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FBI Regional Headquarters, W Roosevelt Road

Julia powered off her computer monitor, straightened the files on the edge of her desk, and opened the side drawer to pull out her fanny pack.

“Yeah.” Dillan pushed back in his chair and grumpily shoved down the shirtsleeves he’d rolled up his forearms. “Might as well call it a day since absolutely jack shit happened and since absolutely jack shit is likely to happen.”

He'd been pouting like a child denied his favorite treat since they’d learned they wouldn’t be joining the hunt for a fugitive. If petulance had a name, it would be Agent Dillan Douglas.

Not that she blamed him. The itch to get back in the field had gone from a minor inconvenience to a raging case of poison ivy. Her brain needed to work . So did her body.

Speaking of my body…

It had tingled for a good two hours after leaving Black Knights Inc. Everywhere Britt’s broad hands had touched her, little bubbles of pleasure had fizzed and popped under her skin.

She was reminded of something her sister-in-law once said: You can’t say happiness without penis .

It was true. For those few minutes with Britt’s lovely hardness pressed against her, Julia had been blissfully happy.

Too bad that’s all it’ll ever be. A few stolen moments. A few stolen kisses.

Now, she wondered if she was forever ruined for others. She’d been so distracted by the pleasure he pressed on her that a nuclear bomb could have detonated in the middle of the city, and she wouldn’t have noticed until the blast melted the flesh from her bones.

And what a way to go , a little voice hummed. In the arms of Sergeant Britt Rollins.

She barely refrained from rolling her eyes at how pathetic that sounded. How pathetic she sounded. Then, she got distracted from her inner dialogue when someone mentioned her name.

Glancing toward the elevator bank, she saw two men talking to Agent Stuart Brown.

Stu was a terrible flirt. Julia had turned down his invitation for drinks half a dozen times. And if he’d been even the slightest bit miffed by her refusals, she might have reported him to HR. Fortunately, after each rejection, he’d only shrugged, grinned, and gone on his way.

Now, he pointed a finger her way, and she watched the two strangers turn in her direction.

The younger man had thick, sandy-colored hair, freckled skin, and a gym-bro build. When his eyes met hers, his expression was politely interested.

The older man was the polar opposite. His black hair was thinning on top. He was ruddy-cheeked, with a physique that said he enjoyed refined sugar and complex carbohydrates. And his expression was as dark and as fierce as hell’s midnight.

Dillan came to stand in front of her. She wasn’t sure if he was being protective—which was laughable—or if he was trying to give the impression he held the higher rank—which was annoying but not unusual.

“Move!” She tapped the back of his knee with her toe. “You’re blocking my view.”

“What are you talking about?” His Superman profile showed the smirk he wore. “I am the view.”

She rolled her eyes. “What must it be like to have the audacity of a mediocre, middle-aged white man, I wonder?”

His wide jaw thrust out in pique. “Who you callin’ middle-aged? I just turned thirty-eight!”

“ That’s what offended you? Not the mediocre part?” She shook her head. “You, sir, have lowered the bar of humility so far it’s in hell.”

“Hate the game, not the player,” he returned with a toothy grin.

“The nineties called. They want their hackneyed cliché back.”

She could see his mind whirring, searching for a sufficiently sarcastic comeback. When he couldn’t come up with anything, he swung back to watch the new arrivals who snake their way through the sea of cubicles. “You know these guys?”

“Never seen them before,” she assured him.

But she knew their type.

She was their type.

It was more than the JoS. A. Bank suits, the lug-soled duty shoes, and the poorly concealed shoulder holsters. It was the look in their eyes. The way they held their jaws. That certain strut that said they expected to be afforded an appropriate level of deference and respect once they reached their destination.

We really are an arrogant lot , she thought absently and then pushed to a stand next to Dillan to greet the arriving agents.

“Agents O’Toole and Douglas?” The older man asked, although his expression said it wasn’t really a question—just a courtesy.

“Who’s asking?” Dillan’s tone was imperious.

The urge to roll her eyes again was intense. Growing up with brothers, she was no longer surprised that every interaction between men somehow turned into a dick-measuring contest.

“I’m Special Agent JD Maddox.” The younger of the two strangers thrust out his hand. “This is my partner, Special Agent Ryan Keplar.”

“Nice place y’all have here,” Keplar said as he glanced around the land of whiteboards, file cabinets, and coffee mugs. “Ours down in South Carolina doesn’t hold a candle. The toilets back up when it floods, and we don’t have these pretty floor-to-ceiling windows.”

His words sounded complimentary. But Julia didn’t miss the condescension in his tone.

Keplar was the kind of guy who thought ear protection at the shooting range made agents soft. The kind of guy who still used investigative techniques based on stereotypes. The kind of guy who carried a revolver instead of an automatic because he believed revolvers were more reliable—cocky enough to think he only needed six rounds to hit his target.

She tried not to make snap judgments about people—although being able to size someone up in under thirty seconds was one of the reasons she’d been promoted to lead agent—but she couldn’t help deciding then and there that she didn’t much care for Special Agent Ryan Keplar.

In contrast, Agent Maddox seemed genuinely cordial when he brushed off his partner’s words by chuckling. “We might have floor-to-ceiling windows if we had a view like this.” He pointed to the skyline, which was particularly powerful-looking because it was silhouetted by the setting sun.

Even without having been given their names, she would’ve recognized both men from their voices alone. Maddox had a smooth tenor, and Keplar had an inflection that said he might live and work in Charleston now, but he’d been born and raised in a state much farther south.

Alabama maybe? Mississippi?

After shaking hands with both men, she turned to find Dillan looking happy enough to levitate. She frowned at her partner. “What’s with your face?”

He rubbed his hands together. “We might get to join the hunt for a fugitive after all. I assume that’s what’s brought you guys here despite the two of us”—he wagged a thumb back and forth between himself and Julia—"coming up empty-handed this morning. You’re convinced Knox Rollins is in town?”

“We know Knox Rollins is in town,” Keplar declared. “We saw him plain as day on that footage you sent us.”

Julia’s stomach hollowed out at the news. “Knox showed up after we left this morning?”

She hated that Britt hadn’t called them like he said he would. Hated it more that she cared at all because she shouldn’t . Sergeant Britt Rollins was nothing to her.

Nothing but a delicious fantasy that’ll never come true.

“Nope.” Keplar shook his head. The overhead lights glinted off the sheen of his bald spots. “Arrived at Black Knights Inc. about five minutes before y’all did.” He inclined his chin toward Julia and Dillan. “He was inside when you were questioning his brother.”

Three things happened then.

Julia felt the blood drain from her head. Her entire body flashed hot and cold. And her vision turned black around the edges—a sure sign her anger was getting the best of her.

Britt Rollins had lied right to her face—which would not have been unforgivable in and of itself. When confronted by an authority figure, it was human nature to conceal the worst of oneself or put forth the best of oneself. She was used to people stretching the truth when she questioned them.

But what she found unforgivable—and what had her teeth grinding so hard she could hear her enamel complaining—was that he’d then gone and kissed her. Kissed her like she’d never been kissed before and like she worried she’d never be kissed again. And for what?

To add insult to injury?

To prove to her just how much she’d let her lust for him override her ability to identify bullshit when she smelled it?

To distract her from the fact that his brother was hiding somewhere under his roof?

The rat bastard!