The Enforcer

Anna Perrin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Copyright

About the Author

ANNA PERRIN grew up reading romance novels and thrillers so it’s no surprise that she loves writing romantic suspense. A two-time finalist in the RWA Golden Heart contest, she is delighted by the publication of her first Intrigue. She avoids housework as much as possible and enjoys hanging out with her supportive husband, two terrific daughters and pets including a temperamental calico, a blue-eyed husky and a mixed-breed horse.

To Patience Smith, who made my dream of publication happen. Thank you.

To Brenda Harlen, who brainstorms with me during dinners and road trips. What an extraordinary CP and friend. And to my wonderful family. You mean everything to me.

Chapter One

“What do you mean, he’s escaped?”

Dr. Claire Lamont gripped her cell phone tighter and stared out her kitchen window at the slashing rain. Two days ago, she had sent FBI agent Andy Forrester to Ridsdale Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation. Now he was out?

Gene Welland, her contact at the Bureau’s Cincinnati office, said, “At eight o’clock Forrester was in his room, an hour later he was gone.”

The explanation didn’t make sense to her. Not with the state-of-the-art security measures at the facility. “How could that happen?”

“We think he had inside help.”

“You suspect Ridsdale staff?” she asked, pacing between the wall oven and the granite-topped island. “Or someone within the Bureau?”

“Too soon to point a finger,” Gene said, clearly in no mood to speculate. “I’m calling because a nurse at the hospital reported he threatened to kill you.”

Dread twisted in her stomach. Her gaze darted to the patio door. One forceful blow would smash the glass, then Forrester could slip a hand inside, twist the lock and—

She stopped pacing. Exhaled a deep breath. A long day of interviews and flight delays had set her on edge. “Forrester probably lashed out at me without meaning it.”

Or maybe he did mean it. Maybe he was in such a rage about her confining him to Ridsdale that he’d try to harm her.

She resumed pacing, her mouth dry, her palms sweating. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a streak of lightning sliced through the sky.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Gene said. “In fact, I’ve already sent an agent to pick you up, so get ready to leave.”

“I’m just back from Minneapolis. My luggage is still in my front hall.”

“Then you’ll be set to go when our guy gets there.”

What if her enraged patient showed up first?

“I have a better idea,” she said. “You know the coffee shop where we met last month?”

“Java Heaven?”

“That’s it. I’ll meet him there.”

After a short silence, Gene relented. “Okay, Lisa is calling Brent to redirect him to that location.”

Brent? As in Brent don’t-waste-my-time Young?

Please let there be another agent in the Cincinnati office with the same first name.

“Who are we talking about?” she asked.

“Brent Young.”

Damn. That was the field agent she’d met several weeks earlier when Gene had asked her to talk to his team after the shooting death of a colleague, Pete Sanderson. No degree in psychology was necessary to interpret Young’s slouched posture, guarded expression or impatient tapping of his foot. Obviously, he viewed her presentation about counseling options as useless and had only shown up because he’d been ordered to.

Young’s disdain for counseling hadn’t surprised her. What had surprised her was the surge of attraction she’d felt for him. With his linebacker shoulders, coal-black hair and cheekbones that hinted at a Native American ancestor, he looked like a hard-core renegade. But there had been something appealing about his smile—which he’d let loose a few times in response to his colleagues’ wisecracks. Against all logic, she wished her remarks had elicited the same response.

The wind rattled the panes of glass. The storm was getting worse.

“You can count on Brent to protect you,” Gene said, correctly interpreting her silence as a lack of enthusiasm for her escort.

The overhead light went out, plunging the room into darkness. “Oh no,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“The storm just killed the power.” She lifted her free hand, but she couldn’t see it—or anything else.

“Check outside,” Gene said, his tone urgent. “See if the streetlights are on.”

Hadn’t he been listening to her? No power meant no streetlights. Unless—

Understanding dawned on her, followed by a stab of fear. Unless somebody had cut the power to her house.

Still holding her cell phone, she rushed to the window. After what seemed like an eternity, her shaking fingers forced apart two slats of the horizontal blinds.

“The whole neighborhood’s dark,” she said, relief making her voice thin and breathless.

“Go to Java Heaven. Call me when you get there.”

Pocketing her phone, she stared into the surrounding darkness. Collecting her luggage and shoes would be a lot easier if she had even a glimmer of light. She headed into the hall, where she kept a flashlight in a maple cabinet. As her outstretched hands made contact with the wood, the basement stairs creaked. She froze, listening for more creaks. The only sounds were the ones made by the storm driving rain against the windows and the pounding of her heart.

She retrieved the flashlight, walked two steps. Stopped and listened again. Nothing.

The knotted muscles in her shoulders relaxed, and she nearly laughed. Gene’s call had made her jumpy. She was alone in her home. Of course, she was alone.

No creak this time. A soft rustle. The shifting of clothes. Someone was in the hall.

Fear shot through her. She bolted for the front door.

When a deep baritone ordered, “Stop,” she whirled around and smashed the flashlight into the source of that voice.

His surprised yelp was extremely satisfying. She swung the flashlight again but didn’t connect this time. Instead, a muscled forearm shoved her backward. She fell hard against the wall, crying out as her right shoulder absorbed the brunt of the impact.

The flashlight bumped against the door frame.

Oh God, let the batteries work.

She depressed the switch. A brilliant beam erupted from the cylinder, and she directed it at his face, hoping to blind him. But the circle of light revealed he had his head tipped back and his hand over his nose. Blood streamed down his clean-shaven face.

Forrester had a beard.

“Nice work, doc. You damn near broke my nose.”

Anxiety must have dulled her senses earlier because this time she recognized his voice. The man dripping blood all over her front hall was Brent Young, not the mentally unstable agent who’d threatened her.

She sagged against the wall in relief.

“Don’t you dare faint on me,” he said. “If anybody deserves to pass out, it’s me. I got knifed by a junkie last year, and it didn’t bleed this much.”

If Young expected an apology, he’d be disappointed. She had nearly suffered a heart attack because of him. “You were supposed to meet me at Java Heaven. Didn’t Gene’s assistant call you?”

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the flashlight. “My cell vibrated, but I was too busy to answer it—”

“—because you were breaking into my house, right?”

He gripped her wrist, redirecting the beam of light toward the floor. “I arrived just before you did and wanted to make sure Forrester wasn’t hiding inside. By the way, you should have bars installed on your basement windows.”

“I’ll add it to my chore list,” she muttered.

His next words were barely more than a whisper. “Aren’t you glad it’s me, not Forrester, here with you now?”

