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  He leaned closer until his face was a scant two inches from hers. “Yeah, and you already chewed my ass out for that. But what you haven’t done yet is take any responsibility for your own actions.”

  “My actions?” Trista nearly choked on the renewed flash of anger.

  “Lady, you failed to file an incident report, which the agency considers to be a breach of protocol. Protocol that exists to protect you and this country.”

  Trista slammed her hand on the table, making her glass jump. “If you want to talk about breaches of protocol, revoking my clearance was a breach of protocol. They shouldn’t have done it. There was no connection to the attack and my job.”

  Matt shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

  “And neither does anyone else. That’s my point.” She threw up her hands. “Don’t you think revoking my clearance was a bit extreme under the circumstances?”

  “That’s not my area of expertise and not my call to make. I don’t work in the world of cyberspace or the black net. If you think they overreacted, then you should talk to your supervisor.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Don’t you think I tried that?”

  “And?”

  “Aaand,” she said, dragging out the word for effect, “both my supervisors refused to listen. I’m on the beach until this is resolved, whenever that is. Probably when I’m old and gray.”

  When Matt chuckled, she glared at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are.” He chuckled again. “You’re cute when you get all riled up.”

  “You bast—”

  “Relax.” He held up his hand. “Let’s examine the facts. Did you get fired?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Now it was his turn to give her a duh look. “Well, okay. Except for not filing that report.”

  “Did they suspend you?”

  “No.” She reached for her glass of Scotch, grimacing at the realization it was empty.

  “So it’s a paid vacation.”

  “You don’t get it.” She breathed a heavy sigh and pressed the empty glass to her forehead. “This job is my life. Without it, I have nothing.”

  When he clasped her wrist, tugging her hand from her forehead, the warmth of his touch zinged straight to somewhere deep inside her core.

  “You said that to me once before, and I don’t believe it. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “N-no.” She groaned. It was back. For a few minutes there, she’d been doing great.

  Releasing her wrist, he leaned back in his chair, his forehead creasing. “I came here tonight for another reason. I want to apologize again for kissing you. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

  Seriously? Could he have bruised her ego and pooped on her day any more than he had already? This was the second time he’d apologized for giving her what was unequivocally the most intensely passionate kiss she’d ever experienced. Apparently, though, she’d been the only one enjoying it.

  “Say something,” he prodded.

  Like what? Like, I’m disappointed?

  “Don’t worry about it.” She grabbed the bottle of Dalwhinnie, uncorking it with a resounding pop, then pouring two fingers. “I g-get it.”

  “Get what?” He growled.

  She paused with the glass a half inch from her lips. “Guys like you don’t kiss women like me.”

  His expression blanked. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning—” Hot, gorgeous men like you don’t kiss plain women like me, let alone one who can’t even speak a complete sentence without stammering like a babbling idiot. “N-nothing. It means nothing. So, if that was the second thing you came here to say, you can leave now. For that matter, why did you really come here? You could have just called or t-texted.”

  He pursed his full lips and began strumming his fingers on the table, as if he was deep in thought. “I needed to see for myself how you were. To ask you in person.”

  “Why?” A tiny sliver of hope made her think he might actually care. Get real, Trista.

  “I was worried about you. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “I’m n-not your responsibility.”

  “Yes, you are.” Leaning forward, he rested his hand on her forearm and again his touch affected her like no other man’s. Her body felt like a computer that had just gotten a high-speed upgrade and was now totally aware of everything.

  It was impossible not to glance down at his strong, tanned hand. Or to note how his long, scarred fingers contrasted with the paleness of her skin. Not for the first time, she wondered what had made those scars.

  “Every employee in the CIA is my responsibility,” he continued.

  “Do you personally visit everyone you feel”—she hooked the fingers of her free hand into quotation marks—“responsible for?”

  “No, I just—” A look of what she could only describe as bewilderment came over his features. “Hell, I don’t know why I came here.” When he removed his hand from hers and sat back, her heart sank with disappointment. She must have been off her rocker to think he truly cared about her.

  Men like him don’t go out with women like me.

  With that essential tenet properly repositioned in her common sense, she took a deep breath and rose. “Thank you for coming, Sgt. Connors. Rest assured, you have done due diligence and fulfilled your obligation to verify I am indeed still living and breathing. I’ll see you out.”

  Turning, she went to the front door and opened it, but when she looked back, he hadn’t budged from his position at the table. Rather, he’d crossed his arms and was staring at her, doing that scowling thing again.

  With their gazes locked for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only seconds, confusion clouded her thoughts. What in the world is going on here? Why won’t he leave?

  Finally, he pushed up from the table and came to stand by her at the open doorway. His perpetual scowl softened. “I’m worried about you.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You saved me, and I’ll always be grateful. But as Detective Sorensen said, it was a random attack.”

  The deep sound Matt made in the back of his throat led her to believe he disagreed with Detective Sorensen’s assessment.

  “I went back to the woods behind the Moose,” he said. “Sheba found a piece of bloody cloth. The police lab is running it through CODIS. If they get a hit, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you,” she said, trying not to breathe too deeply lest she inhale his appealing scent.

