (#41, June 2002), I was unprepared for the impact she would have on my life. Not only did she demand her own story, she also made it clear from the beginning nothing less than perfection would do for her hero. Despite all who’d applied, in the end only one proved himself worthy of Sunny—Duncan Chamberlain, a hotshot insurance recovery expert who knows the meaning of absolute pleasure.

The writing of Absolute Pleasure was a nonstop thrill ride for me, but not without a few bumps in the road. If a writer is lucky, she’ll have a few special people in her corner to help navigate the roadblocks. Thankfully, I am extremely fortunate in that regard. Not only did my very wise husband keep a steady supply of dark chocolate on hand, but without the constant encouragement and unwavering support of my editor, I never would have had the courage to write this very special story.

I hope you enjoy Sunny and Duncan’s romance, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please write to me at P.O. Box 224, Mohall, ND 58761, or via e-mail at jamie@jamiedenton.net, or visit my Web site at www.jamiedenton.net.

As ever,

Jamie Denton

Absolute Pleasure
Jamie Denton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book can only

be dedicated to Phyllis,

for reasons she will understand.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

“HEY, MAC!” Agent Caruso called from the back of the white surveillance van. “I gotta know, exactly how hard-up does a woman have to be to pay a half-a-mil to get laid?”

Special Agent Sunny MacGregor surprised herself by seriously considering Agent Jack Caruso’s question as she left her car and walked toward the pair of agents assigned to the Seducer’s last known crime scene. Although she wouldn’t exactly place herself in the same category as the victim she’d come to interview, she had been stretching the limit on abstinence since she couldn’t immediately recall the last time she’d invited some guy to join her under the covers. Still, that didn’t mean she’d ever be desperate enough to actually pay someone to have sex with her. At least she hoped not.

“I’m here to work the case,” she told Caruso when she reached the open doors at the back of the van. “Not judge the victim.” She did have an opinion on the subject, but one best not divulged to a pair of field agents assigned watch-dog duty outside the arched wrought-iron gates of the Wilder estate.

Caruso’s rookie-agent partner, Walt Weidman, climbed out of the van. “I need to see your ID, Mac.”

“For the love of Pete, Weidman,” Caruso complained. “This is her freakin’ crime scene.”

Weidman ignored Caruso. “Sorry, Mac,” he said apologetically. “Rules, you know.”

She slipped the black leather ID holder from the pocket of her navy linen blazer and handed it to Weidman. “Don’t let Jack get to you,” she told the rookie. “He’s always a pain in the ass until he’s downed a couple of thermoses full of that ink he calls coffee.”

“Yeah, and then he’s just a wired pain in the ass.”

She hid a smile and glanced around the well-kept grounds before turning her attention to Caruso. He sat on a padded bench in the van before an instrument control panel monitoring the immediate vicinity and keeping in contact with another van with two more agents at the rear of the estate. “See or hear anything unusual?”

Caruso reached for the pack of cigarettes on the seat beside him. “I’ve been in cemeteries at 3:00 a.m. with more action,” he complained. “The lab techs left about an hour ago. They didn’t tell us dick, either.”

Sunny bit back the reminder hovering on her lips that smoking was strictly prohibited inside a government vehicle. Surveillance could be dull as dirt under the best of circumstances. Watchdogging a nonviolent crime scene was dead work, occasionally handed out as punishment for agents on the shit-list of someone higher up the Bureau food chain. Since she’d worked with Caruso in the past during her own days as a field agent in the D.C. office, she figured he, rather than Weidman had ticked off her old boss, Gib Russell, big time.

Caruso flicked the lighter. Weidman handed Sunny her ID and shot the older, seasoned agent a disapproving glance. “Do you have to do that in there?”

Caruso blew a plume of blue smoke in Weidman’s direction as he climbed out of the van. “Go read a manual or something,” Jack groused. To Sunny he said, “You want to talk pain in the ass, spend an hour with Whiny Wally. Makes me look like Sister Mary Sunshine.”

Caruso shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of July midmorning sunshine and squinted in Sunny’s general direction. “And who did you piss off to get stuck with this piece of crap case, Mac?”

Sunny slipped a recently permed curl behind her ear before straightening her shoulders. “I requested the assignment.”

Caruso drew deeply on his cigarette, then shook his head and emitted a raspy chuckle. “You still a glutton for punishment? They have therapy for that sort of thing, you know.”

SEDSCAM, Bureau-speak for the Seduction Scam Investigation, remained an unsolved nonviolent crime under the Criminal Investigation Division’s jurisdiction. So far, a grand total of seven thefts had occurred nationwide. Just because Sunny had asked to run the investigation didn’t necessarily mean she suffered from masochistic tendencies. What she really wanted was to garner the attention of the head of the Investigative Support Unit.

The crunch and spray of gravel from the tires of a big black SUV moving too fast down the graded driveway kept her from putting Jack in his place. The vehicle slowed, then stopped as Caruso approached, exchanging a few words she couldn’t discern with the driver.

“Probably a reporter,” Weidman said with distaste from inside the van. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweaty forehead. “We’ve been waiting for them to start sniffing around all morning.”

“A rich heiress bilked by a smooth-talking con artist to the tune of half a million dollars in cash and property and the FBI is suddenly involved? You bet the newshounds will be here.” Not that she had any concerns on that score. She had experience with the press and wasn’t above using the media to her advantage if necessary.

Sunny glanced toward the driver when he got out of his vehicle and joined Caruso. One look at the guy and she had him pegged him as a reporter. He had the whole I’m-your-new-best-friend thing going for him, which gave good journalists an edge over the competition. And this guy definitely had an edge, she thought, but it had zero to do with instilling confidence in a would-be source and everything to do with heightening her curiosity.

He walked with Caruso across the drive in her direction. As he neared, Sunny stared in utter and complete fascination. Generally she preferred brains and substance over beauty and brawn, but in this instance, she’d seriously consider making an exception.

Not that she was hard up or anything.

The crisp white shirt with fine gray pinstripes he wore enhanced a wide set of shoulders that tapered down to a lean waist, slim hips and long, powerful legs emphasized quite nicely in a pair of neatly pressed gray khakis. She enjoyed the rebounding view, as well, noting the casual way he rolled back the sleeves of the shirt to reveal tanned and powerful-looking forearms. A tie, one of those Wall-Street-power types, was knotted loosely at his throat, where he’d left the top button of his shirt undone. He came off looking crisp and rumpled all at the same time, in a way no woman with a pulse could ignore.

Continuing the mesmerizing journey into beauty and brawn, she wondered exactly when she’d become so shallow as to fall for a pretty face and a hot body. Probably the moment she realized she’d gone without a man in her bed for more than just a few months.

The bright morning sunshine made his slightly wavy, blacker-than-midnight hair gleam. Oh, she really needed to get a grip, here. Except that deeply tanned face with all those sharp lines and angles did nothing to aid her recovery from a lust-induced stupor. The directness of his brilliant, bluish-gray eyes when he removed his sunglasses didn’t help much, either.

The barest promise of a breathtaking smile touched his lips as he tucked the pair of Maui Jim’s inside the breast pocket of his shirt. “Duncan Chamberlain,” he said in a voice so deep and rich a skitter of pleasure skimmed across the surface of her skin. Or were those delightful tingles the result of the warm clasp of his hand enveloping hers?

The answer evaded her, but she decided it made no difference. Not long after she’d joined the Bureau she’d come to the depressing conclusion her job intimidated a good percentage of the male population. The meager remaining percentage operated under the misguided assumption she lacked the double X chromosomes that made her very much a woman in every sense of the word. Just once she’d like a man to look beyond the 9mm Glock she carried and see the woman beneath the shoulder holster.

Of course, finding a man to hold her interest for more than two minutes would be a helpful improvement. She suspected that wouldn’t be much of an issue with a major hottie like Duncan Chamberlain. The man had managed to snag her attention and then some.

Sixty seconds and counting.

“Sunny MacGregor.” She pulled her hand from his and resisted the urge to dig her fingernails into her palm to quell the sharp tingling making her hand itch. “You’ve already met Agent Caruso,” she said with an inclination of her head toward the older agent. “And this is Agent Weidman,” she indicated his partner, who must have exited the vehicle when she’d been entranced by Duncan’s worship-worthy shoulders and all that mouthwatering sex appeal.

Duncan’s lips twitched again, as if he found something amusing, but she’d noticed the barely perceptible movement. How could she not? She’d been staring at his full bottom lip wondering if he tasted anywhere near as scrumptious as he looked.

Ninety-three seconds. Things were looking up for a change.

“You’re Agent MacGregor?” Duncan asked, looking to Caruso for confirmation. “She’s Mac?”

Caruso chuckled. “She’s the one.”

She didn’t much appreciate the note of amusement in either man’s voice, even if she had grown accustomed to similar responses in the six years she’d been an agent. The Bureau didn’t exactly employ a platoon of five foot, three inch female agents.

“Special Agent MacGregor,” she corrected. A relatively new title bestowed upon her, and one she’d worked damned hard to earn. The move from the Washington D.C. field office to the criminal investigation division’s nonviolent crime unit two years ago had come her way after she’d gained a blip of recognition for her contribution on another difficult-to-solve case. Since her transfer, she’d garnered an even greater reputation for solving the unsolvable, which made her a natural for some of the more complex investigations the nonviolent crime unit offered. As far as Sunny was concerned, the promotion put her one step closer to what she really wanted—to become a member of the elite team of FBI profilers in the Investigative Support Unit.

“What business do you have here, Mr. Chamberlain?” she asked.