In the semidarkness, his voice sounded intimate, seductive. Warmth from his hand seeped through her skin and traveled up her arm. Her heart beat faster, but this time fear wasn’t the cause. It was attraction, raw and potent. An attraction that roared through her blood, demanding release. An attraction she had to suppress.

She jerked her wrist out of his grasp.

He gave a low, knowing chuckle.

Gene respected Young’s ability to keep her safe. She shouldn’t let him unsettle her.

“Let’s head out,” he said.

“I need my shoes.”

He nodded, then cursed softly. The movement must have started his nose bleeding again. She thought of offering him ice, but it seemed prudent to leave immediately. They could stop and buy ice when they were well away from here.

She shone the flashlight around the hall. The beam illuminated her sneakers in the corner, and she shoved her feet into them. Then she aimed the flashlight toward the spot where she’d left her luggage.

A noise like a car backfiring sounded outside. In the same instant, the pane of glass beside the front door shattered, and a tiny round hole appeared on the side of her carry-on case.

Her blood turned cold.

The bullet had missed her by inches.

BRENT CURSED as a second bullet plowed into the case. The flashlight was a beacon for the bastard outside.

He knocked the traitorous item out of Claire’s hand, dragged her to the floor and covered her with his body. Her full breasts rose and fell in agitation. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the softness of those curves, but tonight wasn’t about pleasure. It was about staying alive.

The shooting stopped—probably because the flashlight had gone out after hitting the floor. But the threat wasn’t over. Whoever was out there couldn’t know if he’d hit his target unless he ventured inside.

Brent placed his lips against her ear and murmured, “Let’s go.”

“Which way?” she whispered back.

“Back door. Stay low. No noise.”

“You need to move if you expect me to.”

She shifted, her pelvis bumped against his, reminding him that it had been months since he’d been this close to a woman. Maybe after the danger was over, he’d think about remedying that situation—but not with her.

She wasn’t unattractive. Far from it. He didn’t remember a word of her info session, but he sure remembered her. Dark blond hair, full lips, flawless skin and a dynamite figure that even a tailored navy suit couldn’t conceal. Claire Lamont had definite assets, but she was also a shrink. In his experience, shrinks were trouble, and he’d be a fool to forget it now just because this one came with a husky voice and a curvy body.

Cool, damp air flooded in through the broken glass pane. He climbed to his feet and crept along the hall. The back door was situated off the laundry room. When he reached it, Claire was right behind him.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Wait here.”

He felt his way through the dark to the connecting door to the garage. Because of the power failure, he couldn’t hit the switch to open the garage door. The automatic opener had to be disconnected from the overhead framework so he could lift the door manually.

He descended the wooden steps into the garage. A moment later, his leg nudged the bumper of Claire’s car. He skirted around the driver’s side and went to stand behind the vehicle. Should be a rope dangling with a handle attached. Reaching up, he moved his hand back and forth, trying to locate it.

Nothing.

Growing impatient, he climbed onto the trunk. The added height made it possible for him to touch the mechanism directly. He reached out, then inhaled as a sharp metal edge nicked his thumb. Damn. This fumbling around in the dark was crazy, but he couldn’t risk using the penlight in his pocket. The garage had windows facing onto the front walkway.

Several tries later, he released the hook from the frame. He slid off the car and reached for the garage door. Twisting the handle, he tugged hard. The garage door rolled upward with a loud screech. Hopefully, the shooter would think Claire was attempting to drive away and try to stop her.

He ran back to the connecting door, knowing that it wouldn’t take the shooter long to search the garage. He’d likely shoot the lock off the inner door and head inside.

Brent crossed the laundry room to the back door, stretched out both hands, but encountered only empty space.

“Claire?” he whispered.

No response. Damn this darkness.

Retrieving the penlight from his pocket, he shone it around him. The sliver of light flickered over the confined space, revealing a washer, dryer, sink and three-foot-long counter for folding clothes. And nothing else. His frustration surged to a new level. Where the hell had she gone?

Turning on his heel, he aimed the penlight toward the hall. The narrow beam illuminated her suitcase with its two ugly bullet holes. An equally ugly thought crossed his mind. What if Claire hadn’t left the laundry room voluntarily? The possibility choked off his annoyance like a tourniquet, and alarm took its place. He’d only spent two or three minutes in the garage, but that could have been enough time for Claire to be dragged out the back door and forced into a waiting vehicle.

A quiet click sounded. The back of his neck prickled.

He removed his semiautomatic pistol from its holster and headed into the hall. As he drew near the kitchen, the pantry door swung open. He aimed his weapon. Despite the cold air seeping in through the broken window, sweat broke out on his brow.

When Claire emerged alone, his relief quickly gave way to anger. “Why didn’t you wait for me in the laundry room?”

“Nowhere to hide if the guy broke in before you came back.”

A reasonable explanation, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You just took ten years off my life.”

“Then I guess we’re even.”

He knew he’d terrified her earlier. Not his intention, but before he could explain his presence, she’d walloped him in the face with the flashlight. After that, he’d lost all interest in apologizing.

“Come on,” he said, turning away.

When he reached the back door, he stopped. “I’ll go out first. If it’s safe, I’ll whistle. Run to the hedge on the right, wait for my next signal, then cross into your neighbor’s yard. This time, stick to the plan.”

“I will,” she promised.

Something settled on the floor beside her. “What’s that?”

“My carry-on.”

“Leave it. It’ll slow you down.”

“No, it won’t.”

He decided to try a different tack. “Look, we’ll stop at a store later, and you can pick up whatever you need.”

“Thanks, but what I need is in this bag.”

He couldn’t believe they were arguing over toiletries. “Claire—”

“Save your breath,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere without it.”

FORTUNATELY, YOUNG seemed to accept that arguing with her further would be a waste of time. Time they didn’t have.

He headed out the back door, and she waited for his all-clear signal. He must think she was absurdly possessive. But if she divulged her reason for hanging on to her case—because it contained cassette tapes of her sessions with Forrester—Young might demand to listen to them later. And although Forrester had forfeited his right to patient confidentiality the instant he’d revealed his violent intentions, it was up to her to decide what information to share and what to withhold.

Young’s signal came. She set off.

Freezing cold rain pelted her as she sprinted across the lawn to the hedge. In seconds, her jeans were plastered to her body like a wet second skin. She crouched low, her muscles tense with fear, knowing at any moment a bullet could slam into her. In the darkness, another ofYoung’s low whistles sounded. Remembering his instructions, she followed him into her neighbors’ yard. Unfortunately, their dog was outside, and his barking and snarling pinpointed their location with the same intensity as a siren.

“Run!” Young hollered.

