by Shandi Boyes
He's also the reason I'm leaving this hospital with a vast amount of resentment. If he hadn't shown up, I would have driven Regan home, wooed information out of her, then closed Isaac's case without the remotest tiptoe into Regan's personal life.
Now. . . now I’m back to the drawing board. This isn’t the first time I’ve ditched one set of plans to unite with another. But it's the first time I’ve allowed personal opinions to enter the equation.
An agent is wired to follow commands, think impulsively, and get their man no matter what the cost. This is different. Regan isn’t a man. She also isn’t my target. I joined this team to take down Isaac Holt. Only now am I realizing he won’t be the only one thrown under the bus when I snag my man. He’ll take Regan down right along with him.
I can’t stop the carnage. But I may be able to lessen the impact.
Chapter Eleven
A satin material brushes my forearm as a floral scent invades my senses. It’s subtle yet captivating, conjuring up memories, both bitter and sweet. I take a step back before raising my eyes. Two months haven’t diminished the effect she has on my body.
Regan is standing mere inches in front of me. Her reach for the elevator dashboard is the cause of her arm skimming mine. Her eyes are focused low, on nothing but the phone in her hand. She’s ramped up her sexpot look today. Her sultry curves are barely concealed by her low-dipping dress and showcased by her sky-high heels.
Inconspicuously, I slant my head to the left before dropping my eyes to the screen of her phone. Unsurprisingly, she's returning a text message from Isaac. Although this is the first time I’ve seen her in person for months, I’m familiar with her daily routine.
Theresa didn’t appreciate my request to transfer back to the original operation investigating Isaac, but with her superiors unhappy with the case’s progress, her team dwindled from three dozen men to six, so she didn’t have much choice.
The head of our department is growing restless. For some stupid reason, he believes Isaac doesn’t have anything to answer for. With that in mind, he told Theresa last month she had six weeks to uncover incriminating evidence on Isaac or our investigation will be closed without prosecution.
The promise I made to Dane five years ago ensures I’ll never let that happen. I worked my fingers to the bone scrolling through every shred of intel we’ve gathered on Isaac the past twelve months. Other than the occasional dabble in an underground fight ring, his business appears legit.
Unwilling to give up without a fight, I sought assistance to persuade our head of department against shutting down Isaac’s case. It's both fortunate and unfortunate my grandfather’s connections in the Bureau are solid. Fortunate—as it awarded us another three months to build a case on Isaac. Unfortunate—as it means my run in with Regan this time occurs with a date on my arm.
Josie, granddaughter of much-loved and revered Assistant Director Reginald Donavon, is beautiful, well-mannered, and highly educated. She's just missing the spitfire stubbornness Regan has in abundance. She doesn't ignite a spark inside me. She's demure. . . centered. . . meh.
Her well-to-do upbringing is even more noticeable when Regan murmurs, “Would you like me to forward you a copy of my message, Alex, or are you happy to continue reading it over my shoulder?”
Josie startles so much, the elevator car rattles in the aftermath of her balk. She’s threatened by the snark in Regan’s tone. The whiskey in my veins has me on the opposite side of the spectrum.
Challenge accepted, Ms. Myers.
"Depends. Are you sending anything risqué? Or just updating your Instagram followers on what you ate for dinner?" The flirtatiousness of my reply adds a heated edge to my words. I'm practically daring her to send me sexy pics.
Josie must have heard my statement as I had intended as her loud gasp nearly drowns out Regan’s reply, “A lady never kisses and tells.”
The sassiness in her tone curves my lips. I wish I could see her face. I’m certain it's as ravishing as the dangerous drop of her fits-like-a-glove dress.
I wait for the fine hairs on Regan’s nape to finish bristling before replying, “I guess you’re safe from prosecution then, aren’t you, Ms. Myers?”
I mentally fist pump when my witty comment forces Regan to spin around. Any chances of me leaving this elevator alive are lost when my eyes drink in the front of her dress. It’s even more risqué than the back. The dangerous spill of her cleavage has me longing to dress her in the hospital gown she donned two months ago.
