Page 36 of Bride of Vengeance

This is what she was born to do.

"Here," she says, pointing to a series of financial transactions. "These payments correspond to witness disappearances, but they're routed through shell companies."

"Shell companies Harrison established using federal resources and authority."

"Can you trace the ultimate destination of the funds?"

I show her banking records that probably violated six different federal laws to obtain. "Offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. All controlled by Harrison through various intermediaries."

"How much money are we talking about?"

"Approximately four point seven million dollars over five years."

She stares at the number like it's written in blood. Which, in many ways, it is.

"Thirty-seven lives for less than five million dollars."

"Harrison sees them as inventory, not people. Commodities to be sold or eliminated based on market conditions."

The same way some people see criminal organizations. Tools to be used rather than human beings trying to build better lives.

"This makes me sick."

"Good. Anger is useful. Channel it into building a case that can't be challenged."

She works for another two hours, cross-referencing federal databases with my intelligence while I provide technical support and try not to notice how beautiful she is when she's focused. How her lower lip disappears between her teeth when she's thinking. How she unconsciously leans closer to me when examining evidence.

This is torture.

Professional torture. Being this close to her, working as partners, watching her brilliant mind dissect corruption with surgical precision—all while pretending I don't want to push those documents aside and show her exactly how much I've been wanting her.

Keep it professional.

But professional becomes impossible when she reaches across me for a document and her breast brushes against my arm. Thecontact is brief, accidental, but it sends heat shooting through my nervous system like electrical current.

She freezes, suddenly aware of what just happened. When she looks at me, her amber eyes are wide with something that looks dangerously like awareness.

She felt it too.

"Sorry," she says, but her voice is rougher than before.

"Don't be."

The words emerge without permission, carrying implications neither of us should acknowledge. For a moment we just stare at each other, the evidence of federal corruption forgotten in favor of something more immediate and much more dangerous.

Kiss her.

The thought hits with the force of a command, and I realize I'm leaning closer without conscious decision. She's not moving away. If anything, she's tilting her face up toward mine, lips slightly parted.

This is a mistake.

But some mistakes are worth making, and resisting her has become impossible. She's too close, too warm, too willing. Thescent of her skin, the way she's looking at me like I'm something worth wanting instead of something to be feared...

My phone buzzes against the table with the harsh sound of an encrypted message.

Reality crashes back like ice water. We're fugitives. We're being hunted. We have work to do that doesn't involve exploring the attraction that's been building between us since the warehouse.

I grab the phone, using the interruption to put necessary distance between us. The message is from my surveillance network:Federal teams mobilizing. Multiple locations. They're expanding the search.