She stretched out her legs and raced after him. The wet grass was slippery, but she managed to stay on her feet, pumping her arms to propel herself faster. Across the yard, down the street and around the corner. The speedy pace soon had her gasping for breath, but Young, running beside her, wasn’t even winded, damn him. When she stumbled over a curb, he grabbed her arm.

“Keep going,” he urged. “My car isn’t far off.”

A few minutes later, they reached a black Mustang.

“W-where are we going?” she asked, as they rocketed out of her neighborhood.

He didn’t answer. He was too busy checking the rearview mirror. When he seemed satisfied that no one was following them, she repeated her question.

“I have a cabin on Camel Lake,” he said. “Gene thought you’d be safest there.”

She had heard of Camel Lake, but never been there. About a ninety-minute drive from Cincinnati, the lake was known for its clean water and excellent fishing. Gene must really be concerned about a breach of security if he didn’t want her staying at one of the Bureau’s safe houses in the city.

Rain dripped off the ends of her hair and trickled inside the scoop neck of her tank top. She was cold and uncomfortable. But her soaked clothes were only partly responsible for her discomfort. Young’s presence accounted for the rest of it.

She glanced sideways at him. The glow from the dashboard lit up his rugged profile and broad shoulders. All that maleness was unnerving, distracting. How long would she have to stay at the cabin with him?

Another rivulet of water streaked between her breasts. She shivered.

He cranked the heat up to its maximum setting. “There’s a sweatshirt inside my gym bag,” he said, motioning with his thumb toward the back of the car. “Help yourself.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the bag. No way could she reach it without leaning over and sticking her backside up in the air.

“I’m okay,” she said, even though her fingers were so chilled, she had to rub them to restore circulation.

“I promise it’s clean.”

His voice was low and persuasive, the same seductive tone she imagined he would use in bed. She rubbed her hands harder, berating herself for the wayward thought.

“I’ll warn you,” he said. “This heater takes forever to get hot.”

He wasn’t shivering at all. Maybe he was too hot-blooded to feel the cold. It certainly wasn’t because he carried excess body fat. The sinewy arms and chest pressed against her body earlier were solid muscle.

“Claire?”

She was supposed to be considering his sweatshirt offer, not his physical attributes. And although she was tempted, she’d have to pass—on both. Donning clothes he had worn seemed so personal. She cleared her throat. “No, thanks.”

He gave her a long, silent look, then returned his attention to the road.

Claire settled back and tried to assimilate what had happened to her…and what had nearly happened.

Damn, that job offer in Minneapolis was looking good. No more one-on-one therapy sessions with traumatized patients. No more decisions about who was fit to return to work and who should go on disability. And, of course, no more heart-stopping incidents like tonight. Just twenty hours a week of teaching stress management techniques to executives.

“Gene said you had Forrester committed to Ridsdale for seventy-two-hour lockdown.”

Abandoning her thoughts, she replied, “That’s right.”

“Why?”

Young’s question surprised her. But maybe Gene had been too rushed for explanations. “During our last session, I uncovered his intention to kill someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. The fire alarm went off, and we had to evacuate the building. Afterward, he wouldn’t come back and continue our session. Sending him to Ridsdale was the only way I could ensure he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Forrester definitely needs his head examined if he thinks shooting you is a smart move.”

Shooting you.

The image of her own bleeding, bullet-riddled body made her shudder.

Had Forrester intended to kill her?

She wished she could believe he’d only wanted to scare her, but the shots had hit too close. A few inches to the right, and she would have died without ever seeing her executioner.

Without ever seeing…

She turned toward Young. “Did you see him tonight?”

“What?”

“When you left me, did you see Forrester?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then how can you be sure he shot at us?”

“You’re the one who fingered him as a potential threat,” Young said, irritation plain in his voice.

“What if it wasn’t him?” Forrester might be the obvious candidate, but they lacked proof of his guilt.

“You lock up anybody else recently?”

She stiffened. “Of course not.” Did he think she enjoyed confining patients to Ridsdale? That she got a kick out of exerting her power? Obviously, he didn’t know her. An important point to remember the next time she felt the slightest twinge of attraction for him.

“Make somebody angry enough to want to see you dead?” he asked.

Her own anger made it hard to respond in a calm tone. “Not that I know of.”

Young stabbed the dashboard with his forefinger. “Forrester had motive and opportunity. That makes him the prime suspect.”

When she drew breath to respond, Young interjected, “Don’t make this complicated, Dr. Lamont.”

Folding her arms over her chest, she stared out the window. Young had made up his mind about Forrester. And although his arguments had merit, so did hers. He was just too stubborn to consider them.

The swishing sounds of tires on wet road and the clacking of the windshield wipers made the trip seem endless. After a while the rain stopped, and Young shut off the wipers. But the tension inside the Mustang didn’t diminish.

Thirty minutes later, she spied a sign indicating Camel Lake on the right.

Young made the turn. “Almost there.”

Several miles farther, the road became a narrow laneway.

Finally, he stopped the Mustang in a small clearing. Flicking on the overhead light, he dug through the glove compartment. She heard the jingle of keys, then the murmur of his deep voice. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but the cabin’s pretty rustic.”

Rustic. A term used to make primitive dwellings sound charming.

She peered through the window at the surrounding darkness but couldn’t detect anything that looked remotely man-made. With a sense of misgiving, she turned to him. “How rustic?”

He shrugged. “Basic amenities only.”

“'Basic’ includes indoor plumbing, right?” She wasn’t expecting a complimentary robe, but the possibility of a dilapidated shack and outhouse had her wishing she’d asked for details earlier. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d had a lot of options.

He hesitated long enough to make her nervous before the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Yeah, there’s plumbing.”

That smile was the one she remembered from their first meeting, the one she had found so appealing, the one she had wanted to make happen. Now that she’d succeeded, she grew wary. Young’s smile made him far too sexy.

Careful what you wish for.

Grabbing her carry-on, she exited the car. Young hustled around to the trunk, retrieved his gear and set off along a narrow, winding path through the woods.

A pale sliver of moon glowed in the sky, lending just enough light for them to walk without tripping over rocks and tree roots. Their footfalls made rustling noises in the grass. Other sounds carried on the night air. Water lapped against the shore. Crickets chirped noisily. An owl hooted in the distance. Normally, being surrounded by nature calmed her nerves, but tonight she was on edge. Of course, adrenaline could still be coursing through her blood from being shot at. That explanation was certainly less perturbing than the other possibility: sexual awareness of her companion.

She walked faster, telling herself she wasn’t running away, she was merely anxious to reach her temporary accommodations.

A wooden structure appeared at the end of the path, nestled among the trees. Built entirely from rough-hewn logs, the cabin was larger than she had envisioned.

