Killer Colton Christmas. Regan Black

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      Agent Ortega stepped off the elevator and relief flooded her system. There was a kindness in his gaze, a compassion that she wanted to trust.

      “Thanks for your patience,” he said.

      “They said I didn’t have a choice.” She gripped the handle of her purse with both hands, her computer bag over her shoulder. “How exactly will this work?”

      He gave her a hesitant smile. “With your patience and cooperation you won’t notice me at all.” She almost laughed. Overlooking this handsome agent in any environment was unimaginable.

      “The goal is your protection, not inconvenience,” he said, holding the door for her. “We work quickly and should have your life back to normal by the holidays.”

      He couldn’t know how little comfort that was—the holidays were always a study in loneliness for her—but she thanked him anyway.

      “We’ll take my truck to your car, and then we’ll head to your place and make a plan.”

      Her heels clicked sharply on the pavement and she noticed he slowed his pace just enough that she didn’t feel rushed. The heels put her at nearly eye level with him and she appreciated the sense of equality.

      “A plan?” she echoed after a moment. “The FBI considers house arrest a plan?”

      “You think you should be under house arrest?”

      “No.” Exasperated with the entire day, she puffed her long bangs up off her forehead.

      He unlocked the truck and let her settle into the seat before he closed her door. After stashing his computer bag behind the driver’s seat, he climbed in and started the engine. “Where are you parked?”

      She gave him directions and then closed her eyes, silently counting to ten. There was a logical way out of this nightmare. When the truck didn’t move, she opened her eyes and found him watching her intently, his lips tilted up at the corner.

      “My mother used to do that when she got fed up with my brother and me.” He pulled away from the parking space, his gaze on the road.

      The man had a striking profile. “You have a brother?”

      He nodded without volunteering any information. She got the impression he didn’t make a habit of sharing personal details. A tactic she could respect. What people didn’t know about, they couldn’t judge.

      “I could help this investigation, you know,” she said as he pulled up behind her car.

      The full weight of that dark, enigmatic gaze landed on her and she resisted the urge to fidget or plead. Would nothing convince his team or her bosses that she could be an asset? Didn’t the FBI have safe houses or something outside the Cohort’s reach where she could help?

      “Right now the best way to help is to stay safe and give us room to work,” he replied.

      “This is outrageous.” She pulled her car key from her purse and shoved out of his truck before her temper snapped and she said something she might regret.

      * * *

      Emiliano noticed there had been no searching or rooting around for her key. The woman was organized. He appreciated efficiency, focused on that trait rather than her lush feminine curves and lovely legs.

      Both ranch life and FBI experience had taught him that calm was the best option when tempers turned hot. He braced for the slamming door. It would be easier to get a read on her once she relaxed.

      Suddenly she turned back, her eyes flashing.

      “I’ve never jeopardized or abused customer information the way the Cohort does.”

      He listened to her words and studied her body language. Hard to believe she’d willingly let in a hacktivist group.

      “We do not share or sell personal information,” she continued, in that staccato pattern that reminded him of her high heels on the pavement.

      “Good.”

      “I knew programmers with hacktivist ideologies and skills. In school.” Those dark eyes met his, held. “I didn’t agree with them then and I don’t support their criminal behavior now.”

      “All right,” he said.

      She sucked in a breath as if his acceptance offended her. “Do you know my address?”

      “Yes.” Her address, along with her cell phone number and the make, model and license plate of her car, was in her file. He plugged the address into his navigation app on the truck’s dashboard. “I’ll follow you over.”

      “Are you planning to stay in my apartment?”

      He wasn’t sure yet how they would work that out, only that he had orders to keep an eye on her. “Let’s get over there and we’ll talk.”

      Her lips twisted, though she didn’t speak as she finally closed the truck door. The spunky Mini Cooper suited her, he decided. Painted creamy white with a dark green rocker stripe, it would be useless anywhere but the city.

      And why was he analyzing her car? She put her purse and computer bag behind her seat and slid behind the wheel. He prepared to move his truck so she could back out, when she opened her door and peered at the windshield.

      He powered down the passenger window. “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing. A flyer or something.” She stretched an arm out and he ordered her to stop.

      “Let me see it first.”

      He grabbed his phone and hustled around the front of his truck to her car. Tucked low under the windshield wiper was a small square of white paper.

      “Not a flyer,” he said as much to himself as to her. He took pictures and used the flashlight app on his phone to peer under the hood. He dropped to the ground and checked the undercarriage.

      She crouched beside him. “What are you doing?”

      He deliberately kept his focus on the car rather than her legs. “Looking for any obvious signs of tampering or tracking devices.” On his feet again, he called Dashwood and gave her an update.

      “Tampering? You’re a bomb expert, too, I suppose.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

      “Not an expert.” He dusted off his palms and smacked at the dirt on his trousers. Why couldn’t he remember he was in a suit on the job, rather than in his work jeans at the ranch? “The FBI does keep us trained.”

      “Of course.” She tucked a lock of hair, teased loose by the breeze, behind one ear. “I’m not handling this well,” she admitted softly. “My work is everything to me and I don’t appreciate strangers interfering with that.”

      There hadn’t been any mention of a spouse or other family in her file and he’d assumed the rest of her background was in process. Now Emiliano wondered what that background would reveal. “May I?” He pointed to the note.

      She СКАЧАТЬ