He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a brown leather billfold, extracting a business card. “Chamberlain Recovery and Investigations. My firm’s been hired by Ms. Wilder’s insurance company.”

He handed her the card along with another jolt to her feminine senses with the return of his killer smile. Needing a moment to recover her common sense, she concentrated on the card. Plain, simple, without frills.

“And the name’s Duncan,” he added.

Her West Virginia roots perked up at the slight trace of a southern accent. Texas or Oklahoma she guessed by his somewhat lazy drawl.

Weidman peered over her shoulder to read the card. “Hired to do what, exactly?” he asked.

“Recover the personal property stolen from Ms. Wilder last week.” Duncan turned all that charm in her direction. “Agent Caruso here said I need permission from the agent in charge to enter the estate. Mind if I poke around a bit?”

Despite that sexy-as-hell grin, Sunny instantly became suspicious. In her experience, recovery firms and the people that ran them were a microstep above repossession agents on the humanity food chain. All too often they had a reputation for unorthodox, or even unethical, means of recovering stolen merchandise. The last thing she needed was some self-proclaimed hot shot recovery expert screwing with her investigation, especially one attempting to charm his way onto her crime scene.

“I’m here to conduct an interview with the victim,” she said. “Considering the sensitive nature of this case, I’m not sure Ms. Wilder would appreciate an audience.” In all honesty, she didn’t feel comfortable conducting the interview in his presence. “A male audience, in particular.”

The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the trees but doing little to cool the air so heavy with summer humidity. A lock of wavy hair fell across Duncan’s forehead.

“I would think it’d be easier on the vic the less she has to relive the humiliation.” He shoved the hair back in place, then leaned slightly toward her, his gaze intent. “Come on, Mac. You’re not going to make me beg, are you?”

She seriously doubted any guy as tempting as Duncan Chamberlain ever had to resort to begging, especially from a woman. Interagency cooperation was hardly unusual, though, and they were supposedly on the same side. Did it matter if that wasn’t the only reason she considered allowing him to sit in on her interview?

“All right,” she agreed. “In the spirit of cooperation, I’ll permit it, provided the victim has no objections.” She did her best interpretation of hard-ass agent and gave him an appropriately matching stare. “But I’m conducting this interview. Forget that, and I’ll have you banned from the premises.”

Despite the threat, his smile deepened. She struggled to remain standing and not have herself a good old-fashioned Victorian swoon.

“You won’t even know I’m there,” he promised.

She had her doubts. Based on her reaction to the sensuous tilt of his mouth and those get-lost-in-me eyes, if he was in the vicinity she’d know it—with every last, rudely awakened, nerve ending in her body. Okay, so maybe he had managed to capture the attention of her neglected libido, but that didn’t mean she was willing to dive headfirst into the steamy waters of sexual attraction. Or was she? The idea sure held a wealth of intriguing possibilities she found hard to ignore.

“I’ll need to see some ID,” Weidman said.

While Weidman entered Duncan’s information in his neatly kept log, she issued reminders to Caruso about keeping quiet should the press show up again. Five days after the incident, Margo Wilder was officially old news, but Sunny expected more attention once word leaked to the press the FBI was conducting an investigation into the theft. Her only hope was that the nonviolent nature of the crime would hold little interest to reporters.

Weidman returned Duncan’s ID, and she took off on foot for the main gate. Duncan fell in step beside her and her libido instantly zinged back to life. She had a job to do, but professional or not, she really wanted to take a flying leap off the high dive and go for a nice long swim in those steaming waters.

DUNCAN TRAILED Sunny and the uniformed butler who led them away from the foyer with an elaborate, curving, gilt staircase, down a long rosewood-paneled corridor. While Sunny was busy taking in the opulent surroundings, Duncan enjoyed the view of her curvy backside swaying enticingly beneath her navy slacks.

He’d spent eight years in Dallas as an agent for the FBI, the last three working deep-cover assignments. In all that time, he’d never seen anything on the Bureau’s payroll as remotely sexy as the perky little superagent that had managed to spark his interest in something other than his work.

Too bad she was off limits.

He gauged her age to be in the vicinity of thirty. She was young to have attained the status of a special agent, which told him she was being fast-tracked by someone high up in the Bureau. An agent on the rise wouldn’t be caught dead fraternizing with someone drummed out for gross misconduct. Still, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt his chances of their becoming better acquainted…at least until she discovered he was ex-Fibbie and dropped him faster than a fence with a cache of hot gems.

They were shown into an elaborate sitting room that smelled of fine whiskey with a faint trace of expensive cigars still clinging to the furnishings, heavy velvet draperies and plush Persian rug. Real estate mogul Jerome Wilder had been dead three months, yet the room still held his essence. Duncan couldn’t help wondering what the old man would have to say about his niece and sole heir losing a half a million bucks worth of personal property and cash to a con artist.

Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Whether the client had more money than God or was some poor schmuck who’d lost his last dime, Duncan’s goal never changed. It wasn’t supposed to matter if the loss wouldn’t put so much as a dent in the claimant’s holdings.

Except lately, it had started to matter. A lot.

“Ms. Wilder has been detained and has asked me to convey her apologies. She will be with you shortly,” the butler informed them. “May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?”

Sunny set her briefcase on the rug next to a tapestried love seat and sat. “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

Duncan took the heavy leather chair across from her. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees. “So you wanna tell me why CID is involved in this case?” he asked her once the butler disappeared. “An isolated incident of grand theft doesn’t exactly fall under federal jurisdiction.”

She looked at him from beneath a crown of chin-length, burnished-gold waves, her soft green eyes full of cautious suspicion. “Why Mr. Chamberlain, surely you’re not asking me to divulge facts from an ongoing FBI investigation?”

The corner of his mouth tipped upward at her feigned innocence routine. Never con a con, babe. Still, she was damned cute and sassy, which equaled one lethal, hard-to-resist combination.

“Yes ma’am,” he said in a congenial tone intended to chase the doubt she attempted to hide from her gaze. First rule: gain the trust of the mark. “I believe that’s exactly what I am asking.”

The innocent facade faded, and she leveled him with a direct stare full of determination. “Don’t try to play me, Duncan, and I won’t attempt to bullshit you.”

She inflected enough of a warning in her tone to let him know she was no easy pushover. Too bad. He’d like to push her right into the closest bed.

“Fair enough,” he conceded with a brisk nod. “But I’d still like to know what the feds are doing here.”

Her golden eyebrows slanted downward into a frown. “I fail to see how the Bureau’s interest is relevant to your investigation.”

He recognized a tap dance when he saw one, having performed enough of them himself during his stint with the FBI. Unfortunately, he’d made a drastic error in judgment and had danced across the line one time too many.

“I know I’m here only as a matter of professional courtesy, but I believe your involvement is relevant.” The last of his smile faded and he returned her direct stare with one of his own. “My firm is currently investigating two other similar cases of women recently coming into substantial sums of money and basically handing over the keys to their newly acquired kingdoms. Unless the Supreme Court issued a surprise ruling this morning that I haven’t heard about, then the rules of federal jurisdiction remain unchanged. My guess is Wilder isn’t the only vic on the Bureau’s radar screen.”

Sunny would have information at her fingertips that he was no longer privy to, and in his opinion, that made her a valuable asset. One he needed to carefully cultivate.

She glanced away for a split second. To consider her answer, he wondered, or to fabricate one.

“I’m lacking solid evidence to link the cases,” he admitted, baiting the proverbial hook. “The M.O. is nearly identical, even if all the information I have is circumstantial at this point.”

Like a hungry trout, she nibbled the bait he dangled in front of her. Curiosity filled her eyes. “Exactly what do you know?”

“Three very wealthy women and what appears on the surface to be three individual perps. If CID is involved, then I’m thinking it’s because you have physical evidence to connect the cases.” He paused and waited for his hungry little trout to swallow the bait.

“Go on.”

“And that you’re looking for one unknown subject.” He set the hook with practiced skill. “I just might have what you need to bring the bastard down.”

“I may be willing to share some information with you,” she emphasized, albeit with a modicum of caution lining her voice. “Provided you allow me complete access to your investigative files.”

She’d taken the bait he offered so easily, he almost felt a slight sting of guilt. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Almost, but not quite.

Her green eyes darkened considerably and his gut tightened in response. A quick sweep of his gaze down the length of her revealed a tantalizing glimpse of her nipples beading against her white linen blouse. A whole host of show-and-tell scenarios charged through his mind, and not a single one of them had to do with evidence or criminal investigations.

She smiled. A slow, sexy, thoroughly distracting curve of her lips that fired his imagination. If that wasn’t enough to redline his libido, she had the gall to call in backup when a hint of mischief filled her eyes.

“Only if you promise to show me yours first,” she said in a husky voice laced with pure sin.

For the first time in his life, Duncan forgot how to breathe.

2

NO ONE HAD ever accused Sunny of shyness. Backing away from whatever she might want, at least insofar as her career was concerned, rarely occurred to her. Currently, she had two wants—access to information in Duncan’s possession that could prove useful to her investigation, and the man himself. The sooner, the better. On both counts.

Her conscience gave her a hard shove. The man was trouble with a capital T—tempting…tantalizing. Trouble.

Perhaps she should consider the potential conflict of interest, but so long as any involvement with Duncan didn’t interfere with her ability to perform her duties, she failed to see a problem. An attractive man had finally managed to hold her interest for a whole lot longer than two minutes. If the hungry look in his eyes was any indication, apparently he had no difficulty whatsoever seeing the woman beneath the shoulder holster. She wondered if he even realized she carried a gun.