Even then, it will only drop her sex appeal from a twenty out of ten to a nineteen. She's got the siren sexpot look down pat. Fuckable red lips, a skin-tight black dress, and heeled boots that would only look better digging into my ass cheeks.
Fuck—throw me in jail with the most dangerous convicts I've arrested thus far in my career, as I guarantee that would result in fewer injuries than I’ll walk away with tonight. I’m not strong enough for this. No man is. I barely held it together when I switched her pricy garments for a dowdy hospital gown.
The emergency nurse assisting Regan was adamant she couldn’t evaluate Regan’s condition in the clothes she was wearing, so I either removed them or she would hack them with the jaws of life scissors she was clutching. I’m not overly familiar with fashion, but I knew Regan values the shimmery shirts and skin-tight skirts she owns, so I had no choice. I had to undress her.
I acted like the professional I am. Even the near swallow of my tongue when I discovered she was braless didn’t jeopardize my gentleman act. My hands and eyes stayed forever locked on the safety zones. I didn’t even sneak a peek of her breasts when they flattened against my pecs so I could tie the back of her gown. I was the perfect gentleman—even with my thoughts as sullied as a pervert with a criminal record a mile long.
I thought sprinting down a valley with my best mate on my back and the scope of a sniper on my head would be my hardest day. It had nothing on that afternoon in the hospital. When forced between life and death, you must always choose life. That day I didn’t.
I’ve been miserable ever since.
After soaking in my new Vans, casual jeans, white tee, and blazer jacket, Regan returns her eyes to mine. Tension fires in the air. She's as appreciative of my casual look as I am of her sophisticated one.
"Are you saying I'm not a lady, Mr. Rogers?” She drawls out my name in a long, seductive purr, amplifying both the temperature in the cabin and Josie’s unease.
Josie is so concerned I’m seconds from being slapped, she takes a step back, removing herself from the firing line. She should be concerned, but her worry is focused on the wrong person. Regan doesn’t have me in her sights. She’s going after Josie.
Little Miss Seduction doesn’t like competition. That’s why her lipstick has been freshly applied and her hair recently brushed. She didn’t breeze into my elevator on a whim. She staged her ruse as adeptly as I did our first elevator foray.
I shouldn’t be thrilled by the concept, but I am.
“You sent the bottle of wine to our table.” I’m not asking a question. I’m stating a fact.
Regan’s shoulder touches her ear when she shrugs, but before a syllable can escape her lips, Josie says, “Oh golly gosh, you did?! That was so kind of you.” Her voice is extra high and laced with sweetness. “I tried to bribe the waiter for the label, but he said it was from a private vineyard and not for sale. Do you know what vineyard it’s from? The waiter hinted it was in the north of France but was unaware of the property’s title.”
Josie's niceties douse the fire in Regan's eyes. As I am sure many women have done to her, Regan judged Josie's slim frame, generous breasts, and traffic-stopping face as meaning she was snarky, cold, and a downright bitch. She couldn’t be farther from that description if she tried.
Josie is the friendliest woman I’ve met. Regrettably, that weakens her appeal even more. I don’t want a woman who will fight me at every turn, but I need one strong enough to stand at my side and fight alongside me, not
cower in the corner the instant things get tough.
I’m on the road constantly. I miss Christmases, birthdays, and every other special occasion you can imagine. If you’re relying on me to be your backbone, you're depending on the wrong man. Josie understands this. Her family has been a part of the Bureau for as long as mine. That’s why our date is ending on amicable terms instead of me splaying her against the elevator and sampling her mouth as vigorously as I wish I could Regan's. She doesn't want me to be her backbone any more than I want to charge Regan with a crime.
The inappropriate thoughts screaming through my head double when I return my eyes to Regan. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes brimming with uncertainty. She wanted Josie to come out swinging so she’d have an excuse to hit back even harder. Instead, she got an ally, not the enemy she was hoping for.
"Ah. . . the wine is from a friend's vineyard in the south of France. His production is for private use only. He doesn't need the money nor the praise. He's well stocked with both."