  “Call me anytime, day or night.”

  “I w-won’t.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut. After bestowing her with one last scowl, he turned and headed down her front steps.

  When the door clicked shut behind her, she retrieved her glass from the kitchen table and took a healthy slug. Matt hadn’t bothered to tell her what CODIS was. He knew she was an analyst and understood she’d be familiar with virtually every database in existence.

  Since 1990, the Combined DNA Index System contained profiles from samples taken of anyone arrested. If the police lab got a hit in CODIS, it would mean her attacker had a criminal history. It would also mean they would then know the identity of the man who’d tried to hurt her.

  A cold, terrifying shiver ran through her. With a shaky hand, she placed the glass on the table and ran to her front door, slamming home the dead bolt. Her pulse quickened as she raced to check the back door and all the windows in the remainder of the house. When she was satisfied her house was secure, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Meow.

  Poofy sat in the middle of the hallway floor, his long, fluffy white tail swishing back and forth. Sorely needing feline comfort, she scooped the cat up and sat with him on her living room sofa. Poofy’s soft, rumbly purring against her chest soothed her itchy nerves.

  Why did Matt really come to my house?

  He could have just called or texted, although she had to admit that she hadn’t minded him showing up unannounc
ed. There was something about the man that got to her, and it wasn’t just his incredible good looks or all those manly muscles. There was an intensity about him, something dark and brooding just below the surface. Stupidly, she wanted to know what it was. Her interest in him was perplexing, but it was there. Plain as day.

  Poofy stretched up a paw to her chin, and she took it in her hand, stroking her fingers along his fur. Much softer than a dog’s paw, she imagined. Although she wouldn’t know, since she’d basically never touched a dog in her entire life. Not by choice, anyway.

  An old, frightening memory clawed its way to her thoughts, and she squeezed her eyes shut, struggling unsuccessfully to push it back into the box containing old images she’d rather forget.

  She’d been six years old, in a park in St. Petersburg with her mother, who’d gotten distracted reading one of her computer magazines and didn’t see the dog charging through the playground. Trista had been sitting on the ground, blissfully playing, when the dog attacked, snatching her doll away from her. Even though the animal hadn’t bitten her, the experience of being so helpless and frightened had forever left her petrified of dogs.

  Being a K-9 officer, Matt could probably never understand that.

  Resentful and exasperated didn’t begin to describe how she felt about him. He’d single-handedly ruined her life by undermining the most important thing in her world: her job. She should have known he would have to file his own report whether she did or not. He was a cop, and they always filed reports. But her issue with him ran deeper. He piqued her on a basic, feminine level she hadn’t seen coming. He was altogether too…too…male.

  When she was around him, she couldn’t think straight. Hell, she couldn’t talk straight, either. Except when they were arguing about something. During those conversations, her brain had backed up her tongue with glib expertise, and she hadn’t stammered once. Why was that?

  And he would have to have a dog as a partner. The dog was an extension of him. Even Poofy smelled her on Matt when he’d tried to pet him. A shudder ran through her. Just thinking about Matt’s dog made her edgy.

  Sheba. Pretty name for a vicious dog. Or, at least, she assumed the dog was vicious. Then again, Sheba had bitten her attacker, then given chase and ripped off a piece of his clothing. Remote as it might be, that bloody cloth could become useful evidence if her attacker was in CODIS.

  Dog aside, if Matt hadn’t ruined her life, she might like the guy. She’d certainly enjoyed his kiss.

  Groaning, she let her head fall back against the cushion. “I more than liked it,” she whispered, running her hand over Poofy’s back. In response, the cat began purring, nuzzling her belly, his eyes big and blue as he demanded even more attention.

  Instead, Trista closed her eyes, touching two fingers to her lips and rubbing them back and forth, imagining Matt’s mouth on hers. Warm, curly tingles wound their way to her nipples, hardening them to the point where they jutted sharply against the thin fabric of her tank.

  Poofy meowed, interrupting the direction of her X-rated thoughts. Get real. Fantasizing about kissing Matt again was about as realistic as her ever loving dogs. She needed to find something productive to do with all this time to kill.

  Easing Poofy from her lap, she gently deposited him on the floor. “Sorry, I’ve got work to do, Poof.” The cat glared up at her, unblinking, as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually had the gall to dethrone him. Then in true discontented feline fashion, Poofy turned his tail on her and stalked regally into the hallway.

  “Cats.” She giggled, shaking her head as she got up and sat at her desk. Immediately, the purple-and-black icon on her laptop’s toolbar caught her eye. Dark Curtain. Though she’d developed the program herself, it had been while employed by the CIA, making the program CIA property. If anyone knew she’d installed it on her personal laptop, that would be the breach of CIA protocol, not being the victim of a random attack outside a bar.

  For all intents and purposes, she’d been suspended from her job, whereas what she was pondering could get her fired. It was a risk, but her job really was everything to her. If she couldn’t work officially, she’d do it unofficially. “Should I do it, Poofy?” The cat eyed her from the hallway then stalked back into the living room and stretched, arching its back with its tail high in the air. With the grace and agility of a gazelle, he hopped onto the far end of the sofa and curled into a fluffy white ball. “I know I shouldn’t, but who will know besides you and me?” No one. And it would be worth it to maintain her sanity while she was stuck at home.

  Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she double-clicked the icon and, when the program opened, typed in the name she’d heard in Karakurt’s chat room: Iqaluit.

  Chapter Eight

  The digital clock on his personal F-150’s dashboard told Matt it was well after midnight, and he was already late to meet his friends at the Moose. They’d driven in earlier in the day while he’d been working, and the small parking area south of his house was now jammed with other K-9-equipped Explorers.

  As he drove past the lot and onto the main road, he yawned. All these double shifts were killing him, and he’d never quite caught up on sleep since pulling an all-nighter the evening Trista was attacked. That had been four days ago. Now it was Friday, and as much as he could use a quiet, uneventful night at home, followed by an equally quiet weekend working on his place, he was looking forward to hanging with the guys.

  It had been over a year since he’d seen any of them, but when they hooked up, it was as if they’d never been apart. Going through basic training with them had forged an iron-tight bond. They were like his brothers. Each of them would be there to back him up without question, and he’d do the same for them in a heartbeat.

  As he drove past Trista’s exit, he found himself asking the same question over and over. Why had he gone to her house? She’d been right, of course. Calling her would have accomplished the mission of finding out how she was doing and to ask her questions. But then he wouldn’t have been able to see her in person, and fuck, that was why he’d done it.

  You wanted to see her, you dumbass. You want to get to know her better.

  Part of Trista Gold was exactly as he’d surmised. She was an intelligent, analytical genius. Sure, he’d suspected there was something else hiding beneath that drab gray, but what he’d discovered had blown him away. Whether she realized it or not, she was an intriguing combination of sexiness and brains. He couldn’t deny it. He liked her…to the point where when her friend Kevin had invited her to stay with him, a seriously annoying prick of jealousy rankled his ass. In fact, it bugged the shit out of him, and the thought had him gripping the wheel tighter.

  When he’d arrived at Langley, he’d researched most of the employees. Without clearance, the only thing he’d managed to discover about Trista’s current assignment was that it had something to do with the Russians. On the personal side, agency gossip didn’t reveal Trista and Kevin were an item. Acknowledging that he’d even checked them out pissed him off even more. He had no business being jealous of who she stayed the night with. And yet…curiosity had him wondering whether she slept in plain cotton jammies or something sexy, like silk or satin.

  He grinned. Based on what she’d been wearing when she answered the door a few nights ago, he’d guess cotton. But holy hell, she wore plain cotton like no other woman could. One look at those skimpy shorts and snug tank top, and he’d nearly swallowed his tongue.

  The shorts barely covered the shapely globes of her ass and a tiny waist, and the tight tank clung to a pair of full breasts, stretching the material to the point where he could totally envision how perfectly they would fit in his hands. When she’d leaned over to pick up her cat, he’d gotten a tantalizing view of creamy, mounding flesh. Enough of a view that his pulse had pounded faster, and he’d had to shift positions to hide the stiffening erection pushing against the zipper of his uniform pants.

  Thinking of Trista had him reassessing relationships he’d had with wom
en. They were always temporary, and he knew that going in. Occasionally, one of the women he hooked up with got hurt, mistakenly believing there was more to what they shared than just sex. But usually, they understood he wasn’t looking for commitment, let alone permanency.

  Exiting the highway, he turned onto the road that would take him to the Moose. Jerry would have liked the place…had he lived. Jerry’s birthday and the anniversary of his death were on the same day. November 2. Groaning, Matt ran a hand through his hair.

  In a few weeks, one member of Matt’s family or another would come knocking on his door, inviting him to attend the fundraiser banquet that not only honored Jerry but raised money for a different charity each year. Jerry’s folks had been holding the banquet every year on the same day since Jerry died. Not once had Matt attended. He couldn’t. Ever. He could never face Jerry’s parents again, and nothing would change that.

  Up ahead, the Moose came into view, and as he pulled into the lot and parked, he automatically scanned the area where Trista had been dragged into the woods. Shoving the gearshift into park with more force than necessary, he realized the extent of his anger toward her unknown assailant. The asshole was still out there, and if Matt ever got his hands on the guy, he’d pummel the shit out of him all over again.

  Trista might have more brains than most, but she was so slight she was helpless against anyone who tried to harm her. The world was such a dangerous place these days. In his opinion, every woman should take some form of self-defense training.

  Less than a second after pushing open the door to the Moose, he spotted his friends at the end of the packed bar. Since they all towered over pretty much everyone else, it was hard to miss them. And, naturally, they were the rowdiest crew there, shouting and slapping one another on the back.

  Friends aside, the Moose was definitely hopping. Loud music pumped from large overhead speakers, reverberating in his ears. Laughter and voices came at him from the many tables crammed with patrons.

  “Matt!” Nick Houston, a sergeant with the Massachusetts State Police, met him before he even made it to the bar, then bear-hugged him, lifting him clear off his feet. The sincerity in Nick’s steel-gray gaze confirmed that his best friend really had missed him.