Before she could issue the all-important, albeit clichéd, your-place-or-mine line, Margo Wilder swept into the room with all the regality of a queen. Only they weren’t loyal subjects eager for a scrap of Her Majesty’s attention. Sunny had come to interview a material witness, while Duncan was along for the ride hoping for clues to lead him to the recovery of her stolen property.

Sunny and Duncan stood as Margo approached.

“I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting.” Margo extended her manicured hand to Sunny for a limp handshake. “A minor crisis with the planning committee for a charity auction the Wilder Foundation is sponsoring.” She shook Duncan’s hand before graciously inviting them both to sit again.

She summed up Margo Wilder as a somewhat attractive woman in her late forties with ash-blond hair. The youthful gleam may have faded, but still showed no signs of gray. Appropriately coiffed for someone of her social standing, she wore ivory silk slacks with an ice-blue silk shell. The ivory cashmere cardigan draped casually over her slim, erect shoulders easily cost more than Sunny made in a month. A few too many country club lunches had probably added the ten or so extra pounds Margo carried on an otherwise slender frame. What Mother Nature hadn’t provided, a skilled plastic surgeon had compensated for or enhanced.

“Ms. Wilder,” Sunny began once they were all seated, “I realize you’ve already been interviewed by the local authorities, but I’m here because the FBI would like me to clear up a few matters for their investigation.” She spoke softly, keeping her tone neutral in an effort to elicit confidence and gain the trust of the witness. In reality, she’d come to ask the hard questions, ones that would become extremely personal.

“Mr. Chamberlain is here to observe on behalf of your insurance carrier,” Sunny continued with a brief inclination of her head in Duncan’s direction. “I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but any information you provide could aid him in locating your stolen property.”

Considering the interview could become quite personal, his presence made Sunny about as comfortable as a perp in handcuffs locked in a room full of rubber hoses and bright lights. No less than she probably deserved for having a serious case of lust for the guy, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

“I understand,” Margo said with a regal nod.

Sunny slipped a small tape recorder from her briefcase and leaned forward to set it in the center of the round rosewood coffee table. “Do you mind if I record this session?” she asked, struggling to maintain focus on the interview and not the intoxicating whiff she’d just caught of Duncan’s spice-scented aftershave.

Margo shook her head. “Not at all.”

Sunny made note of the date, time, location, the purpose of the interview and indicated the parties present. She retrieved her notepad from her briefcase and flipped to the list of questions she’d jotted down while reviewing the case file last night. In the privacy of her newly purchased condo, she’d slipped into her favorite pair of cotton pj’s, turned on the television to the cable news network and tried to crawl inside the twisted mind of a con artist preying on vulnerable, unsuspecting women.

The reminder pricked her anger, renewing her tenacity to put an end to the Seducer’s lucrative criminal activities. With any luck, she’d nail his ass before he could pluck his next pigeon.

Including Wilder, the Bureau had a total of seven cases stretching from Seattle all the way to the D.C. area, that made up the SEDSCAM investigation. When the different state authorities had independently requested assistance from the Bureau’s lab hoping to nail the unknown subject’s identity with DNA found at the crime scenes, someone in the lab had been paying attention, bringing the incidents to the attention of the nonviolent crime unit’s chief. The reports had all been same, DNA nonidentifiable, but all that meant was the UNSUB had never been imprisoned, else his DNA would’ve been in the FBI’s DNA database. In Sunny’s opinion, that made her UNSUB either one clever crook or a lucky SOB. Maybe both considering his ten-month crime spree.

Forcing a serene expression, she smiled at Margo. “Let’s begin with the day you first met the man you knew as Justin Abbott. In the initial report you gave to the police the morning you discovered the theft, you indicated that following a meeting with your attorneys, you went to the Georgetown Café for lunch?” At least Margo had immediately notified the authorities, something not all of the vics had done. For reasons beyond her comprehension, Sunny had one case where the vic had waited close to two weeks before filing a police report.

Margo’s golden-brown eyes brightened and her collagen-smooth lips lifted into a wistful smile. “Yes,” she answered, her voice softening considerably. “The café was horribly crowded and Justin offered to share his table with me.”

Sunny tucked a loose curl behind her ear again. “Do you recall ever seeing Abbott before that day in the café?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“There was nothing familiar about him?” Sunny pressed. “Perhaps he’d been to your home disguised as a repairman, or had attended a social function where you may have seen him prior to that day in the café?” None of the other victims she’d interviewed reported ever seeing the Seducer on a previous occasion, either. Circumstance had little to do with initial contact between UNSUB and vic, but so far Sunny had been unable to confirm her suspicions.

“Ms. MacGregor,” Margo said patiently, “it simply is not possible. I assure you, I would have remembered if I’d met Justin previously.”

“Why is that?” Sunny asked in a milder tone than her curiosity demanded.

“Presence,” the older woman told her. “Justin has a presence that is not easily forgotten.”

Now there was an explanation Sunny easily understood, courtesy of the man seated across from her. She glanced at him and their gazes met, held, and the air sizzled around them. On cue, her heart rate accelerated, and she felt another sharp tug in her tummy.

Ducking her head, she pretended to consult the list of questions she’d prepared. She needed her mind on the job, not in places she had no business venturing—at the moment.

Sunny cleared her throat. “How long after your initial meeting with Abbott did you see him again?”

“That same evening,” Margo answered. “He asked me to accompany him to the symphony. He had a private box.”

From the file Sunny had read, she knew Margo had lived a sheltered, privileged life in the ivory tower her rich uncle had built, but Margo wasn’t a naive kid fresh off the farm. The woman might be low-mileage, but she didn’t strike Sunny as the type to fall for a slick pickup line, either.

So what was it about this particular UNSUB that made his victims fall for an obvious con like naive little fools? As much as she wanted—no, needed—to understand, she simply could not wrap her mind around the concept of being some guy’s patsy.

Duncan shifted slightly in his chair, instantly drawing her attention. She might be entertaining the possibility of exploring the physical attraction between them, but she possessed enough intelligence to know when he was feeding her a line. Sure, she’d flirted with him, but she was also well aware of the fact he wanted something from her, just as she wanted a look at his files. And whatever else he might be willing to show her.

Looking back to Margo, Sunny asked, “Did anyone else accompany you to the symphony? Did Mr. Abbott have a driver?”

“He drove himself.” A slight blush colored the other woman’s unnaturally smooth cheeks. “We were…alone.”

Why did normally reasonable women lose all common sense when it came to the opposite sex? Sunny never would be so stupid as to invite a guy she didn’t know into her home. Didn’t Margo read the newspapers? The world was filled with lunatics and psychos.

She was a fine one to talk. Hadn’t she been on the verge of inviting Duncan to her place? And what did she really know about him? Not much, other than the possibility that for the first time in months she could be changing the sheets on her bed for something other than laundry day.

“And after the symphony?” Sunny asked.

“He brought me home.” A deeper blush this time. “We had a glass of sherry and then he left after we made plans for the following evening to attend the art gallery.”

Sunny frowned and consulted her notes again. Not a single reference existed in the case file about Margo accompanying the UNSUB to an art gallery. “Did you provide the investigating officer with the name of the gallery?” she asked.

“He never asked. But it was the Fifth Street Art Center.”

“Were you aware it hasn’t been open in six months?” Duncan asked suddenly.

“Yes, I was,” Margo answered. “Justin had arranged for a private showing.”

“He may have arranged a private showing, Ms. Wilder,” Duncan said, his gaze intent as he studied the witness closely, “but not with the property owner’s permission. The Fifth Street Art Center went out of business.”

Margo frowned, a barely perceptible action courtesy of regular Botox injections. “That’s impossible. I was there. I even purchased one of the paintings on display.”

This was all news to Sunny and it irritated her that the local authorities hadn’t been more diligent in their investigation. “Do you have the painting?” she asked, but she already suspected the answer.

The older woman’s frown deepened by the slightest degree. “No, not as yet.”

And she never would, Sunny thought, struggling to remain calm. Never one to suffer fools lightly, herself included, she had little patience for stupidity. At this rate, by the time she solved SEDSCAM, her usual lack of empathy would be finely tuned.

She couldn’t help wondering if any of the women victimized had an inkling how fortunate they were to have lost only their material possessions and not their lives? So far the UNSUB’s twisted fantasy thankfully didn’t include physically harming his victims. Hopefully that wouldn’t change.

“Are you sure there were no other individuals present at the gallery that night?” she asked.

Margo shook her head. “No. No one.”

“Then how were you able to make a purchase?” For a painting, Sunny had a feeling, that was a fake.

“I made the check out to Justin. He is a substantial patron so I just assumed…”

Exactly what he’d wanted her to assume. He’d conned her into believing he was such a wealthy supporter he’d practically been given his own key to the place.

Regardless, Sunny finally had a fresh piece of information. In order to pull off such an elaborate scheme as detailed as an operational art gallery, the UNSUB couldn’t possibly be flying solo. Although she’d never personally been involved, she’d heard the stories of the networks of traveling grifters. They moved around the country duping the elderly, ripping off department stores by returning stolen merchandise for cash refunds and running the classic carnie cons. With the exception of big real estate rip-offs and boiler room scams, cons generally ran penny-ante operations nowhere near as sophisticated as the UNSUB’s game.

She jotted down a reminder to have the art gallery searched by the Bureau’s crime lab technicians, then added another note to have the theater checked out, as well. Private boxes hardly came cheap. No doubt the UNSUB had “borrowed” the box for the night—without the box holder’s blessing.

