Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

She’d heard it all since she’d started her blog, and since she’d published her book, Don’t Get Tangled in the Web. Some legal types seemed to think she was helping the criminals more than hurting them. “Don’t you cyber crimes geeks have enough to do without harassing me?”

The man’s shoulders unstiffened a fraction, but his partner didn’t look at all amused.

“You’re not in any trouble, ma’am,” he said. “We’re actually here to ask for your assistance. We’re researching a crime, and have reason to think you were in contact with one of the people involved. We’re hoping you can help us figure out what happened.”

She hesitated. Sam didn’t like people invading her space, especially people who called her ma’am . When she wanted contact with the outside world, she sought it out herself. Sometimes. She did not invite it in when it showed up unannounced at her door, nor did she generally accept unwanted invitations.

Especially from men. And there had been a few-including some from her own divorce attorney, who had made it clear that whenever she was ready to get back into the dating game, he wanted to be first in line.

Sure. Like any woman wanted to go out with the man who’d seen her at the lowest point in her life. Who’d heard every ugly, vicious word her ex-husband had said about her.

She had to hand it to him, though: Rick Young, the attorney in question, hadn’t given up, even though she’d kept saying no.

“Ma’am?”

Sam sighed, already knowing this agent would not take no for an answer. Stepping back, she gestured the pair in. “Fine.” She’d give them five minutes; then it was back to her column. And maybe an ice cream dinner break courtesy of Ben & Jerry-who had, until this very minute, been the only males inside her apartment in months.

But before they’d taken a half dozen steps inside, the female agent glanced out Sam’s living room window, peering at the street one story below. “Oh, no, he is not !”

Realizing what was happening, Sam suppressed a smile. Seemed the local police hadn’t gotten the memo that they should ignore illegally parked, unmarked cars driven by FBI agents.

“Go,” the male agent said. He spoke to his partner’s retreating back. She had already stalked out the door, obviously planning to talk her way out of a ticket.

“Yeah, good luck with that one,” Sam muttered, having had more than a few herself. She didn’t think God himself could talk his way out of a parking ticket once Baltimore ’s finest had him in his sights. Cal Ripken, maybe. But nobody else.

“I take it you’ve got some firsthand experience?” the agent said.

“You have no idea. I’m on a first-name basis with the local beat cop. He waves at me and smiles as he tickets me when I forget to move my car on trash days.”

A twinkle of amusement flashed in his green eyes. The stranger suddenly looked less intimidating and more appealing than before. Younger than she’d first thought, too-he was probably only around thirty, close to her age.

Well, the age she would be for another few days. Then she moved beyond the actual three-zero and proceeded directly into her thirties. Do not pass go; do not try to pretend you’re just a day or two beyond twenty-nine.

“Almost makes me wish I could watch. I don’t think she’ll like being told no.” His mouth relaxed into a slow smile, a friendly one that invited her to reciprocate.

Though her heart skipped a single beat in her chest and her pulse did a little flip, Sam’s lips remained tight by sheer force of will. The way she had been feeling about men these days, she wished he’d paste a frown on his mouth. She couldn’t handle an attraction to anyone right now. She’d been burned so badly her hair probably still smelled smoky.

“What is it I can do for you, Agent Lambert?” she asked, her tone curt.

He took her cue, his form stiffening again under his perfectly tailored suit, which looked more appropriate for a Wall Street executive than an FBI agent. “I’d like to show you some correspondence.”

He glanced around the room, seeking a place to sit. Her sofa, a flowery monstrosity her mother had insisted on giving her when Sam had moved out of her ex’s house, was covered with files and industry magazines. Well, mostly industry magazines. There were a few issues of People and Entertainment Weekly thrown in there, too. Not to mention a small pile of unfolded, clean laundry, freshly dumped from the dryer.

Two empty Diet Coke cans stood in the middle of their own permanent rings on the coffee table. A crumpled Snickers wrapper protruded from the opening of one can, looking like a castaway’s note stuck into a poor man’s substitute for a bottle, and on the TV, DVD sleeves for The Notebook and Beaches taunted her about her sadly sappy Netflix movie list.

Her picture should be on Wikipedia as an illustration of a pathetic thirtysomething divorcée.

If not for her desk, she’d probably look like a slovenly hausfrau. Oh, the desk was a wreck, too, but at least it looked as though it was used. Very used. On it were three mountains of paper, in varying heights-one critical, one urgent, and one just important. The just-important one was about one-quarter the size of the others. There was no pile called Take Your Time.

Clearing her throat, she headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s talk in here. I could do with some coffee. You?”

“Sure, thanks.” He followed her, remaining silent while she put the pot on.

Joining him at her small table, Sam tried to force herself to relax. After all, she used to like law enforcement types. Her late father had been a state trooper, and the closest thing she had to a father these days was her dad’s old partner, who was now a judge. It was only recently, since her work had been targeted by some supposed experts who wanted to kick the amateur off their playing field, that she’d begun to question the intelligence of those in any legal profession.

The parking tickets didn’t help, either.

“What’s this all about?”

He opened a folder, spreading what looked like e-mail printouts on her kitchen table. “Did you write these?”

Sam glanced at the pages, seeing her e-mail address on the top of them. “I exchange e-mails with people all the time,” she murmured doubtfully. “This looks like a typical response to someone asking for Web advice.”

Lifting one of the pages, Sam quickly read the original message, and her own response. A smile suddenly widened her lips. “Oh, yeah, I know this kid-what a sweetheart. He’s written to me several times. He even got his parents to bring him to a signing I did last summer.”

“A signing for your Internet scam book?”

She leveled a steady gaze at the man. “My book on how to avoid Internet scams.”

“That’s what I meant.”

Sure it was.

“How long have you been corresponding with him?”

“Probably about a year.” Suddenly remembering what Special Agent Lambert had said when he’d first arrived, Sam met his stare directly. “Wait, you said crime. Is he all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

Alec noticed right away that Samantha Dalton’s immediate response was to assume young Ryan Smith was a victim, and she sounded worried. Considering she’d met him only once and had a strictly e-mail relationship with the boy, he filed the detail away, because it said a lot about her. So did her clothes. Her apartment. Her job. Her lifestyle.

But, Jesus, none of that meshed with the visual picture of the woman who’d opened the door to him ten minutes ago.

He’d been prepared for a vigilante computer nerd. Not the brown-eyed, golden-haired beauty with lush lips and a fragile throat. He’d seen fewer curves on a figure eight, despite the shapeless, washed-out sweats she had on. Though she wore no makeup and her hair was a mess, she’d been striking enough to suck every thought out of his head for a long, breathless moment.