Regan’s reply pisses me off. Don’t ask me why. I’m just stating things as I see them.
“Oh poop. I’d love to gift a bottle to my grandfather for Christmas. He adds to his extensive collection every year. A privately labeled bottle would make a wonderful addition. Are you sure your friend can’t spare a bottle or two?” Josie begs, her tone as polite as her beseeching eyes.
Regan shifts her eyes to me, wordlessly pleading for me to throw her a lifeline. I could, but then she’d never learn the consequences of her actions. I offered her salvation years ago; she threw it back in my face by siding with another man.
After glaring at me in silent warning my lack of assistance won’t go unpunished, Regan directs her focus back to Josie. “If you pass me your phone, I’ll give you my number. I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Josie nods before rummaging through her purse. Her hunt for her phone lasts mere seconds, but it's long enough for the energy bristling between Regan and me to morph from warm to catastrophically hot.
Not all Regan's liveliness is sexual, though. She's more mad than turned on. Me, on the other hand, I’m far from angry.
Josie squeals like a school girl when Regan hands her back her phone with her details saved in the contacts. “Thank you so much. My goodness—you have no idea how excited he’ll be.”
Regan freezes like a statue when Josie throws her arms around her shoulders to give her a quick hug. “I’ll be in touch later this week. Tell your friend money is not an issue. I know people in high places." A frisky wink accompanies her comment.
Regan laughs as if she thinks Josie is sweet. In reality, she’s mortified. I understand her awkwardness. I’ve not once witnessed Regan with any female friends in the months the Bureau has had Isaac under surveillance. This is as foreign to her as my desire to hand in my credentials two months ago.
I didn't want to leave my position, but the way I handled things with Regan that afternoon was unprofessional. If any of the men I had under me in my last position acted as I did, I would have torn them to shreds.
Obviously, I didn’t learn a thing from my last expedition into the unknown. My stupidity is even more noticeable when I ask, “Did you dine alone tonight, Rae?”
“Yes,” Regan grinds out. “Do you have a problem with women dining alone?”
“Not at all.” You can hear my smile in my words. I love her sassiness. It warms both my belly and my heart. “I was just going to have a quiet word with your date about personal security. It’s late. He should have escorted you to your car.”
I allow my eyes to voice the last half of my statement: even more so with what you told me the last time we talked.
Much to Theresa's dismay, I looked into Regan's claims she was being improperly watched. My search was thorough, but I didn't unearth any concrete evidence. Theresa brushed off my concern as if Regan is unaware of the attention she gains when she enters the room. I'm doubtful appreciative glances were the cause of Regan's claims. You can't be as attractive as Regan and not be used to handling admirers. She knows she's beautiful, and the fact she isn't ashamed about it makes her even more attractive. I love her confidence. It’s one of her most stellar attributes.
Although Theresa demanded I drop my investigation into Regan's stalker case within hours of starting it, she has no say on what I do in my downtime. Regan's case is still open—but it isn't being run by the FBI. It’s personal, which means it won't close until a suspect is arrested.
Regan's annoyed huff returns my focus to her. She has her hip cocked and her brow bowed. There's the stubborn, determined woman I've dreamt about every night the past two months. Whether she's running away from me or toward me, she's forever featured in my dreams.
Unappreciative of the smirk crossing my lips, Regan snarks, “Didn’t our last foray teach you anything? I can take care of myself, Mister Fancy Pants.”
Josie’s eyes fall to my jeans before they return to their bounce routine they were undertaking before Regan dropped my nickname.
“Do you like my jeans? Another JC Penney creation.” I barely hold in the rest of my reply: they’d look even better on your bedroom floor.
Regan’s eyes roll skywards. “Not particularly. But I guess if that’s all an accountant can afford, they’ll have to do.” She growls my false field of expertise. “Your shoes, though. . .” A gasp of disdain finalizes her lie.
The giggle Josie is unable to stifle hums in my ear. She’s loving Regan’s feistiness even more than she adored the pricy bottle of wine she gifted us.