Sunny continued to question Margo, gathering specific details of the woman’s “dates” with the UNSUB not included in the initial investigation reports. The only date that had been public was the night of the symphony, and for the ten days that followed, the Seducer kept his liaisons private, just as he’d done with his previous victims. In addition to the art gallery scam, there’d been a midnight picnic in the park, a couple of moonlit drives and a few romantic dinners for two at the Wilder estate, with the staff dismissed, at Abbott’s request, of course.

Having taken part in several of the ISU’s specialized training courses in criminal investigation, Sunny understood the best profilers possessed a talent for climbing inside the heads of victim and perpetrator. But what about her victims? How was she supposed to walk in their ridiculously expensive designer shoes when she lacked a basic understanding of how any reasonably intelligent woman could be duped by a con with romance as an M.O.?

Setting her notepad beside her, Sunny looked at Margo, determined to imagine herself as this victim. “You do realize that Abbott intentionally seduced you to gain access to the items he’s stolen from you.”

“Yes,” the older woman agreed, her expression sheepish. “I, too, have come to the same conclusion.”

Sunny let out a pent-up breath. “Ms. Wilder. Margo.” She struggled for compassion when all she could muster was an overwhelming sense of self-directed frustration. “I need you to help me understand how this is possible.”

Duncan cleared his throat, but Sunny chose to ignore him for the moment. Despite what she’d told Caruso upon arriving at the estate, she realized she secretly agreed with his hard-up assessment. But if she wanted to solve the case, then she also understood she had to set her judgments aside. Otherwise she’d never learn what made Tansey Middleton, Maddie Bryson, Joy Tweed, Bettina Manchester, Celine Garfield, Katrina Pescadero, and now Margo Wilder the Seducer’s perfect victims.

Margo’s puffed-up lips twisted into a smile. “Have you ever been swept off your feet?” she asked Sunny. “Or been so completely caught up in a storm of passion all that matters is physical pleasure?”

In a word, no. Rhetorical or not, Sunny wasn’t about to divulge the truth about her own lacking sex life with a material witness. Not after she’d spent the better part of the morning openly flirting with the man seated less than three feet away from her, giving signals to the contrary. In truth, today went on record as a first for her. She’d never considered surrendering to rampant hormones, but the idea held more than a few interesting possibilities.

A few weeks shy of her thirtieth birthday, she’d had exactly three relationships of any great significance in her lifetime. The sex had always been good and she never considered it an issue, but she’d never experienced the kind of passion Margo described.

“Ms. Wilder,” Duncan interrupted, saving Sunny from having to formulate an intelligent response. “We’re going to need every detail of your association with Abbott.”

Sunny turned to stare at him, certain she’d just entered her own personal Twilight Zone—in Sex and the City-esque style. We? What’s this we business?

He must have sensed her apprehension because he turned that lethal gaze in her direction. “If we’re going to catch the UNSUB,” he said, “then we need to know his habits. His quirks. From the way he combs his hair down to the shape of his scars and what he eats for breakfast. The smallest detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem, could be the break we need.”

We. There was that word again. Sunny tried to push aside the warm fuzzy feeling the concept of “we” gave her, and failed. Instead, she concentrated on Margo. But Duncan did have a point—dammit.

“If you would prefer Mr. Chamberlain leave us at this juncture, I’m sure he wouldn’t object.” Sunny prayed the woman would take her up on her offer. Regardless of how immature or hypocritical, the idea of dissecting the intimate details of Margo’s liaison with the UNSUB in Duncan Chamberlain’s presence made her want to squirm.

Upon joining the Bureau, her first assignment had been conducting in-depth background investigations. She’d interviewed countless witnesses and delved into various backgrounds, from the lowest government employee all the way up the ladder to some of the country’s top political officials. As a result, she’d uncovered odd quirks, stranger-than-fiction habits and more than a few bizarre sexual appetites. At first she’d been shocked by the information she’d uncovered, but since she was determined to become a player on the FBI’s team of profilers, she’d conditioned herself to take it all in stride. Violent crime and sexual homicide were hardly a job for the squeamish.

So where the hell had the cool professionalism, the detachment, the composure she’d consciously developed, gone when she needed it most?

“I was his canvas,” Margo blurted.

Sunny’s eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me?” Certainly, she misunderstood the implication. As much as it pained her to do so in front of Duncan, she asked, “Could you be more specific?”

Margo’s expression remained composed, as if she were about to discuss the last social event she’d attended rather than her sexual exploits with a con man. “I was his canvas,” she repeated. “He liked to paint me with scented oil.”

At a loss for words, Sunny started at the woman. No. She absolutely had not heard what she thought she’d heard. Maybe Margo was making some obscure reference to the night Abbott had taken her to the fake gallery. Yes, that was it, a reference to the art gallery. She hoped.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Sunny said. “He put scented oil on one of the paintings?”

“He didn’t paint on a traditional canvas,” Margo clarified. “He asked me to be his canvas. At first I was nervous—what he was asking was so…unorthodox—but I must admit, I’ve never experienced anything so completely erotic in my life.”

An image flashed in Sunny’s mind. Marble floors, bronze sculptures, paintings by masters she couldn’t name hanging on unobtrusive-colored walls. And Duncan. His heat, his body surrounding her, pressing her up against the smooth, cool plaster, his hands slowly caressing her breasts…his mouth hot, demanding…

Sunny grew more uncomfortable by the second. Find a way into her head, she reminded herself. Become the victim.

“Was this…technique something he did each time you made love?” she forced herself to ask. “Did he often use…props?”

Margo nodded. Another wistful smile slowly tilted her lips. “Justin was an incredible master at foreplay.”

Against her will, Sunny’s gaze slid to Duncan. Her breath caught at the intensity shining in his brilliant blue-gray eyes as he returned her stare. Was he a master at foreplay, she wondered?

Please, please, please.

Sunny bit her bottom lip to squelch the moan bubbling up inside her. She couldn’t very well close her eyes in the middle of an interview, so instead she remained entranced by the blatant heat in Duncan’s gaze.

Losing herself in the fantasy, she listened to Margo’s words, mentally placing herself in the role of willing victim. No faceless UNSUB twirled a painter’s whiskered brush over her nipples. In her mind she saw the handsomely chiseled features of the man across from her, felt the strength of his hands on her body.

Her breathing turned shallow as pure hunger filled his gaze. Was he transported by the same wild fantasy?

“He’d start by using a variety of brushes, each one tipped in oil, warmed precisely to 98.6 degrees,” Margo explained. “And then he’d stroke them over my nude body.”

Sunny could have sworn Duncan physically stroked her just as seductively when his gaze traveled the length of her. Oh, this was not good.

Margo continued to speak of the intimacy and sensuality Abbott had demanded of her. Sunny envisioned Duncan’s mouth covering hers, kissing her deeply while he painted her flesh at his leisure. The slick, moist oil against her skin, his hands pressing her thighs open, exploring, painting, touching…kissing her intimately.

There was nothing imaginary about the pressure between her legs, only the reality of the insistent need clawing at her, reminding her it’d been months since her last sexual encounter. The incredible sensitivity of her breasts as they swelled and tightened inside the cups of her sensible cotton bra served as another reminder that reality had indeed intruded upon fantasy.

A serene expression encompassed Margo’s face and her gaze slipped to somewhere over Sunny’s shoulder. “Justin was slow, very deliberate in my pleasure,” she said. “He exposed me so completely, his exploration erotic and incredibly thorough. I never realized the depths of sensuality until I met Justin, or understand how many places on our bodies were capable of providing fulfillment. He even asked me to touch myself in front of him, to make believe my hands were his hands stroking me. I was so completely entranced by the hypnotic sound of his voice as he described various acts of making love and the depths of pleasure he promised me, I never felt an ounce of embarrassment the first time I came that way in front of him.

“With Justin I became a greedy, decadent lover,” Margo continued in that same faraway voice. “Becoming aroused and bringing about my own fulfillment for the pleasure of a man was unlike anything I’d ever known. Not once did I contemplate holding back. I willingly gave him everything he wanted from me.”

Sunny remained fully conscious of the reality of Duncan’s presence. Not only physically, but prominently in her mind where she pleasured herself for him. The fantasy was wild, uninhibited and erotic on a level she’d never dreamed possible.

She’d gone too far. Climbing inside the victim’s head was one thing. It was quite another for her to become so thoroughly aroused by the mere image of making love to Duncan that she couldn’t do her job.

The need to escape overwhelmed her. She had to leave. Now. Right now, before she went up in flames.

But departure was not an option. Dammit, she was supposed to be a professional. If it killed her, she’d get through this interview. She forced her gaze away from Duncan to concentrate on the witness. Thank heavens she’d had the foresight to record the session, although replaying Margo’s erotic recounting of events did fill her with a modicum of dread.

For the next thirty minutes she continued to question Margo, obtaining details of the property stolen from her, the type of car the Seducer drove and the like, until she’d miraculously made it through all the questions on her list. Her body still hummed with awareness, but if she refused to so much as glance in Duncan’s direction, she remained hopeful of bringing the interview to a conclusion without going up in flames.

Her hand shook as she reached for the tape recorder. After fumbling with the switch, she dropped it into her briefcase along with her notepad. “I need…” A cold shower. Preferably with ice water. “I’ll need to schedule another appointment,” she said, not the least bit surprised her voice trembled. Her nerve endings were still vibrantly alive with sexual awareness. “I’d like to bring in a sketch artist for a composite.”

Still ignoring Duncan, she stood and faced Margo, extending her hand for another polite, limp handshake. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll wait for your call,” Margo said graciously.

