Fatal Fallout. Lara Lacombe

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      Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”

      “Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”

      She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”

      “I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”

      She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.

      She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.

      Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.

      Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?

      She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.

      She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.

      The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.

      “What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?

      “You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”

      He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”

      The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”

      “Want to talk about it?”

      She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.

      “Fair enough.”

      She moved to get out of bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?

      Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.

      “Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”

      She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

      Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.

      She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

      Agent Kincannon seemed like a nice enough man, but she didn’t like having a stranger in her home, especially not when she was grieving the loss of Ivan. She wanted privacy so she could fall apart without fear of being overheard. The last thing she needed was for him to hold her again. She was hanging on to her self-control by a very thin thread, and further temptation would cause her to break, a reaction that would only make things worse.

      After a few splashes of water, she patted her face dry and then quickly brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a serviceable ponytail. Her shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but she couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She didn’t really care how it looked anyway. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head out into the living room. I can do this.

      She settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs up so she was curled into a ball. Agent Kincannon took the recliner, leaning forward to place a glass of water on the table next to her. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, absurdly touched by his thoughtful gesture. Not wanting him to see her emotional reaction to such an ordinary event, she reached for the glass, taking a small sip of water to wet her throat. “So, Agent Kincannon, where do we start?”

      “How about we start with you calling me Thomas? We’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future, so I think we can dispense with the formalities, if that’s all right with you?”

      Keeping her fingers wrapped around the glass, Claire nodded. “Okay,” she said carefully, feeling her way into this new conversational territory. “Where do we start, Thomas?”

      He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of his soapy-starchy scent as he moved. He rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands together in a loose fist, expanding his imprint in the chair.

      He’s so big, she thought, taken aback by how much space he occupied. She wasn’t used to having a man in her apartment, especially such a large man. Ivan had been slight of stature, whereas Thomas was tall and broad. She could reach out a hand and touch his shoulder without having to stretch. The room seemed to shrink around her as he focused on her face, the space collapsing until only the couch and chair remained.

      “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Ivan?” His tone was friendly, belying the intensity of his gaze.

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