Anna Perrin - The Enforcer

“Tell them to expect us around noon,” Brent said, and disconnected.

Damn. He’d planned on giving Claire a wide berth today. Instead, the trip to Forrester’s meant they’d be together for most of the afternoon.

Plenty of time for her to try poking around his brain.

Plenty of time for him to try figuring out if the attraction he felt for her was mutual.

Who would end up with the most interesting revelations?

Claire might have the psych degree, but he’d interrogated lots of tough suspects over the years. If nothing else, it should make for an interesting trip.

He smiled for the first time that morning.

HOW MUCH DID DR. LAMONT really know? Enough to jeopardize his plan?

The psychologist excelled at drawing out thoughts and feelings. No easy feat considering the tough-minded agents who were her patients. And it wasn’t as if many of them sought her out on their own. Supervisors usually had to order their staff to meet with her. At least the first time.

Then a lot of the guys figured out there were worse ways to pass the time than hanging out with the lovely Claire Lamont. So they signed up to see her again and again, assuming they could stonewall her.

But she didn’t tolerate idle talk for long. She wanted to know it all—the good, the bad and the ugly. Who’d have guessed a few conversations would cause so much trouble?

He should have put an end to it sooner.

That miscalculation had placed the whole operation at risk.

Next time he set out to kill her, he’d do it right.

Jim Sharratt had lied to the FBI.

The joints in his hands throbbed as he watched his six-year-old granddaughter, Amy, play on the swings at Cambridge Park. He could call them and come clean, but he knew he wouldn’t. If his family and friends found out what he’d done, they’d lose respect for him. His son might never allow him to take Amy for another outing.

“See me go really high, Grandpa,” she shouted, her skinny, pale legs stretching forward. “I’m flying.”

“You sure are, angel.” He smiled at her even though he felt like crying. These moments were what he lived for. He couldn’t bear to have them taken away from him.

Telling the truth would destroy his life. All because he’d made one terrible error in judgment. Thank God his wife, Jeannie, would never know the man she’d married was capable of such wickedness. He missed her so much. For decades he’d worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Jeannie hadn’t complained through the lean years, but later on she’d grown unhappy with rarely seeing him. She hadn’t wanted more houses or cars or money. She’d wanted more time with him. He’d told her to hang on, just a few more deals…

His retirement had come too late for them to enjoy it. A month before he’d sold off his businesses, Jeannie had caught a virus that became pneumonia and took her life. They couldn’t travel the world or laze on the beach or visit with friends as he’d promised her. And all the wealth he’d accumulated over the years couldn’t ease his crushing grief and loneliness.

If only Jeannie hadn’t died, he would have stayed strong, not become weak and vulnerable to temptation.

Amy giggled, the sound jerking him out of the past.

She swung in a wide arc, her face tilted toward the sun, her fine hair streaming down her back like liquid gold. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she called out to him.

“What’s that?”

“Ice cream!”

“Butterscotch ripple, two scoops?”

She beamed at him. “You got it, Grandpa.”

He watched her slow the momentum of the swing. Her sneakers skidded to a stop in the loose dirt, then she was racing toward him. A moment later, he swept her up in his arms and breathed in the scent of sunshine and innocence.

Did he have to lose everything because he’d messed up once? No, he refused to believe that. He would carry on as though nothing had happened. As long as he remained silent, that might be possible.

CLAIRE STARED out the passenger window at the trees whipping past. She’d been surprised to learn they were returning to Cincinnati to search Forrester’s house. She had just assumed they would wait at the cabin until he was arrested. Apparently Brent wasn’t content to do that. In addition to protecting her, he was determined to uncover Forrester’s other target.

She glanced sideways at her companion. His straight, black hair was cut short in a no-nonsense style that matched the expression in his brown eyes. Even though she knew better, his digs about her profession had stung. What had happened to make him feel so negative toward psychology? Had a suspect he’d arrested gotten off because of a psychologist’s testimony? Had a friend’s mental illness been misdiagnosed?

If she knew the basis for Brent’s hostility, she might be able to help him reevaluate the experience. Of course, getting him to open up wasn’t going to be easy. But then, few agents arrived at her office ready to pour out their hearts and souls. She had to build trust slowly.

“Most of the agents I know dreamed of a career with the Bureau when they were young,” she said. “Was that the case for you, too?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“How long have you been an agent?”

“Seven years.”

She judged him to be in his late thirties, so his answer surprised her. “Why did you wait so long to apply?”

He frowned. “Who says I waited?”

“Well, I’m guessing you were older than the average recruit when you joined. There must be a reason for that.”

“Oh, there’s a reason, all right,” he muttered.

She waited for an answer that didn’t come. Finally, she prompted, “Are you going to give me a hint?”

Silence from the other side of the car.

She’d wanted to get him talking but had struck a nerve instead. Nice going, Freud.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “When you were a kid, did you dream of becoming a shrink?”