She made the mistake of glancing in Duncan’s direction. A smooth, lazy smile canted his mouth. The look in his eyes nearly did send her up in flames.

“I can see myself out,” she said, anxious to put a whole lot of distance between herself and Duncan’s knowing, I-want-you eyes.

Offering only a weak, apologetic semblance of a smile, she bolted from the room and hurried down the paneled corridor toward safety…er, the exit. She had a single moment’s hesitation about leaving Duncan alone with the witness, but she was too close to freedom now to turn back. Besides, he did have a right to be there since he’d been hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier to recover her stolen property.

She let herself out, shaken by the knowledge that not all lessons were easily learned. Still, she finally had firsthand knowledge of what Margo had meant by being so completely caught up in a storm of passion that nothing else mattered…except absolute pleasure.

3

SUNNY PROPPED HER bottom on the edge of her desk and faced the U.S. map pinned to the wall of her closetlike, windowless office. Tapping her index finger against her lips, she studied the neon-orange pinheads. Seattle, Napa Valley, St. Louis, Atlanta, Miami, Philadelphia and Baltimore. “Random choices?” she mused aloud. “Or preselected for reasons we still haven’t determined?”

Georgia Tremont, a tall, willowy redhead fresh from Quantico consulted the computer printout in her lap. “The computer wasn’t able to establish a pattern to the UNSUB’s choice of locations,” she reminded Sunny. As one of a handful of analysts employed by the unit, Georgia’s job was to dissect evidence and other pertinent data provided by the senior agents in charge of investigations. “I say random.”

“Possibly,” Sunny said slowly. Her instincts told her otherwise. And she always trusted her instincts.

“Computers aren’t infallible,” Ned Ball added. “I don’t trust them.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Georgia laughed. “For a guy who investigates Internet fraud.”

“Among other things.” Ned pushed his glasses back in place. “But that’s my point. Computers make it easier for the criminals. The Net is a hotbed of illegal activity.”

Georgia rolled her big blue eyes. “It’s not the computers, or the Internet, Ned, but the people using them.”

Sunny pushed off the desk. “Play nice now, kiddies,” she teased the rookie agents. “We’re supposed to be brainstorming here, not debating the alleged evils of the information superhighway.”

For a guy who claimed he didn’t trust computers, Ned Ball was the CID’s answer to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs all rolled into one pocket-protector-sporting computer nerd. The guy was golden when it came to ferreting out glitches, back doors and security hazards. His first week in the unit, he’d single-handedly tracked down the developer of a nasty e-mail worm responsible for temporarily shutting down the computer system of several of the nation’s banks.

Sunny dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Georgia, any word on those search warrants yet?”

“Sorry, Mac. We’re still waiting. I put another call in to the clerk half an hour ago, and she said the judge was still on the bench in closed session.”

Frustration bit into Sunny hard. Upon returning from the Wilder estate, she’d obtained authorization from the unit chief to have the crime lab search the art gallery and theater. She’d had the paperwork prepared and sent to the judge for signature within the hour. Three hours later and still no warrants. “Can’t you find another federal magistrate in this town? We need those warrants signed so the lab can get moving on this.”

Ned dropped a sheaf of papers on the edge of Sunny’s desk and frowned. “If this was a violent crime, the scenes would’ve been searched already,” he complained.

“True,” Georgia commiserated. “But we should be thankful these aren’t violent crimes.” She looked back at Sunny. “Do you really expect the lab to find anything after all this time?”

“Maybe. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us something new to go on,” Sunny said, but she wasn’t about to pin her hopes on the lab turning up viable evidence. For one, it’d been over two weeks since Wilder accompanied the UNSUB to the theater. Countless individuals had no doubt contaminated the private box, from patrons to theater staff and cleaning crews. With any luck at all, they might turn up physical evidence from the art gallery since the place was closed, but even she had to admit it was unlikely. They already had the guy’s DNA from four of the known crime scenes, but no identifying factors to provide them with a name. All she could realistically hope for would be a match confirming Abbott was their UNSUB.

Georgia offered her a sympathetic smile. “The clerk did promise to call as soon as the warrants were signed.”

Sunny frowned at the silent phone, wishing Duncan would return her call. Whether or not he could give her the information necessary to form that pattern she suspected existed, she could only guess. She wanted to know more about those two cases he’d mentioned he was investigating in addition to Wilder. Were the claimants on her existing list of victims? If not, that would bring the total number of victims to nine nationwide. And if there were more victims, why hadn’t local authorities advised her office when she’d published an alert weeks ago?

Because SEDSCAM was a nonviolent crime, she reminded herself, making it a low priority for local jurisdictions. If rich, affluent, campaign-dollar-contributing women were being raped, murdered and dumped along the roadside for Joe Citizen to discover on his morning jog, she’d have the high-ranking officials from those cities storming her office demanding action.

By sheer accident they’d discovered the connection to Wilder, albeit five days after the fact. The credit belonged solely to Georgia for bringing an article in the newspaper about the theft to Sunny’s attention. If the incident hadn’t occurred in their own backyard, or if the Wilder name hadn’t attracted press coverage, weeks may have passed before they’d been notified, if at all. She’d acted quickly and rather than dealing with the usual pissing contest over jurisdiction, the local authorities had been happy to hand the investigation off to her.

The time factor was short in relation to the other cases, not that it had garnered her much headway with regard to solid leads thus far. They still had no idea where the UNSUB might strike next, where he went after pulling a job or what he did with the millions in cash and property he’d lifted from the vics.

Sunny let out a frustrated sigh. “I need to get a visual on this case.” She dragged a yellow legal pad in front of her and drew two lines down the page. “What do we know? What do we suspect? What can we prove?” Once she had a list, the entries would go onto three-by-five index cards which she’d be able to move around on a chart, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

“We know there are seven vics in seven different states and no confirmed pattern,” Ned started. “We also know one man is responsible for at least four of the crimes based on DNA evidence collected.”

Georgia flipped through her printouts. “DNA was collected from hair samples in Philly and St. Louis. Miami from a cigar stub…” Confusion filled her blue eyes when she looked up at Sunny and Ned. “A sweatband from the Atlanta location?”

Sunny shrugged and entered the names of the victims and their geographic locations in the first column, followed by the DNA links. “We suspect he’s responsible for all seven crimes.” She looked up at the two rookie agents. “There’s a possibility we could have nine victims. A recovery expert hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier was at the estate this morning. In addition to Wilder, he claims his office is handling two additional cases with similar M.O.’s.”

“Did you get the names?” Georgia asked. “Do you know which locations?”

“Not yet,” Sunny answered. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d been so thoroughly distracted by the awareness sizzling between her and Duncan that she’d failed to ask him even a few pertinent questions regarding his investigations. “I’ve left a message for him.”

Georgia moved the printouts and other documents from her lap to the floor, then reached across Sunny’s desk for the file containing the six composite sketches of the UNSUB they’d obtained from the victims. “Which of these four guys match our DNA evidence?” she asked.

“Ian Banyon, Burke Conners, Scott Kauffman.” Sunny consulted her notes. “And Adam Hunt.”

Georgia separated the four composites, helped herself to the plastic box of pushpins from Sunny’s drawer, then hung the four sketches on the wall near the map. “Okay, now give me the order?”

“Conners first in St. Louis, Atlanta was Hunt,” Sunny told her. “Miami is Banyon, and put Kauffman last for Philly.”

Georgia pulled the neon-orange pins from the map, exchanging them for bright yellow, then arranged the composites in corresponding order. She stood back and examined the map, then looked over her shoulder to Sunny and Ned with a satisfied smile. “Do you see it?”

Sunny pushed out of her chair and moved in to get a closer look at the map.

“He’s getting sloppy,” Ned suggested from behind her. He indicated the first two locations with the tip of a pen. “Seattle and Napa produced no DNA evidence. The UNSUB was careful, cautious. By the time he got here,” he said, pointing to the yellow pinhead marking the St. Louis crime scene, “his confidence was up, so he relaxed and got careless.”

“I don’t think so,” Sunny said. “He’s not careless, he’s very thorough and methodical. I’d suggest arrogance, but you don’t get cocky from only two successful jobs. Plus, it was a hair sample found in the drain pipe of the victim’s shower in St. Louis, so that could be a fluke. By the time he hit Miami, it may have been intentional if he’s playing with us, but our involvement isn’t public yet. If there’s any meat to Ned’s theory, though, then we have more crimes to worry about.”

She looked over at Georgia. “Can you pull all the data reported from crimes in the last two years that match our UNSUB’s M.O.?”

“I can try,” she said, but didn’t look too hopeful. “If the stats aren’t entered into the national database, there’s not much I can do.”

“They usually don’t bother,” Ned added, “unless it involves a violent crime. On the surface these have the characteristics of theft. That’s not something anyone would commonly associate with a serial-type offender.”

Sunny turned her attention back to the composite sketches. “See what you can find anyway,” she said to Georgia. “I know it’s a long shot, but we could find gold.”

“The lab could come up with more DNA from Wilder’s place,” Georgia suggested. “How long before you’ll hear something?”

“Could be days.” Sunny moved closer to the map, meticulously studying each sketch for what had to be the six hundredth time. She was missing something…but what?

Ned adjusted his glasses and peered at the sketches of Burke Connors and Ian Banyon. “How does he do it?” he asked. “How does he manage to completely alter his appearance? I see basic similarities, but it just doesn’t look like the same guy. You know, I could style my hair differently, wear contacts, but I’d still look like me.”

