Flawless. Heather Graham

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      “Mike, why would they think—”

      “Because it’s hit the news, Craig. Two people dead—you didn’t think that they’d be able to keep a gag on it long, did you?”

      Kieran froze where she stood.

      Two people were dead?

      Killed by the same thieves who’d taken her hostage?

      She stared at the two men in shock.

      “Yeah,” her savior—Craig—said. “And I’m telling you, the killers are still out there.”

      What the hell? Did he really believe that there were more jewel thieves out there, only carrying real guns?

      “Just for a checkup,” someone said behind her.

      She turned. The earnest EMT had followed her and was still trying to convince her to go to the hospital.

      He flashed a light into her eyes, his own eyes worried as he examined her. “You need medical attention.”

      “No, I don’t,” Kieran said.

      She looked away from him and saw that FBI agent Craig—was that his first name or his last? she wondered—was standing only a few feet away, staring at her.

      She felt a moment’s panic, then remembered that he’d managed to pass the stolen diamond to the police along with the others.

      With any luck whatsoever, no one would know that it had ever been in her possession. Thank God she’d managed to give it back, even if not in the way she’d planned.

      Thank God neither she nor anyone else had been killed.

      “Miss Finnegan?” he said.

      “Yes,” she said. She hoped he couldn’t hear the note of guilt in that single syllable. And why should she feel guilty, anyway? She hadn’t stolen the diamond. She’d been trying to do the right thing—and she’d been kidnapped for her efforts.

      “I’m special agent Craig Frasier,” he said, and then he smiled, which changed his countenance entirely. He had high, strong cheekbones and a jaw that appeared to be made of stone. He was tall and dark haired with light eyes that drew her attention and seemed to home in on her like—like truth-seeking beacons.

      “I know you’ve told your story several times, but would you tell it again to me?” he asked her.

      “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “And you were there at the end, so...”

      “But I wasn’t there at the beginning. You went to the store why? Were you looking for a premade piece or a unique stone you could have set?” he asked.

      She looked at him, wondering why guilt had immediately set in. “I went to see some loose stones. A friend of mine was married—still is, technically speaking—to one of the salesmen there. She’s interested in buying one of the stones he handles, but she didn’t want to see him, so she asked me to go and look at them. It turned out he wasn’t working, but anyone can show another salesman’s stones. But before I could see them, the thieves came in.”

      “And had you ever seen any of them before?”

      She shook her head. “I still haven’t actually seen them. The ski masks, you know. But none of them sounded familiar. I’ve definitely never seen the driver before.”

      “Yeah, this is New York, after all,” he murmured.

      She couldn’t help but smile drily. “You mean we all live by the ‘don’t make eye contact’ rule?”

      “I’d like you to come in tomorrow and take a look at some pictures of the men,” he said.

      “Why? You can’t need a lineup. You caught them all red-handed.” The thief who escaped from the van had later been apprehended by one of the officers.

      “I’d still like to know if they look familiar to you in any way.”

      “I’ll come, but...”

      “I’ll send a car for you,” he said. “Around ten?”

      At ten she would be working her job at the Midtown offices of Doctors Fuller and Miro.

      And she knew for a fact that her employers—whose main work came from police consultations—would have no problem with her helping the police.

      She started to look around for her purse, which one of the officers had brought to her. She dug into it and produced a card. She remembered how pleased she had been to have a card with the prestigious names of her employers on it—along with her own.

      “You’re a psychiatrist?” he asked.

      “Psychologist,” she said. “May I go now? I have to get back to work.”

      “You see clients at night?” he asked skeptically.

      She shook her head, annoyed to find herself flushing slightly. “I’m a bartender, too. Family. I bartend for the family. I mean, the family doesn’t have a private bartender. We own a pub. Finnegan’s on Broadway. I’m still helping out there.”

      She was annoyed with herself for babbling. She didn’t know why he made her feel so off-kilter.

      Guilt!

      But she hadn’t done anything. She’d returned the “borrowed” diamond, for heaven’s sake.

      But there was something about the way he looked at her... It was his eyes, she thought, so light against the bronze of his face. She realized that he was tall and solidly built and really good-looking.

      She flushed and looked away. Sex appeal wasn’t something she should be thinking about right now.

      Especially when people had been killed in a situation like the one she had survived.

      “You should let them take you to the hospital,” he said, “and make sure you’re all right. We were flying around pretty good back there.” He smiled again, and she was shocked by what it did to his face. His pin-striped suit was rumpled and his tie was askew, so he wasn’t looking quite as ruggedly GQ as he might have, but his smile made him seem far too...attractive.

      “I’m fine. Really. I have three brothers. I’ve been through much worse,” she told him. “Really, I just want to get to the pub.”

      “I’ll get an officer to drive you,” he said.

      “It’s all right. I can hop on the subway.”

      “Not if you want to avoid the press—which I very much hope you’ll want to do,” he told her.

      “I do want to avoid them, but why do you want me to?”

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