“How many bedrooms are there?” she asked, as Young climbed the porch steps.

“Two.”

The right answer, since it meant neither of them would be stuck sleeping on the couch. He unlocked the front door and stood aside so she could enter. She stepped over the threshold, more than a little curious to see the cabin’s interior. With Young’s guidance, she located the light switches. On the left side was a country-style kitchen. To the right, the main room contained a leather couch and several oversize chairs grouped in front of a granite fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the full length of one wall.

A flash of metal caught her eye. A silver trophy stood on the coffee table. She moved closer. What did Young excel at—besides making her uncomfortable?

The nameplate read 2007 Weir Marina Bass Derby Winners—Brent Young and Pete Sanderson.

Sanderson?

That was the name of the FBI colleague who had been shot—and evidently had been a close friend of Young. No wonder he had fidgeted throughout her presentation.

She edged away from the trophy, then shot him a glance. How was he taking it? Had the reality of his loss sunk in yet? Did he forget sometimes that his friend was dead? She didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess.

“The cabin hasn’t been used since the fall,” Young said.

She looked at the living room again, this time noting signs of neglect. Cobwebs clung to the central light fixture and a layer of dust coated every visible surface. Her nose registered the staleness of a place that hadn’t been aired out in months.

“I guess you can’t fish here in the winter,” she commented.

His gaze fell on the trophy. “Sanderson convinced me to go ice-fishing in Alaska once. We just about froze solid….” For a brief, unguarded moment, Young’s lips trembled and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Her heart twisted as she witnessed his struggle for composure. One thing she’d learned early in life: healing from grief was a painful process that often unfolded over years. This place had to hold so many memories. Would Young have come here now, if not for her need for a safe haven? His action displayed an inner strength that she couldn’t help but admire.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “I’m sorry that your friend died.”

Opening his eyes, Young pinned her with a furious glare. “Pete Sanderson didn’t die. He was murdered. And when his killer is apprehended, he’s the one who will be sorry.”

His glare discouraged conversation, but she had to ask. “Do you know who killed him?”

He shook his head. “Fifteen agents are assigned to the case. They’ve interviewed everyone known to have come in contact with him in the past two months. His recent assignments are also being reviewed for possible suspects.”

So clinical. So emotionless. As if he were speaking about a stranger.

Everybody had different coping mechanisms. Apparently, Young’s was to distance himself.

“With that many men assigned to the case, there’ll be a break soon,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No matter how long it takes, the bastard responsible for ending Sanderson’s life will be brought to justice. I’m going to make sure of that.”

Chapter Two

Brent grabbed the can of Folgers fine grind from the freezer, tossed half a dozen scoops into the coffeemaker and punched the on switch.

Why had he talked to Claire about Sanderson last night? That wasn’t his way. In fact, he was known around the Bureau for being tight-lipped. Nobody knew anything about him outside of work. And even though his reticence had fueled wild speculation at times—especially regarding his choice of female companionship—he valued his privacy too much to divulge details of his personal life to anybody.

The only exception had been Pete. That man had known him inside out. His strengths, weaknesses, accomplishments and failures. And now his mentor—and best friend—was gone. Blown away in an abandoned warehouse two weeks ago.

The lack of progress in the investigation was gnawing at him. A prime suspect should have been identified by now. All those agents on the team and what had they come up with? Squat.

But it was more than frustration he’d felt last night. Returning to the cabin had hurt like hell. He’d never been here without Sanderson. For years, the two of them had deserted the city as often as they could. To fish and swim, drink beer and unwind from the pressures of work. Now the place was his. But everything about it—every stick of furniture, every fishing magazine, every boating knickknack—was a cruel reminder that those good times were gone forever.

Claire had picked up on that as soon as she’d seen the inscription on the trophy. The sympathy in her eyes had drawn him in, dulled the memories, eased his pain a little….

He’d quickly reminded himself that she’d been trained to show concern in these types of situations. Just as she’d been trained to dig around inside people’s psyches, ferret out their innermost secrets and then slap labels on them.

Oh, yeah. He knew from bitter experience more than he wanted to about psychologists and their modus operandi.

Safeguarding an FBI shrink was the last assignment he’d have ever chosen. But it wasn’t up to him to choose. Guys like Gene Welland made those calls. His role was to fulfill the requirements of the job with kickass proficiency. Protecting Claire would be no exception. Even though he couldn’t respect her profession, he would watch over her as though she were the most important person in the world.

He’d just have to take care he didn’t let his feelings about Sanderson surface again.

CLAIRE REACHED for her carry-on as soon as she awoke the next morning, eager to listen to the tapes of her sessions with Forrester. Fortunately, it was her standard practice, with the consent of her patients, to tape all her appointments. It saved her breaking eye contact to make notes. It also resulted in a more accurate record of the topics she and her patients discussed.

She had packed the tapes for her trip to Minneapolis, hoping to review them there, but there had been no time. The CEO of Balanced Life Consulting Group had kept her occupied with meetings, then made her a very generous offer which she had not yet accepted. There was so much to consider. Such as, was she ready to admit defeat and quit the Bureau? More than pride was at stake. She’d also be betraying the promise she’d made to herself at her father’s graveside.

She couldn’t dwell on that now.

Last night she’d been too strung out to tackle the tapes. But with Forrester no longer confined to Ridsdale, she needed to gain a better understanding of the man and his intentions. To do that, she would search her recordings for subtle nuances, crucial words she’d missed before, anything that would identify his intended victim.

She retrieved the tape recorder from the center section of the carry-on, then turned the bag over. A bullet had pierced the outside pocket. She dug inside, her heart pounding. Only one of the three tapes had survived undamaged. She peered at the label, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the tape was of their latest session, the one she considered to be the most critical.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she inserted the tape, then put on the headphones and hit the play button.

She heard herself say, “You seem very agitated today, Andy. Do you want to tell me why?”

There was a noticeable pause on the tape.

“Did something happen?” she prodded.

After a while, he muttered, “Should have been a perfect MIOG op. Instead, megascrewup.”

“What are you talking about?”

He mumbled, “Research is the key. Most of the time.”

Even though she had had no idea what he meant, she’d said, “Go on. Tell me what went wrong.”

“IPO was a bad choice. Who knew?”

“I don’t understand. Can you talk more plainly?”

A long silence followed her request. “You might be sorry you asked.”

“I won’t be.”

She recalled uttering those words with complete confidence, unaware that he would soon shock her.

“Nobody stops me from getting what’s mine.”

“Is that what somebody did?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She remembered his fists clenching and had the first inkling that rage was fueling his agitation. “So what will your response be?”

“I like that blouse you’re wearing. The color suits you.”