“I know what you mean,” Georgia agreed. “I could go brunette or blond but I’d still be me. If it wasn’t for the evidence, I’d swear we should be looking for four different men. Nothing suggests this is the same person. It’s spooky.”

“Oh my God,” Sunny blurted. “That’s it!” She turned to look at the two agents and grinned. “These are not sketches of the same person.”

Georgia took a step back and looked down at Sunny as if she’d lost her mind. “Come on, Mac. You’re reaching. The evidence indicates otherwise.”

“I’m not refuting the evidence,” Sunny explained. “Stay with me a minute.” She went to her desk for the remaining two composites, then pinned them to the wall above the other four drawings.

“Marcus Wood.” She pointed to the first sketch. “Tansey Middleton’s favorite cause is animal rights. She writes big checks to support no-kill shelters and foots the bill for an adopt-a-pet event twice a year. Wood comes along posing as a dog-loving, animal-rights activist.”

Ned folded his arms and rocked back on the heels of his polished wingtips. “Yeah, so?”

“Maddie Bryson takes over the operation of the family vineyard when her brother loses a lengthy battle with cancer. To recoup their losses, Maddie explores the possibility of exporting their award-winning Napa Valley grapes to several French winemakers. Travis Reisner shows up claiming to be a buyer for a French winemaker.”

Georgia’s eyes filled with understanding. “Joy Tweed is a professional college student,” she said. “Some guys don’t change their socks as often as Joy changes majors. She’s what they used to call an M.R.S. degree candidate way back when. Burke Connors is a Ph.D. candidate, another professional student, in Joy Tweed’s eyes.”

“Exactly,” Sunny agreed. “Bettina Manchester falls for the supposed owner of a chain of sporting goods stores. Celine Garfield is conned by a guy posing as an importer of Egyptian artifacts. Scott Kaufman is a rich playboy for a socialite, and Justin Abbott is a patron of the arts to an art connoisseur.”

Ned pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose again and studied each of the composites more closely. He looked over his shoulder at Sunny, his pale blond brows knit in confusion. “Sorry, Mac. I’m not following you.”

Sunny tapped her finger on the first drawing. “Doesn’t Marcus Wood look like one of those lunatics that would run through a dog show opening cages, freeing the dogs in the name of animal rights? And Conners here has egghead professor written all over him.” Next she indicated the composite drawing of Adam Hunt. “This guy looks like a jock, just the kind of guy you’d expect would own a chain of sporting goods stores.”

Ned scratched the back of his head. “I still don’t see what you’re saying.”

“Each of these drawings appear to be a completely different guy, right?” She waited for Ned and Georgia’s acknowledgment before continuing. “That’s because the vics aren’t remembering the way the UNSUB actually looks, but how they saw him. The composites aren’t going to give us an accurate physical description because they aren’t of the actual man, but of the image he portrayed to his victims.”

“It is an interesting theory,” Georgia said. “Didn’t Celine Garfield say that Banyon spoke with some sort of British, or maybe a South African, accent?”

“She did,” Sunny confirmed. “And when Wilder sits down with the sketch artist tomorrow, if the composite of Justin Abbott isn’t a perfect example of a patron-of-the-arts type, lunch is on me.”

Ned still didn’t look as convinced as Georgia. “The UNSUB’s ability to transform himself may very well be his recipe for success,” he eventually conceded, “but how is your theory going to lead us to him?”

Undaunted by Ned’s lack of vision, Sunny’s smile widened. “We might be able to narrow down possible locations since we know what attracts him.”

“Money,” Georgia added. “A whole lot of money.”

“You’re talking haystacks and needles, Mac,” Ned argued. “You know how many people in this country come into big bucks every day? How many of them are women? A new millionaire comes along every couple of weeks if all the state lottery stats are accurate.”

“But we’re only interested in the perpetually single and recently unattached,” Georgia added helpfully. “That should narrow the field considerably.”

“Divorcées, widows,” Sunny told the analyst. “Any woman between the ages of twenty and fifty-five that fits the profile.”

“I’ll play with some data, see what comes up.”

“Great.” She’d been on the SEDSCAM case for almost four weeks and finally felt as if they were making progress. “Ned, what about the bank in Atlanta? Any luck?”

“None yet,” he said. He propped his shoulder against the wall. “We do know the UNSUB didn’t clear out Manchester’s accounts with a stolen check the way he did with Bryson. If there’s a hole in the bank’s software, give me enough time and I’ll have it for you.”

“What about an Internet transfer?” Georgia suggested, gathering up her printouts and reports.

“First place I looked,” Ned told her. “Neither Manchester’s personal nor business accounts were set up for Internet banking. Doesn’t eliminate a hack job, but banks are required to report security breaches so don’t hold your breath.”

“Did you tell Mac about the check?” Georgia asked Ned, lifting the stack of papers to the chair.

Ned stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. “Bryson’s bank finally released the original check the UNSUB forged to clear out her account.”

Sunny glanced down at the still quiet phone. “That’s progress.”

“You were unavailable for consultation.” Ned cleared his throat before continuing. “I hope it’s okay, but I went ahead and asked Milken over in check fraud to give us his opinion on the Bryson check.”

“No, that’s good,” Sunny told him, hiding a smile when Ned stood just a tad straighter under her praise. “Don’t be afraid to ask the other divisions for assistance when you need it.”

“Ah, here it is,” Georgia said suddenly. She stood, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand.

“How would you like to get out of the office tomorrow?” Sunny asked her.

“I’d love a change of scenery. What do you need?”

“Accompany the sketch artist to Wilder’s tomorrow. Take notes of anything else she might recall,” Sunny instructed. “If those warrants come through, Ned and I will be hanging out with the techno jocks at the gallery and theater.”

Georgia’s smile turned sly as she handed a set of documents to Sunny and Ned. “This caused production to grind to a halt in word processing.”

A warming blush heated Sunny’s cheeks as she scanned the cover sheet of Margo Wilder’s recorded statement. “No doubt,” she muttered, grateful she’d used a tape recorder rather than a video camera. “This was quick.”

“It’s the weekly supply of Krispy Kremes she feeds them,” Ned said with a quiet laugh, flipping through the statement.

“Works like a charm,” Georgia agreed good-naturedly.

“Good God,” Ned blurted. He pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and gave the knot of his tie a tug. “People actually do this kind of thing?”

Georgia burst out laughing. “If you have to ask, then you’re spending way too much time with computers.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sunny warned gently. “Georgia, why don’t you try the clerk’s office again.”

“Will do. But first tell me who is the hunk?”

Sunny frowned. “Hunk?” she hedged.

“Chamberlain,” Georgia clarified. “The man has a voice that could melt granite. That spells hunk in my fantasies, not short, fat and bald.”

“I’m gone,” Ned announced and quickly gathered up the notes and files he’d brought with him. “Maybe Milken has something for us.” He practically jogged for the door.

Sunny waited until she and Georgia were alone. “How’d you hear his voice?” she asked in a hushed tone.

She hadn’t dared replay the session herself, afraid of what she might hear—like her own heavy breathing. When she’d arrived at the office, she’d turned the tape over to word processing as a rush job. Not that she was eager to relive the fantasy she’d conjured during the interview, but she did need to thoroughly dissect Wilder’s statement for clues.

Georgia sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, resting her arms on Sunny’s desk. “My cubicle’s next to word processing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “When all the gasping and giggling started, I got curious.”

“Oh God.” Sunny closed her eyes and groaned. “They were playing the tape aloud?”

Georgia’s grin widened. “There wasn’t a headset in use. So? Is he as good-looking as he sounds?”

Sunny bit her bottom lip, then shook her head. “We’re federal agents, Georgia.”

“Statistics show that more and more couples are meeting on the job. We’re agents, Mac, and women. With the hours we put in, where else are we going to find a man?”

Georgia did have a point. Hadn’t Sunny just been bemoaning how long it’d been since she’d found a guy who could hold her interest? Duncan certainly had done that…and more.

“So?” Georgia prompted when Sunny remained silent. “Is he or isn’t he?”

Sunny looked toward the door to make certain they wouldn’t be overheard. “That voice,” she whispered, looking back at Georgia, “isn’t all that could melt granite.”

They giggled. Like women, not agents.

“He has these bluish-gray eyes, and they are so intense,” Sunny said once they stopped laughing. “When he looks at you, it’s like he really sees you.”

“Unlike cleavage crawlers,” Georgia said with distaste. “You know the type. They never look you in the eye because they’re too busy staring at your chest.”

Sunny wrinkled her nose. “How would they feel if we stared at their crotches?”

“Like we’re speaking their language. So, is he tall? Short, what?”

“A little over six foot.”

“Hair?”

“Wavy. Black.”

“Ass?”

Sunny grinned. “The nicest I’ve seen in a while.”

“Oh, it’s not fair.” Georgia let out a sigh. “Such luck. Beauty and brains, too.”

Sunny pushed out of her chair and walked to the filing cabinet. “How does a nice ass equal brains?” She pulled open the top drawer for the bottled water she kept on hand.

“Well, he’s not stupid. He made an interesting point when he said if we’re going to nail the UNSUB, we need—” The phone on Sunny’s rang and Georgia automatically reached for it. “It’s probably the clerk’s office.”

Sunny handed Georgia a bottle before she twisted the cap off her own and took a drink. “Need to know his habits,” she said quietly, recalling Duncan’s words during the interview. “His quirks.”

“Special Agent MacGregor’s office,” Georgia said into the receiver.

UNSUB. CID.

How many more terms did he use that she couldn’t immediately recall? And was Duncan’s use of Bureau slang nothing more than a coincidence? He could’ve picked up the terminology from hanging around law-enforcement personnel. Except when he spoke, it’d been…unconscious. Natural.

