Page 32 of Undeniably Corrupt

“Is it true you grew up with Miss James? That you dated her at one time.”

I try not to squint at him, but it’s difficult. How in the fuck would he know that? No one knew we were dating, and again, certainly not the FBI. Then again, she mentioned it in our first meeting here, didn’t she? Is someone on my team notifying the FBI?

“When I was a teenager, I was friends with her older brother. She and I never dated.”

“Are you dating her now? Sleeping with her?”

I laugh as if that were a ridiculous notion. “No. I’m not. And since when does the FBI care who people date or sleep with?”

And that’s when it hits me. I already know he’s not FBI. That much is obvious. I assumed he was a lackey from a rival firm or even a black hat who managed to dox me since I take them down from time to time. But no. This is about Liora. All of this is. The other shit was just red herrings.

She told the team we dated when we were kids, when that was a secret we held onto tight. Who is she involved with that would care about that? And if not her, then who the fuck is talking?

My heart beats erratically, and my body pumps with adrenaline. Liora’s at the hospital, I remind myself. She’s safe there and then will come straight here after. But what the fuck is going on? Why are there goddamn fake FBI agents showing up at my office and asking about her? Is she inciting this? Is she trying to bring me down for what I did to her? Or is this something deeper?

I haven’t seen Liora since Friday, and even then, I kept mydistance as much as possible, and we were professional. There’s so much about this that isn’t adding up.

“Like I said, we’re just looking into things. Can you explain your relationship with her?”

I shrug. “As I said before, I don’t have one. She’s my assistant.”

“And how did that come to be?”

“She was let go from the coffee shop she was working in, and as coincidence would have it, my current assistant overheard and brought her here to interview. I saw her, recognized her, and naturally hired her. That’s it.”

“So you were simply helping out an old friend? Nothing more?”

I shrug again even though I want to reach across my desk, pick this guy up by his throat, and strangle the life from his eyes. “Not everything is as sordid as the FBI likes to make it.”

“If you say so.” He stands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Moore. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

I stand as well and don’t offer him my hand to shake. “Thank you, Agent Vega. I’m sure we will.”

He heads for the door and leaves. Champagne meets my eyes, and I give her a nod. “Here, Agent Vega. Let me walk you out,” she says without giving him a choice because I don’t want the fucker snooping. I post a sign on my door telling people to leave me alone and head back to my desk.

I log back into my computer and search our security footage. Our cameras are all but invisible, but they’re everywhere. All over my building. It takes me two seconds to find when he entered the building and play through the various cameras that captured him. He came right up here. He didn’t even attempt anything else, and security called Champagne, so he asked for me directly.

Enabling Tor to hide my activity, I use a facial recognition software I wrote and start digging into Agent Vega.

11

“Pull the skin taut and make sure the bevel of the needle is up. At a forty-five-degree angle-ish, slip the needle into the vein and look for the flashback of blood. There. Good. You got it.” My preceptor beams, and some of the nerves that were pumping a ridiculous amount of adrenaline through me ebb. “Now advance the catheter while withdrawing the needle. After that, we need to secure the line and hook it up to the tubing so we can start the drip.”

I blow out the breath I had been holding as I cover the insertion site with the Tegaderm and twist the end of the primed line on. She walks me through how to start the pump and makes sure we have it running correctly.

“That was great,” she praises. “Now you can get the doctor and let him know his patient is ready for him.”

It’s a thirty-year-old with a Crohn’s flare, and the man is not happy. Thankfully, he’s used to having IVs inserted and held still for me.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me do that. Who’s the doctor?”

She glances at the computer beside us. “Dr. Kincaid.”

“Which one is he again?”

She gives me a Cheshire grin. “He’s the chief. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, gorgeous.”

“Aren’t they all?” I quip but go in search of Dr. Kincaid, who’s standing in front of a computer with an intense expression as he reads whatever it is he’s reading on the screen. Tall and stupidly handsome, everyone who walks past him naturally does a double take.