“Thanks, but you’re trying to change the subject.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Tell me what you intend to do about this problem person of yours.”

“Why do you assume I’m going to do anything?”

“Because turning the other cheek isn’t your style.”

“You think?”

“I think I’m not in the mood for games. If you don’t want to be open with me, then it’s time for you to leave.”

“But I’ve only been here for ten minutes,” he objected.

“I see no point in wasting more of my time. The choice is yours.”

He had looked disconcerted by her ultimatum, but she’d grown sick of sessions that went nowhere. Andy Forrester wasn’t the only agent who gave her the runaround.

“What’s your decision?” she asked. “Are you willing to discuss the situation with me?”

“No reason to. I’ve already figured out a permanent fix to the problem.”

Even now, the memory of his sly smile sent a shiver up her spine.

“What do you mean?”

He had stared at her, his eyes as devoid of humanity as those of a snake.

Suddenly, she had known Andy Forrester posed an imminent threat to an unknown party.

“Who’s on the receiving end of your ‘permanent fix'?” she demanded.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Tell me who it is.”

The tape reproduced his theatrical sigh. “I’m just making an observation, doc. No need to get all worked up.”

“I think we need to consider why you’re so angry and find a way to—”

A piercing wail had made further conversation impossible. The fire alarm.

Later, she’d learned there was no fire, that some prankster had pulled the alarm. But by then the damage had been done. Forrester had refused to continue the session. However, his “permanent fix” remark coupled with his cold eyes and sly smile had her believing him capable of violence, possibly murder. So she’d arranged for him to be taken to Ridsdale for a full assessment.

She rewound the tape and played it again, this time cranking up the volume and stopping at intervals throughout their conversation. Forrester’s references to “MIOG op” and “IPO” remained unfathomable, but her anxiety deepened. A would-be killer wouldn’t take kindly to her interference.

Had Forrester been the shooter last night? Gene believed the man wanted to harm her, and Brent clearly thought Forrester was responsible for the bullets that had smashed through her window, but she still wasn’t convinced.

During their first session, Forrester had openly admitted that after growing up in foster care, he had joined the FBI because he wanted respect. Then he’d asked her what she thought was fair compensation for risking his life. She hadn’t known how to answer him, but the question had prompted her to delve deeper into his priorities since it was apparent the financial aspect of the job had not lived up to his expectations.

Money was a recurring issue with him. One bitter childhood memory was of his third foster mother stealing his paper route money. He had contemplated pouring drain opener in her drink, but fear of her boyfriend’s rock-hard fists had stopped him from doing it. Forrester might kill if he felt cheated out of money, but not because she’d sent him to Ridsdale for a few days. The outburst to the nurse had been angry venting, not proof of deadly intent toward her.

Of course, her opinion would have to change if physical evidence linked him to the crime scene that encompassed her house.

A tantalizing smell redirected her thoughts to her immediate surroundings. Was that coffee? Brent must be awake. She could use a cup. Or three. But to get to the coffee, she’d have to see Brent, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that just yet. Following his revelations the night before, he’d clammed up, then stalked off to his room.

She’d made her way to the other bedroom, the one that had been Sanderson’s. Even though she was exhausted, she’d had trouble falling asleep, her mind filled with unanswered questions and images, many of them involving her cabinmate.

The unwelcome attraction she felt continued to baffle her. And her late-night sensual fantasies starring Brent had to be a manifestation of stress. She certainly wasn’t going to have hot, grinding sex with him to relieve it. If the symptoms persisted, she would try a different solution. Like a career change.

She checked her watch. 9:04 a.m. She’d been awake and without caffeine for over an hour. Time for a break. Maybe even time to admit she needed assistance deciphering Forrester’s tapes.

The obvious person to do that was Brent Young. He and Forrester worked in the same office, shared the same FBI training and job classification. If Forrester was using work-related jargon—which she suspected was the case—Brent would be familiar with it. That might lead to the person Forrester blamed for wronging him.

Last night, she’d been too rattled to ask Brent what he knew about Forrester. And even if she had, he hadn’t been in a communicative frame of mind after their conversation about Sanderson.

Hopefully, this morning they could start off fresh.

Because if he couldn’t help her decode Forrester’s cryptic words, someone would die.

“GOOD MORNING.”

Brent finished pouring coffee into a mug before turning from the counter.

Claire stood in the doorway, her dark blond hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Her green eyes looked clear and alert as if she’d been up for a while, and he wondered why it had taken her so long to emerge from the other bedroom. Was the prospect of his company so distasteful?

The thought bothered him more than it should have, which irked him further.

“That smells good,” she said, gesturing to the coffee.

“Help yourself.” He stalked over to the oak table on the far side of the kitchen. His job was to protect her, not fetch and carry for her. He might as well make that clear.

If she noticed his brusque tone, she gave no sign of it as she wandered over to the cupboards and checked through them.

“There’s sugar next to the stove,” he said, relenting. “But if you want cream, you’ll have to wait until we pick up groceries later.”

“That’s okay. I take mine black.”

After she’d filled a mug with coffee, she turned and leaned against the counter. “How well do you know Andy Forrester?”

After their disagreement over Forrester’s involvement in last night’s events, her question surprised him. “We’ve attended the same staff meetings, but I’ve never worked an assignment with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Have you ever talked to him outside of work? Maybe gone out for a beer with him?”

“Nope, can’t say that I have.” He tipped his chair back against the wall. “In retrospect, I’m glad. If I’m going to be shot at, I’d rather it’s done by a stranger than a friend.”

Claire frowned, apparently disappointed with his answer.

“You think that’s a bad attitude?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.” Her tone implied that he was getting his back up over nothing.

Maybe so, but it was hard for him not to feel defensive in the presence of a psychologist. “You’re the one he shared his deep, dark secrets with.”

She stared at her coffee. “He said only enough to alarm me. But he didn’t stay at Ridsdale long enough for a full psychological evaluation—”

“Psychological evaluations are a load of crap.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”

He smiled tightly. “We’re not here for you to question me.”

“Look, I’m sorry if you had a negative experience—”

The “negative experience” she alluded to had almost wrecked his life. But he had no intention of unloading his personal history to an FBI shrink.

“Nobody can know what Forrester is capable of just because of some boxes ticked yes on a questionnaire.”

“Is that how you think I evaluate patients?” she sputtered.

No doubt about it. This time, she was the one feeling defensive. That was a whole lot better than her believing they were buddies just because they’d escaped from her house together.

A muscle twitched in Claire’s jaw, but when she spoke her voice was calm. “I don’t use questionnaires. I ask whatever questions I think will give me an understanding of the patient.”