“Yes, she’s here.” Georgia shook her head, signaling the call wasn’t from the clerk’s office.

Sunny had one of the most powerful databases at her disposal. In a few keystrokes, she could easily satisfy her curiosity. Was it an invasion of privacy if the party wasn’t aware they’d been invaded? she wondered.

“One moment, Agent Caruso.”

Sunny frowned and took the handset from Georgia. “Mac, here.” The only reason any of the agents assigned surveillance of the Wilder estate would call is if something had happened at the scene. The UNSUB was no doubt long gone, so the call probably was nothing more urgent than an eager reporter caught trying to sneak onto the estate or claiming she’d given him permission.

“You gotta see what Quantico is teaching these new kids to do with a laptop and a cell phone. This Eggbert stuff ain’t half bad.”

“Is there a point to this call, Jack?”

“Not really, Mac. Just called to see how it’s hanging.” His gravelly voice was drenched in sarcasm. “You know, in between pissing in the bushes and sweating like a friggin’ pig out here on the hottest day of the year. Hell yes, I have a point. Weidman pulled up something on your boy and I thought you should know about it.”

She wasn’t sure she appreciated Agent Weidman’s checking up on her UNSUB or his aggressiveness. A lead was still a lead, and considering her current level of progress, she’d withhold judgment for the time being. “My apologies, Jack. What’d he find?”

“The kid ran a basic background check. Chamberlain has an impressive résumé with a ton of high-end experience as an investigator.”

“Chamberlain?” As in Duncan Chamberlain, the hottie capable of melting granite and a whole lot more. Not the UNSUB as she’d mistakenly assumed.

Dread crept up her spine and settled in her shoulders. A knot of tension formed at the base of her skull and began to throb in a slow, steady rhythm.

“You wanna take a shot at where he got his training?”

Sunny briefly closed her eyes. “Where?” she asked, even though she had a good idea of the answer.

“Quantico, Virginia, Mac.” Jack’s tone sobered. “The son of a bitch is FBI.”

4

SUNNY APPROACHED THE young, pretty brunette seated at the reception desk of Chamberlain Recovery and Investigations and flashed her ID. “Special Agent MacGregor,” she said, her tone brusque. “FBI. Is Mr. Chamberlain in?”

The receptionist’s wide-set brown eyes filled with caution. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

Sunny tucked her ID back inside the pocket of her linen blazer. “You do that,” she said. “And tell Mr. Chamberlain he’d be smart to make himself available.”

The girl deserted her post and took off around the corner, leaving Sunny alone. She walked toward a pair of navy padded chairs, but she was too restless to sit. What she really wanted to do was kick something. Hard. She considered the brass planter with a thick potted palm in the corner as a possible target, then decided she’d rather unleash her anger on a certain someone, with seductive eyes and a kiss-me smile who’d made her look like an incompetent moron in front Caruso and Weidman.

The minute she’d hung up the phone with Jack, she’d accessed the Bureau’s personnel directory. The slow simmer of anger had silenced her disbelief the moment Duncan’s image had loaded on the screen of her monitor. Her temper still hadn’t cooled, even on the drive across town to his office.

The personnel file hadn’t provided her with a scrap of useful data other than to confirm Weidman’s findings and Duncan’s dates of service with the Bureau. No reference whatsoever to the reason behind his termination. A resignation? Perhaps, but to her “relieved of duty” sounded as if he’d been canned. Without the appropriate clearance level, though, she had no hope of verifying her suspicions, leaving her with no choice but to go directly to the source and demand answers.

Any number of reasons could result in a security classification of an agent’s service record. The need for clearance didn’t necessarily mean Duncan’s personnel file contained information on sensitive national security issues or even the whereabouts of a material witness to a crime. The medical findings of his last physical could’ve easily garnered the tag.

She blew out a stream of breath. Irritation made a fine companion to anger. She wanted answers, and was determined to have them, one way or another, along with whatever other information he may be keeping from her. He’d ignored her warning not to try to play her once. If he refused to take her seriously, then she’d simply confiscate his files related to SEDSCAM and ban him from the Wilder estate until the conclusion of her investigation.

The receptionist returned with a pleasant smile and an armload of files, which she placed on the center of her desk. “Mr. Chamberlain can see you now,” she said amiably.

Guilt nipped Sunny’s conscience for coming off as a hard-ass with the girl. Before she could formulate an appropriate apology, they’d reached the end of the short corridor and the receptionist ushered Sunny into Duncan’s office, closing the door quietly as she left.

He stood behind his desk, a cordless phone edged between his shoulder and ear as he flipped through a binder lying open on the desk. His tie was gone, and the khakis were not pressed so neatly now as they’d been that morning. All that thick, black hair was tousled, as if he’d been ramming his fingers through the wavy mass. Rumpled and sexy, she thought again. And still a damn fine specimen of massive sex appeal, no matter how much he’d ticked her off.

He glanced up and their eyes met. As if he were happy to see her, those incredible lips tipped upward in a smile, making her heart beat in an erratic rhythm. Did his office qualify as his place?

Only on a technicality, she decided. Not that it made a difference. She’d come for answers, not a little afternoon delight.

He motioned for her to sit while he finished his phone call, indicating the navy armchair across from his desk. The chaotic atmosphere was so arbitrary to her impression of Duncan. But what did she know? She hadn’t exactly been a shining example of sound judgment on that subject considering the enlightening phone call from Caruso. She never should’ve allowed him onto the estate without having him checked out first. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, but a plea of lust-on-the brain made for a pathetically thin defense.

Ignoring the offer to sit, she clasped her hands behind her back and took in his surroundings. The cool blues, deep wines and creamy whites of the color scheme would have been more soothing if nearly every available surface of the heavy furnishings weren’t a cautionary tale in the hazards of disorganization. Several stacks of files threatened to topple from the edge of the monstrous oak desk. The matching credenza parked beneath the window was no improvement, nor were the trio of lateral oak file cabinets along the wall. She caught sight of a pair of silver picture frames on the center file cabinet, but the photographs were obscured by a landscape of documents bound together with thick rubber bands.

She strolled over to an imposing armoire pulling double duty as a bookcase. In reality, the piece acted as a catch-all for more files and banded documents. A row of bulky binders were crammed to overflowing with papers, while the shelf directly above held a line of books, oddly arranged by height in a neat, organized row, ranging in topic from the federal penal code to rules of evidence along with several investigation trade manuals and journals. Taped to the interior of the open doors of the armoire, in no observable cohesive order she could determine, were brightly colored squares of paper with varying handwriting.

“I’ll get back to you once I review the police reports,” Duncan said to his caller. “Monday at the latest.” He paused. “I’ll talk to you then.”

She turned to face him as he set the phone on the desk. He wrote something down on another square of paper, then taped it to the armoire with the others. His to-do list? she wondered.

He set the tape dispenser on a tower of files. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. The files threatened to spill, but he caught them before they toppled to the floor, shoving them back in place. The chaotic disorder didn’t seem to faze him. She, on the other hand, was overcome with an urge to organize.

She reminded herself not to fall for his charm again. Or that impossible-to-resist tilt of his mouth. The pure male interest simmering in his eyes as he swept his gaze down her length didn’t affect her in the least. She just wished her nipples hadn’t tightened. Or her tummy hadn’t flipped.

Straightening her shoulders, she attempted a hard glare. Somewhere between the reception area and his office, her anger had cooled, so she settled for one filled with minor annoyance instead.

“I’m not here for pleasure.”

His expression turned downright wicked. “Too bad.”

Maybe his charm wasn’t her problem, but those recurring fantasies that kept playing hell with her resolve not to let him get to her. “You lied to me,” she accused, pretending to ignore the pImages** of tangled sheets and entwined limbs taunting her.

A single dark eyebrow winged upward. “I did?”

She moved to the chair and braced her hands over the back. “I warned you not to play me. You should have told me you were with the Bureau.”

“I’m not with the Bureau,” he said with calm emphasis. “Past tense.”

She narrowed her eyes at that innocent-of-all-charges expression on his too-handsome face. The guy was cool, she’d give him that much. Her reprimand elicited no remorse from him. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. Even by omission.”

He tucked his hands in the front pockets of trousers. “I never lied to you, Sunny.”

She let out a sigh. “Then why not tell me about it?” she asked, wanting to believe him.

“It’s no big deal. Besides, the subject of my past employment never came up.”

“It is a big deal,” she argued. “You’re a former agent, connected to a case under the Bureau’s jurisdiction. You of all people should know procedure. How am I supposed to know you’re not hoping for an opportunity to sabotage the investigation?”

His expression became tolerant. “Oh, come on,” he said with a wry chuckle. “That’s a stretch.”

Maybe she was overstating, but he should’ve told her. Because it could have an effect on her investigation? Or because if he was terminated for cause, she could kiss any hope of turning that tangled-sheet fantasy into reality goodbye?

He shook his head and moved to the desk. “I’ve done nothing to interfere with your investigation. I even offered to give you copies of my files. That should tell you there are no ulterior motives at work here.”

She wasn’t quite ready to agree with him, even if she did believe he was telling her the truth. “Were you fired?” she asked.

His gaze remained steady. “I was no longer employable.”

Which was not an answer and only heightened her curiosity. “Will you tell me why?” she asked. Agents were relieved of duty for any number of reasons, from failure to pass a psych exam to illegal activities. He didn’t look like a crazy or a crook. But then, neither had Ted Bundy.