“The jeans are my fault,” Josie admits when the heat firing between Regan and me becomes too great to ignore. “I told Alex to dress casually. We were supposed to meet Mark at a bar. When he cancelled last minute, our plans changed.”
“Mark?” Regan queries, her inquisitive as excessive as mine. Who the hell is Mark?
“Yeah, Mark. My husband,” Josie replies casually before her hand darts out to tap Regan’s arm. “Oh my, did you think we were on a date?” She thrusts her hand between herself and me.
When Regan nods, Josie laughs as if the thought of dating me is hysterical. I don’t know whether to thank her for not blowing my cover or scold her for making the idea of dating me sound so appalling.
The latter is less likely when Regan asks, “You’re married and not interested in Alex whatsoever?”
The elation in her tone has a massive bout of egotism joining our party. She sounds as if she just discovered the dweeb who took her virginity doesn’t count, as half-penetration is excluded from all sexual partner quizzes.
My wish to scold Josie returns stronger than ever when Regan asks, “Then why are you associating with him? He doesn’t seem like the best company. He's an accountant, after all.”
There she goes again with another underhanded snark at my supposed career choice. I feel like I'm being hung out to dry when Josie shrugs in halfhearted agreement. "He does save us thousands in taxes every year, so the least I can do is take him out for a meal every once and a while."
Regan’s face pales as mine flames with anger. Anyone would swear it was Josie’s arm that got twisted to agree to this date—not mine.
A bucket of cold water is thrown over my flaming cheeks when Regan mumbles, “Hold on. He’s your accountant?” She snarks out the word “accountant” as if it’s part of a fresh batch of vomit.
When Josie nods without pause, Regan takes a stumbling step back. “Do you own a steroids company?” Although her comment was only meant for her ears, she grumbled it loud enough for both Josie and me to hear.
Josie slaps Regan's forearm, her laugh like a hyena. It bellows around the elevator, adding to the debilitating tension firing in the air. Regan is gobsmacked by Josie's admission. She isn't the only one. Josie's acting skills are so top shelf, I'm beginning to wonder if I’ve slipped into a time warp.
“But you. . . your hip. There was. . .” Regan stops talking to glare at the spot where I usually carry my service
weapon. She won’t find it. Since I’m off the clock, my gun is off my hip.
The elevator dings, announcing it has finally arrived at the lobby. Rotating restaurants at the top of a skyscraper sound like an ideal night. . . until you’re stuck in the elevator with a woman as captivating as Regan. I feel like I’ve aged a decade in ten minutes.
“Where did you two say you met?” Josie asks as she steps into the lobby.
“We didn’t,” Regan and I answer in sync.
Regan is so caught up sorting through her confusion, it takes me placing my hand on the curve of her back for her to exit the elevator. If I thought the temperature in the elevator car was roasting, now it's ten times worse. Her dress is practically backless, meaning I had no other option but place my hand on her bare skin. This scenario couldn’t get any more dangerous. The slightest whiff of her floral scent already has me acting reckless, let alone the heat of her skin under mine.
I’m dragged from my inappropriate thoughts when Josie shouts, “Hold on one dang minute. It isn’t. . . She can’t be. . . Oh Alex, you little devil. How did I not put two and two together earlier? Is this Regan from Hector? The one you bumped heads with instead of measuring our new kitchen cabinets as you had promised?”
Josie shifts on her feet to face Regan, who is peering at her with as much bewilderment as me. Excluding Theresa, I never told a soul about my altercation with Regan. I filed an incident report, handed it to my superior to be signed off on, then tried my best to forget about it. As far as I am aware, our run-in is not public knowledge.
Josie fills our silence by saying, “Alex is an accountant, but his hands. . .O. M. G. . .their skills will set your pulse racing.” She says her comment as carnally as it sounds, not pussyfooting around her assumption I want my hands on Regan. It's a fact, but I’d rather it not be common knowledge. “The cabinets in our apartment are to die for. The tenants are in heaven.”