Nice recovery. He caught himself wondering if she ever lost control—and not just of her temper. Because something about her suggested she kept a lot more than anger bottled up inside her.

What would it take for her to let loose? He wanted to witness that explosion. Hell, he wanted to trigger it.

“I even tape our conversations,” she said, “so I can listen to them again later.”

“Is that legal?” he asked, goading her just because he felt like it.

“With my patient’s consent.” Her tone was still mild, but she set her mug on the counter with a solid thunk. “Wow, you really don’t like psychologists, do you?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’d have to tick the yes box on that one.”

She considered him for a long moment. Then her lips curved in a smile. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

Her words defused a little bit of his resentment, and he found himself wanting to smile back at her. He frowned instead.

She shifted uneasily. “If this assignment is a problem for you, maybe Gene could find somebody else—”

“How I feel about your profession won’t affect my ability to protect you. As I proved last night.”

“You saved my life,” she agreed. “Now I’m hoping you can do the same for Forrester’s other target.”

“How am I supposed to do that? You said you don’t know who it is.”

“The case I brought with me last night contains tapes of my sessions with Forrester.”

Brent gave a low whistle. “No wonder he came to your house. He wanted to get rid of you and your tapes.”

She flinched.

For a moment, he was sorry he’d been so blunt. He pushed the regret aside. He always called aspade a spade. Claire should get used to that about him. “I want to listen to them.”

She smiled faintly.

He racked his brain but couldn’t come up with anything amusing about her situation. “What am I missing?”

She shrugged. “After the way you dismissed psychologists and their methods, I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help me.”

“Just what kind of help are you talking about?”

“I don’t understand certain terms Forrester used,” she admitted. “I’m hoping you will.”

Even though he knew it was a cheap shot, he couldn’t resist. “And I thought shrinks had all the answers.”

She turned and walked down the hall. “Not this one.”

He caught himself admiring her honesty and humility—and the way her jeans hugged her backside. Dangerous thinking. Especially since the two of them were stuck alone together in a remote cabin. A few minutes later, she returned to the kitchen table with the tapes and player. While she fiddled with the equipment, he tried not to notice the long curve of her neck or the shadowed cleavage revealed by her tank top—and failed miserably. She wasn’t trying to entice him. But the effect was every bit as powerful. He cursed under his breath as his trousers became uncomfortably tight.

She handed him the headphones, but he needed a moment to refocus before listening to the tape. “Why would Forrester admit to anything incriminating?”

“I think his ego got in the way, and he let slip more than he intended to.”

“Or maybe he was yanking your chain.”

“That was my first reaction, too, but I changed my mind. Listen for yourself.”

When he had the headphones in place, she started the tape.

After he’d listened to it twice, she asked, “What do you think?”

“The tape’s ambiguous, but after last night, I agree that he’s dangerous.”

“Can you explain ‘MIOG op’ to me?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “MIOG refers to the FBI Manual of Investigative Operations and Guidelines. So a perfect MIOG op would be an operation that goes like clockwork.”

“Any idea which operation he’s referring to?”

“Maybe it’s one he worked on recently. I’ll ask Gene to review Forrester’s timesheets.”

“Could he have been involved in a financial investigation?” she asked. “That might explain his reference to an IPO.”

He shook his head. “The Cincinnati office doesn’t handle them.”

“If IPO isn’t an initial public offering, then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It isn’t any FBI acronym that I’ve heard of.”

She pressed her fingers against her lips, clearly distraught. “Why did he have to talk in riddles? I can’t stop him from killing if I don’t know who’s at risk.”

He felt as if he were letting her down by not being able to figure out more of Forrester’s comments. Except he didn’t owe her anything, apart from keeping her safe.

But Claire’s wasn’t the only life at risk.

He headed for the hall to call Gene, but at the doorway, he happened to glance back. Claire’s green eyes were fixated on his body, her lips parted as if breathing were an effort.

He stopped, paralyzed by her hungry stare. A blast of warmth licked along his shoulders and spread through his chest. The burn turned south, traveling into his belly, then lower…

She blinked and looked down at the table. As she gathered up the headset, recorder and tape, he checked her hands. Rock-solid steady. No telltale tremors of arousal. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been throwing out all that heat. He turned back toward the hall, irritated that he’d misread her so completely. But he’d only moved a few strides when he heard something clatter to the floor.

Hah. Her hands weren’t so steady, after all.

No longer irritated, he called Gene. Having already informed his supervisor of the shooting at Claire’s house last night and their safe arrival at the cabin, his words were brief and direct. “I want to search Forrester’s place.”

As usual, Gene was all over the situation. “I had the warrant drawn up right after he escaped from Ridsdale. There’s a surveillance team watching his house, in case he shows up. I’ll let them know to expect you and Claire.”

Hold on. His plans hadn’t included Claire tagging along. “I think I should go alone.”

“And leave Claire on her own?”

“She’s safe here.”

“What if Forrester saw you last night?”

“No amount of digging will connect me to the cabin. It’s still registered to that offshore holding company Sanderson set up.” His mentor had been fanatical about privacy after a suspect had killed a colleague in her home.

“Claire should remain with you.”

“Gene—”

“That point’s not negotiable. The only reason I’m letting you go is because the department’s short three agents. If you want to check out his house, you take her with you.”

When Gene pulled rank, no amount of arguing could change his mind. “What’s the address?”

Gene gave it to him. Also, a description of the surveillance team’s vehicle and both agents’ cell numbers. He added, “I’ll update them. What’s your ETA?”

“Tell them to expect us around noon,” Brent said, and disconnected.

Damn. He’d planned on giving Claire a wide berth today. Instead, the trip to Forrester’s meant they’d be together for most of the afternoon.

Plenty of time for her to try poking around his brain.

Plenty of time for him to try figuring out if the attraction he felt for her was mutual.

Who would end up with the most interesting revelations?

Claire might have the psych degree, but he’d interrogated lots of tough suspects over the years. If nothing else, it should make for an interesting trip.

He smiled for the first time that morning.

HOW MUCH DID DR. LAMONT really know? Enough to jeopardize his plan?

The psychologist excelled at drawing out thoughts and feelings. No easy feat considering the tough-minded agents who were her patients. And it wasn’t as if many of them sought her out on their own. Supervisors usually had to order their staff to meet with her. At least the first time.

Then a lot of the guys figured out there were worse ways to pass the time than hanging out with the lovely Claire Lamont. So they signed up to see her again and again, assuming they could stonewall her.

But she didn’t tolerate idle talk for long. She wanted to know it all—the good, the bad and the ugly. Who’d have guessed a few conversations would cause so much trouble?

He should have put an end to it sooner.

That miscalculation had placed the whole operation at risk.