Duncan looked away and pushed the stack of case files from the edge of the desk, considering how much, or how little, to reveal to Sunny. He’d had no illusions that he’d be able to keep his former association with the Bureau a complete secret from her, he just wished he’d been able to milk information from her before the door to opportunity was slammed in his face. Three cases with hefty recovery fees that would go a long way to keeping his business solvent were on the line.

Perched on the edge of the desk, he shifted his attention back to Sunny and her caution-lined gaze. “I bombed my annual firearms recertification,” he stated honestly. Since she’d come asking questions, he was banking that she’d been unable to access his full service record. “But why ask me? You must’ve looked me up on the system before coming here.”

She glanced away. “So why couldn’t you pass?”

Bingo. She didn’t know squat, which was fine by him.

“An undercover assignment went bad,” he told her, again truthfully. “I caught a bullet in the shoulder and ended up with a torn rotator cuff and a lot of nerve damage.” He leaned forward and brought his left hand down hard on the edge of the desk a couple of times.

She winced. “You have no feeling at all?”

“Almost none. What isn’t numb, hurts like the devil when the mercury dips too low.” And served as a daily reminder of choices he’d made, resulting in the end of his career.

He squelched the resentment before it had a chance to surface. “The nerve damage was too extensive,” he added. “Managing a firearm was enough of a challenge, let alone taking aim on a moving target.”

She circled the chair and perched on the padded arm. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

The sincerity in her voice made him uncomfortable. Arrogance deserved no sympathy. Wasn’t that what he’d been told?

“Old news,” he said, anxious to change the subject. “Any other questions?”

She held up her index finger. “One more.”

The smallest trace of a smile touched her lips, and he started to relax. For now, at least, his secrets remained safe.

“Were you really an undercover op, and where?”

“You sound surprised,” he said, tactically avoiding the second half of her question. The Bureau’s computer system might keep his past hidden, but he couldn’t say the same for the men he’d put in danger.

“A little.” Her smile widened a degree. “No, I take that back. You have the same…intensity as a guy I know who used to work undercover out of D.C. As if you’ve seen more, done more than the rest of us mere mortals.”

A few pImages** from his time as an undercover operative haunted him some nights, making sleep all but impossible. He’d crossed the line, a fact he wasn’t particularly proud of, but her assessment still made him smile at the reminder of better memories.

“A false sense of superiority comes with the territory,” he admitted. “Eventually someone reminds us superhuman capabilities only exist in sci-fi flicks.”

Her green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Even Achilles had a weakness.”

That smile of hers was easily becoming his Achilles’ heel. She’d looked damned cute, too, when she’d first shown up with her superagent feathers all ruffled. “So this guy,” he said, watching her closely. “Exactly how involved are you?”

“Not that involved,” she said, her voice laced with more humor. “He’s very happily married with a baby on the way.”

“Good.” He couldn’t help himself. His grin widened. “Then it’s safe to ask you to dinner without trespassing?”

Her frown would’ve been effective if it hadn’t been for the brief flash of pleasure in her eyes. “Why would I want to have dinner with you?”

Slowly, he came off the desk and walked toward her. “Because you think I’m irresistible.” Arrogance did have a certain usefulness.

“What I think is that you’re awfully sure of yourself.” Nervousness coated her gentle laughter, taking the sting out of the insult.

Nervous was good, when it translated to interest. “So, how ’bout that dinner?” he pressed, narrowing the remaining distance between them.

She caught the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth. Weighing her options? He hoped the scale tipped in his favor. Just thinking about kissing her was making him hard. A romantic entanglement with a federal agent probably wouldn’t be his wisest move, but he had nothing against playing out a fantasy or two. Besides, he was only offering dinner, he reasoned. For now.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. Uncertainty mingled with longing in her eyes. “We probably shouldn’t.” Her voice lacked the conviction necessary to dissuade him, courtesy of her soft, husky tone.

“Why not?” He took one last step, his thigh brushing against her knee. Heat shot to his groin. “Let’s take all this chemistry out for a ride and see where it leads.” He knew exactly where he wanted it to lead…right to the nearest bed.

“I…”

“You what?” He bent toward her. Her breath fanned his lips. “Want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Not about to give her an opportunity to change her mind, he cupped the back of her head with his good hand and brought his mouth down softly over hers. Apparently gentle wasn’t her thing, nor was she shy about upping the ante. Her slender arms wound around his neck, bringing their bodies together, but not close enough to suit him.

The silken glide of her tongue taunted him, teased him, dared him to deepen the kiss. He willingly obliged, slanting his mouth over hers and stealing inside to take all she offered. She tasted sweeter than he’d imagined. And minty, he thought. Like fresh peppermint taffy.

Moving his hands to the swell of her hips, he urged her off the chair and into his arms. She pressed against him, her beaded nipples brushing temptingly against his chest through the thin material of her blouse. He skimmed his hand up her side and along her rib cage to cup the side of her breast with his palm. She issued a soft moan and pulled her arms from around his neck. For a brief instant he thought he’d taken things too far—until the coolness of her fingers interlaced with his and she guided his hand over her breast.

His dick swelled to the point of pain and throbbed. Need ripped through him. He didn’t give a damn if she was appointed the next director of the Bureau, he wanted her, preferably naked and beneath him with her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

He dragged his thumb over her nipple, and slid his other hand over her bottom. She moaned into his mouth and her fingers flexed over his. Maybe she liked it on top where she called the shots and set the pace. He imagined her above him, the enticing sway of her breasts as she rode him. Slow. Easy, taking him deep inside her tight, hot sheath until the pressure built and her body demanded more. Harder. Faster, driving toward fulfillment with each thrust of their bodies until they came together in an explosion of heat.

She guided his hand from her breast, over her flat stomach and lower, sighing into his mouth when he cupped her sex. She tested his control when she rocked against his hand.

A loud rap on the door sent them scurrying in opposite directions. Duncan dragged his hand through his hair and watched Sunny walk unsteadily to the far side of his office. Her shoulders rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath then let it out slowly. When she slipped a bouncy curl behind her ears her hand trembled.

He took comfort in the fact she was obviously as rattled as he by the unexpected passion of that kiss. The past few months he’d been too swamped with work to pay much attention to anything not related to business. The explosion of heat between them reminded him that he hadn’t gotten laid in weeks, nothing more.

Another loud knock saved him from having to think too much on the subject. He went to the door and opened it to find Lucy Barstow, the agency’s office manager, giving him one of her cast-iron glares over the rim of her bifocals.

He blocked the door, but that didn’t stop her from craning her neck to get a better look. “Yeah?” Somehow he managed to maintain a civil tone. “What is it?”

“We have a situation.” Lucy handed him a neon-yellow sticky note. “Abe from Able Pawn just called. He acquired a sizeable diamond engagement ring last week that showed up on the regional hot sheet that went out today. He’s giving you twenty minutes to see if it’s one of ours before he has to call it in to the Baltimore P.D.”

Despite the interruption, a slow smile spread across his face. Hot merchandise often showed up in pawn shops. By law, the owners were supposed to notify the cops when they inadvertently received stolen goods, which the cops would then confiscate. Since the brokers would be out the cash they’d paid for the pawn, as a result, they were only too happy to line their pockets with the finder’s fee Duncan paid them if the property turned out to be an item he’d been hired to recover.

In Duncan’s opinion, it was a win-win situation. The client paid a recovery fee, not a full-loss claim and the claimant’s property was returned. The brokers were happy because they recouped a fraction of an otherwise total loss. The system wasn’t perfect and pushed the spirit of the law, but when all concerned were pleased with the final outcome, he didn’t see a problem.

Duncan checked his watch. “Call Abe back and tell him I’ll be there within the hour. And have Marisa track down the Burbank and Ricci files.”

“What about Locke?” she asked, jotting down his instructions. “It’s a three-carat rock, and Abe did say he had a big one.”

“Pull the file,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Lucy rose up on her toes, trying to get a peek inside his office. “Anything else you need? Bail money? A lawyer?” She lowered her bifocals. “A cold shower?”

Lucy had been in his employ from day one and knew as much, if not more, than he did about the agency, the cases they handled, the people he employed and even himself. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the agency would ever get along without her. At the moment, however, the concept suddenly had merit.

“Just get me those files,” he told her. “I can handle the rest.”

She made a “harumph” sound, clearly indicating her opinion on the subject. With one last glance, she strode down the hall calling for Marisa, his administrative assistant.

Duncan closed the door and turned back to Sunny. “Sorry about that,” he said.

Uncertainty clouded her eyes when she faced him. “I better go.” She made no move to leave.

He snagged the tie he’d removed earlier from the hook on the back of the door. “How’s seven sound for dinner?”

She glanced nervously around the office. “Good,” she said, not looking at him. She cleared her throat. “Uh, where should I meet you?”

He would’ve preferred to pick her up himself, but he understood and respected her caution. Despite the hot kiss that still had his blood simmering, she knew very little about him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t follow him back to his place after dinner, he thought hopefully.

Finished with his tie, he jotted the name of a casual restaurant close to his apartment on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “See you at seven.” He considered the wisdom of one last kiss. One final taste of sweet peppermint and hot passion.

She folded the note and slipped it inside her pocket. “I’ll see you then.”

He circled the desk. The door swung open and Lucy stormed in with one of the files he’d requested. “Here,” she said, thrusting the file in his direction. “The rest is somewhere in this mess.”

“I’ll find my way out,” Sunny said, then disappeared down the hall.

He turned to glare at Lucy. “Whatever happened to knocking?” Duncan complained. Her interruption—again—annoyed the hell out of him. So much for testing the wisdom of one last kiss.

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