Anna Perrin - The Enforcer

She lifted an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”

He smiled tightly. “We’re not here for you to question me.”

“Look, I’m sorry if you had a negative experience—”

The “negative experience” she alluded to had almost wrecked his life. But he had no intention of unloading his personal history to an FBI shrink.

“Nobody can know what Forrester is capable of just because of some boxes ticked yes on a questionnaire.”

“Is that how you think I evaluate patients?” she sputtered.

No doubt about it. This time, she was the one feeling defensive. That was a whole lot better than her believing they were buddies just because they’d escaped from her house together.

A muscle twitched in Claire’s jaw, but when she spoke her voice was calm. “I don’t use questionnaires. I ask whatever questions I think will give me an understanding of the patient.”

Nice recovery. He caught himself wondering if she ever lost control—and not just of her temper. Because something about her suggested she kept a lot more than anger bottled up inside her.

What would it take for her to let loose? He wanted to witness that explosion. Hell, he wanted to trigger it.

“I even tape our conversations,” she said, “so I can listen to them again later.”

“Is that legal?” he asked, goading her just because he felt like it.

“With my patient’s consent.” Her tone was still mild, but she set her mug on the counter with a solid thunk. “Wow, you really don’t like psychologists, do you?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’d have to tick the yes box on that one.”

She considered him for a long moment. Then her lips curved in a smile. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

Her words defused a little bit of his resentment, and he found himself wanting to smile back at her. He frowned instead.

She shifted uneasily. “If this assignment is a problem for you, maybe Gene could find somebody else—”

“How I feel about your profession won’t affect my ability to protect you. As I proved last night.”

“You saved my life,” she agreed. “Now I’m hoping you can do the same for Forrester’s other target.”

“How am I supposed to do that? You said you don’t know who it is.”

“The case I brought with me last night contains tapes of my sessions with Forrester.”

Brent gave a low whistle. “No wonder he came to your house. He wanted to get rid of you and your tapes.”

She flinched.

For a moment, he was sorry he’d been so blunt. He pushed the regret aside. He always called aspade a spade. Claire should get used to that about him. “I want to listen to them.”

She smiled faintly.

He racked his brain but couldn’t come up with anything amusing about her situation. “What am I missing?”

She shrugged. “After the way you dismissed psychologists and their methods, I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help me.”

“Just what kind of help are you talking about?”

“I don’t understand certain terms Forrester used,” she admitted. “I’m hoping you will.”

Even though he knew it was a cheap shot, he couldn’t resist. “And I thought shrinks had all the answers.”

She turned and walked down the hall. “Not this one.”

He caught himself admiring her honesty and humility—and the way her jeans hugged her backside. Dangerous thinking. Especially since the two of them were stuck alone together in a remote cabin. A few minutes later, she returned to the kitchen table with the tapes and player. While she fiddled with the equipment, he tried not to notice the long curve of her neck or the shadowed cleavage revealed by her tank top—and failed miserably. She wasn’t trying to entice him. But the effect was every bit as powerful. He cursed under his breath as his trousers became uncomfortably tight.

She handed him the headphones, but he needed a moment to refocus before listening to the tape. “Why would Forrester admit to anything incriminating?”

“I think his ego got in the way, and he let slip more than he intended to.”

“Or maybe he was yanking your chain.”

“That was my first reaction, too, but I changed my mind. Listen for yourself.”

When he had the headphones in place, she started the tape.

After he’d listened to it twice, she asked, “What do you think?”

“The tape’s ambiguous, but after last night, I agree that he’s dangerous.”

“Can you explain ‘MIOG op’ to me?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “MIOG refers to the FBI Manual of Investigative Operations and Guidelines. So a perfect MIOG op would be an operation that goes like clockwork.”

“Any idea which operation he’s referring to?”

“Maybe it’s one he worked on recently. I’ll ask Gene to review Forrester’s timesheets.”

“Could he have been involved in a financial investigation?” she asked. “That might explain his reference to an IPO.”

He shook his head. “The Cincinnati office doesn’t handle them.”

“If IPO isn’t an initial public offering, then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It isn’t any FBI acronym that I’ve heard of.”

She pressed her fingers against her lips, clearly distraught. “Why did he have to talk in riddles? I can’t stop him from killing if I don’t know who’s at risk.”

He felt as if he were letting her down by not being able to figure out more of Forrester’s comments. Except he didn’t owe her anything, apart from keeping her safe.

But Claire’s wasn’t the only life at risk.

He headed for the hall to call Gene, but at the doorway, he happened to glance back. Claire’s green eyes were fixated on his body, her lips parted as if breathing were an effort.

He stopped, paralyzed by her hungry stare. A blast of warmth licked along his shoulders and spread through his chest. The burn turned south, traveling into his belly, then lower…

She blinked and looked down at the table. As she gathered up the headset, recorder and tape, he checked her hands. Rock-solid steady. No telltale tremors of arousal. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been throwing out all that heat. He turned back toward the hall, irritated that he’d misread her so completely. But he’d only moved a few strides when he heard something clatter to the floor.

Hah. Her hands weren’t so steady, after all.

No longer irritated, he called Gene. Having already informed his supervisor of the shooting at Claire’s house last night and their safe arrival at the cabin, his words were brief and direct. “I want to search Forrester’s place.”

As usual, Gene was all over the situation. “I had the warrant drawn up right after he escaped from Ridsdale. There’s a surveillance team watching his house, in case he shows up. I’ll let them know to expect you and Claire.”

Hold on. His plans hadn’t included Claire tagging along. “I think I should go alone.”

“And leave Claire on her own?”

“She’s safe here.”

“What if Forrester saw you last night?”

“No amount of digging will connect me to the cabin. It’s still registered to that offshore holding company Sanderson set up.” His mentor had been fanatical about privacy after a suspect had killed a colleague in her home.

“Claire should remain with you.”

“Gene—”

“That point’s not negotiable. The only reason I’m letting you go is because the department’s short three agents. If you want to check out his house, you take her with you.”

When Gene pulled rank, no amount of arguing could change his mind. “What’s the address?”

Gene gave it to him. Also, a description of the surveillance team’s vehicle and both agents’ cell numbers. He added, “I’ll update them. What’s your ETA?”