Next time he set out to kill her, he’d do it right.

Chapter Three

Jim Sharratt had lied to the FBI.

The joints in his hands throbbed as he watched his six-year-old granddaughter, Amy, play on the swings at Cambridge Park. He could call them and come clean, but he knew he wouldn’t. If his family and friends found out what he’d done, they’d lose respect for him. His son might never allow him to take Amy for another outing.

“See me go really high, Grandpa,” she shouted, her skinny, pale legs stretching forward. “I’m flying.”

“You sure are, angel.” He smiled at her even though he felt like crying. These moments were what he lived for. He couldn’t bear to have them taken away from him.

Telling the truth would destroy his life. All because he’d made one terrible error in judgment. Thank God his wife, Jeannie, would never know the man she’d married was capable of such wickedness. He missed her so much. For decades he’d worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Jeannie hadn’t complained through the lean years, but later on she’d grown unhappy with rarely seeing him. She hadn’t wanted more houses or cars or money. She’d wanted more time with him. He’d told her to hang on, just a few more deals…

His retirement had come too late for them to enjoy it. A month before he’d sold off his businesses, Jeannie had caught a virus that became pneumonia and took her life. They couldn’t travel the world or laze on the beach or visit with friends as he’d promised her. And all the wealth he’d accumulated over the years couldn’t ease his crushing grief and loneliness.

If only Jeannie hadn’t died, he would have stayed strong, not become weak and vulnerable to temptation.

Amy giggled, the sound jerking him out of the past.

She swung in a wide arc, her face tilted toward the sun, her fine hair streaming down her back like liquid gold. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she called out to him.

“What’s that?”

“Ice cream!”

“Butterscotch ripple, two scoops?”

She beamed at him. “You got it, Grandpa.”

He watched her slow the momentum of the swing. Her sneakers skidded to a stop in the loose dirt, then she was racing toward him. A moment later, he swept her up in his arms and breathed in the scent of sunshine and innocence.

Did he have to lose everything because he’d messed up once? No, he refused to believe that. He would carry on as though nothing had happened. As long as he remained silent, that might be possible.

CLAIRE STARED out the passenger window at the trees whipping past. She’d been surprised to learn they were returning to Cincinnati to search Forrester’s house. She had just assumed they would wait at the cabin until he was arrested. Apparently Brent wasn’t content to do that. In addition to protecting her, he was determined to uncover Forrester’s other target.

She glanced sideways at her companion. His straight, black hair was cut short in a no-nonsense style that matched the expression in his brown eyes. Even though she knew better, his digs about her profession had stung. What had happened to make him feel so negative toward psychology? Had a suspect he’d arrested gotten off because of a psychologist’s testimony? Had a friend’s mental illness been misdiagnosed?

If she knew the basis for Brent’s hostility, she might be able to help him reevaluate the experience. Of course, getting him to open up wasn’t going to be easy. But then, few agents arrived at her office ready to pour out their hearts and souls. She had to build trust slowly.

“Most of the agents I know dreamed of a career with the Bureau when they were young,” she said. “Was that the case for you, too?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“How long have you been an agent?”

“Seven years.”

She judged him to be in his late thirties, so his answer surprised her. “Why did you wait so long to apply?”

He frowned. “Who says I waited?”

“Well, I’m guessing you were older than the average recruit when you joined. There must be a reason for that.”

“Oh, there’s a reason, all right,” he muttered.

She waited for an answer that didn’t come. Finally, she prompted, “Are you going to give me a hint?”

Silence from the other side of the car.

She’d wanted to get him talking but had struck a nerve instead. Nice going, Freud.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “When you were a kid, did you dream of becoming a shrink?”

She wasn’t fond of the word shrink, but maybe if she volunteered some information, he’d reciprocate. “Actually, I dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.”

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

Her brain responded immediately, but she pressed her lips together so her secret couldn’t slip out.

“Claire?”

She drew in a deep breath and held it, waiting for the sharp pang to recede to the more familiar ache she’d learned to live with. Oh, God. The loss shouldn’t hurt so much. Not after all these years. But it still did.

She made a fist in her lap, released her breath slowly. “I lost interest.”

“Why psychology?” he prompted, braking for a slow-moving vehicle.

Leave it alone. But she knew he wouldn’t. “I wanted to help people cope with the challenges in their lives.”

How idealistic she’d been at twenty. How discouraged she felt at this point in her career.

“Do you think you have?” Brent asked.

She’d been struggling with that question for almost a year. Was she having a positive impact on her patients? If she accepted that job in Minneapolis, she wouldn’t have to agonize anymore. In the meantime, she wasn’t about to broadcast her doubts to someone who was already pre-disposed to think badly of her profession. “I think I’ve been successful with many of my patients.”

“Like Forrester?”

Her temper rose. She ignored it, reminding herself that Brent was only doing what she often did: ask probing questions. “By committing Forrester to Ridsdale, I gave him the opportunity to be thoroughly assessed. I also ensured his safety as well as that of his intended target. Now that he’s out, who knows what might happen.”

“You’re not responsible for Forrester’s actions,” Brent said quietly.

Leaning her head back against the headrest, she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

“What were you trying to do?”

She didn’t want to admit her real motive so she said, “Make conversation.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

She opened her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You ask a lot of personal questions.”

“I’m curious about you.”

He changed lanes to pass a blue minivan. “I think it’s more than curiosity.”

“Like what?”

His soft chuckle made her mouth go dry. “Like maybe you’re hot for me.”

Her jaw dropped, and heat crept up her neck. “You are so wrong.”

“Then explain why your pulse races when I touch you.”

“If you’re referring to last night at my house, don’t forget I thought you were Forrester.”

“Only for a couple of seconds. Then you knew it was me, and your heart beat even faster.”

Damn, he had noticed. The fact that he spoke the truth only made her more determined to deny it. “You misinterpreted what you felt.”

“Is that so?” His hand left the steering wheel and settled on her forearm.

His fingers slid down toward her wrist in a gentle caress. Even though she knew his move was calculated, she couldn’t control her accelerating heart rate. Why was she reacting so intensely? He was hardly touching her.

She willed herself to ignore him and focus on the scenery rushing past the car.

A moment later, he turned his head and spoke in a husky voice. “How about we pull over…”

And do what? Her heart went wild at the possibilities.

“…and check out that pulse of yours?”

Shrugging off his hand, she said more sharply than she intended, “Watch the road. I saw a deer-crossing sign a few yards back.”

She stared straight ahead, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Sooner or later you’re going to run out of excuses to avoid the attraction between us.”

His self-satisfied tone irked her. “Are you familiar with the term ‘delusional'?”

“Are you familiar with the term ‘coward'?”

Her head whipped around. “What?”

“Why can’t you be honest about your feelings instead of hiding behind that psychobabble?”

“Psychobabble?” she said. “Why on earth would I be attracted to somebody who disparages what I do for a living?”

He had the gall to smile. “I don’t know.”

The man was impossible. No matter how much she denied the sparks between them, he wouldn’t believe her. But maybe she could convince him that the point was moot. “Even if I were attracted to you, nothing would happen between us.”

“Why not?”

“Given my position, it would be wrong to become personally involved—”

“—with a patient. I’m not a patient.”

“Not now.”

“Not ever,” he amended tartly.

“Doesn’t matter. I consider all agents to be off limits.”

He gave her a penetrating stare. “Why?”

“I have a rule about it.”

“Haven’t you heard? Rules are made—”

“—to be broken.” She shook her head. “Hardly reassuring words coming from a federal agent.” But she couldn’t prevent the hint of a smile that curved her lips. “You’re supposed to enforce the law.”

“Hey, I follow the rules in my job.”

“Like breaking and entering my house?”

He grinned. “Sometimes the rules require liberal interpretation.”

“Does Gene know that?”

“Gene knows I’d never cut the wrong corner.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“My personal life is a different story,” he told her. “There, I don’t worry about rules. I go with my impulses.”

And what impulses would those be? she couldn’t help but wonder. It would be better not to speculate. She was already finding him dangerously appealing. “I commend your flexible approach. But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

“Maybe you’re harboring resentment against my profession. And that’s the real reason you don’t date FBI guys.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” she said with a shrug. “However wrong it may be.”

A sign appeared on the side of the road, indicating they’d arrived at the outskirts of the city.

The last few minutes had distracted her, but now a shiver ran up her spine. Until Forrester was in custody, she wouldn’t feel safe here. But her fear didn’t matter. What mattered was tracking down his target before he did.

She only hoped they weren’t already too late.

BRENT DRUMMED HIS THUMBS on the steering wheel. Claire’s conviction not to get involved with an agent intrigued him. What was she hiding? Because he was certain she was hiding more than her feelings for him. Had she been burned before, maybe in a relationship with one of his colleagues? The possibility made him uncomfortable. He didn’t go for long-term relationships, but a woman who became involved with him did so knowing the score. Lots of men made promises they had no intention of keeping. Is that what had happened to make Claire wary?

Or maybe her “rule” was just a smokescreen? A way of not having to admit she was attracted to him. What did psychologists call that? Denial?

He, on the other hand, had no problem owning up to the attraction he felt. Their disagreements revved his engine because she was smart and focused. Her mouth looked infinitely kissable, and her thick, blond hair was sure to feel amazing against his bare skin. Last, but certainly not least, her curves had him hungering to learn every contour.

She didn’t know him well enough to realize that telling him about her “rule” had been a tactical error. He never accepted rules at face value. They always had to make sense to him. This one didn’t. This one seemed more like a challenge. And he never backed down from one of those.

Thinking of challenges reminded him of Forrester’s comments on the tape. What had happened to bend the bastard so out of shape? And whose life was in danger? Of course, the most pertinent question right now was, would a search of his house be productive or a colossal waste of time?

As he turned the corner onto Forrester’s street, he counted a dozen vehicles parked along the curb, including the one assigned to the surveillance team. He pulled into an empty spot and called the number Gene had given him.

“Riley Harris,” a voice answered.

The name wasn’t familiar, but frequent transfers made it hard to keep track of everyone in the Cincinnati office. Brent identified himself.

“Gene said you’d be checking in,” the other man said.

“Any sign of Forrester?”

“Negative. McKenna’s walking the perimeter. If Forrester shows up, he’ll attempt to talk him into giving himself up.”

It was worth a try, Brent supposed. And Alec McKenna had been around long enough to know not to let down his guard.

“I’ll let McKenna know you’ve arrived,” Harris said.

Brent closed his cell phone and turned to Claire. She hadn’t spoken since they’d reached the city and was hugging her arms to her body even though it wasn’t cold in the car.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The surveillance team hasn’t seen any sign of Forrester.”

She nodded, but her arms remained locked across her torso.

He cupped her shoulder with his palm, drew her gaze to meet his. “If he shows his face, you have me and two other agents to protect you. But it’s more likely he’s gone to ground miles from here.” He didn’t know if that was true—all he knew was that he felt compelled to ease Claire’s tension.

“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Leaving town may force him to postpone going after the person on the tape.”

He checked his gun just in case he was wrong. “Let’s go.”

They didn’t encounter Alec McKenna on their way to the back of the house, but Brent hadn’t expected to. The agent would be focused on watching out for Forrester, and their presence couldn’t act as a distraction.

At the house, Brent picked the lock on the front door, then he and Claire ventured inside. The main level consisted of a galley-style kitchen and an L-shaped living-room-and-dining-room area. A quick search through the stacks of opened mail on the coffee table revealed utility bills and junk mail, certainly nothing of interest. He checked the garage next. Empty. Wordlessly, he motioned for Claire to proceed to the second floor.

“What a mess,” Claire murmured, advancing into the room at the top of the stairs.

The space, which had been set up as a home office, overflowed with books, magazines and loose papers. Suddenly, he was glad Gene had made him bring Claire along. Two people could search through this pigsty faster than one.

The office door slid shut.

Claire crossed the room to reopen it. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Try the stack of paper next to the bookcase,” he said, his attention caught by the framed photo of Forrester on the desk. Sporting a wide smile, the agent stood next to a shiny classic Trans Am.

The door closed again due to the sloped floor, and this time Claire gave up and left it that way.

Opening the top drawer of the desk, Brent leafed through its contents which included an address book and six months’ worth of bank statements. He flipped to the most current one. No immediate red flags. All the deposits and withdrawals appeared to be of reasonable magnitude. Setting the statement aside, he turned to the next one.

Paper rustled in the vicinity of the bookcase. Claire let out a sigh.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked.

“Only if car specifications and parts catalogues float your boat. Forrester mentioned in one of our sessions that classic cars were his hobby, but it looks more like an obsession.”

Brent moved on to the bottom drawer where he found a nearly empty briefcase and a stack of credit-card receipts. It would take hours to review all the receipts, and he didn’t want to spend that much time here.

He placed the address book, credit-card receipts and bank statements inside the briefcase, then added the photo from the desk.

“It’s getting stuffy in here,” she murmured, moving past him.

She unlocked the room’s solitary window, then tugged on the handles without success.

“The house is old. It’s probably been painted shut,” he commented.

She headed for the closed door as he added more items to the briefcase.

A sudden cry jolted him like an electrical charge.

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