Torn between duty and desire, two strangers must risk all for love

Nuclear physicist Dr. Claire Fleming has one rule: never get close to anyone. But when her colleague is murdered and she’s targeted next, she must place all her trust in FBI agent Thomas Kincannon. Soon Claire forgets her tenet as she fantasizes about Thomas’s touch.

Thomas is wildly attracted to Claire. But his life and his job are too complicated for any romantic entanglements. Despite this, they share a mind-blowing kiss, and there’s no turning back. When Thomas’s niece is abducted, the stakes become dangerously higher as Claire insists he trade her for the child. Somehow, Thomas must find a way to rescue his family and protect the woman who let her protective walls down just for him.

“You know I care about you.”

She held him a moment longer, then rose up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his mouth.

The contact arced through him, setting all his nerve endings on fire. She met his eyes for a beat, then kissed him again.

He groaned and opened his mouth, giving her the access she sought. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her, let her take away the stress and worry and anxiety about everything.

It felt so good to be holding her, touching her, and yet…. He pulled back, framing Claire’s face with his hands. “We should slow down,” he said, in a voice too unsteady to be trusted.

“Let me do this for you,” she whispered, kissing his chin. “Let me help you tonight.”

“Are you sure? If we go much further, I won’t want to stop.”

“Who’s asking you to?”

Dear Reader,

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve had a crush on Thomas ever since he appeared in my first book, Deadly Contact. And what’s not to like? He’s charming, funny, handsome, smart, and he has a fierce protective streak. In short, he’s the perfect romance hero.

Thomas was originally supposed to play a small role in Deadly Contact, but he very stubbornly tried to steal all his scenes. That’s when I knew he had his own story to tell, and once I stopped fighting him and started listening to him, I realized he was more than just a pretty face.

I really enjoyed working on this book. It was a roller-coaster ride of ups and downs, and I hope I’ve done his story justice. Thomas and Claire both hold a special place in my heart, and I hope you enjoy getting to know them as much as I did!

Lara

Fatal Fallout

Lara Lacombe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LARA LACOMBE

I earned my Ph.D. in microbiology and immunology and worked in several labs across the country before moving into the classroom. My day job as a college science professor gives me time to pursue my other love—writing fast-paced romantic suspense, with smart, nerdy heroines and dangerously attractive heroes. I love to hear from readers! Find me on the web, or contact me at laralacombewriter@gmail.com.

MILLS & BOON

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For the redheads in my life: Will, Josh and Toby Love you guys!

Many thanks to Rachel Burkot, Patience Bloom and the team at Harlequin.

Thanks also to Jessica Alvarez. Y’all are the best!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

“Dr. Fleming, can you comment on the recent alarm at the Central Virginia nuclear reactor after Tuesday’s earthquake?”

“Dr. Fleming, is nuclear power safe?”

“Is the public in any danger?”

Claire Fleming pasted on a smile as she turned to face the handful of reporters standing on the sidewalk outside the Nuclear Safety Group’s building. She’d known these questions would be coming, but had hoped to at least get a cup of coffee first. Mornings were tough enough without facing a barrage of questions, and she didn’t feel human without that first cup of java.

“I want to assure people that there was no accident at the Central Virginia nuclear plant. The reactor experienced a low-level alarm following the earthquake, but the emergency systems kicked in without a problem, and at no time was the public in danger. Nuclear power continues to be one of the safest options for meeting the growing energy needs of our country.”

One of the reporters—a short, round woman sporting large glasses and a frown—finished scribbling and opened her mouth to ask a follow-up question. Claire held up a hand before she could speak, shooting her what she hoped was an apologetic smile. “We’ll be having a press conference later today, and I’d appreciate it if you hold the rest of your questions until then.”

The small group grumbled but began to disperse, freeing Claire to walk into the building. She waited until the elevator doors closed, then leaned back against the wall and rubbed her forehead. What a mess.

The minor earthquake the day before yesterday had been a wake-up call. Although it was only a four on the Richter scale, the tremors were strong enough to trigger emergency shutdown procedures at the Central Virginia plant. While things had gone off without a hitch, it was only a matter of time before an accident happened. The plant was one of the older ones in the region and needed constant updating, and given budget shortfalls, money was tight. Paradoxically, Central Virginia’s stellar safety record put it at the bottom of the list for repairs—a fact that aggravated Claire to no end.

She strolled past the reception desk with a quick smile for Eva. “I left you a gift on your desk,” the woman called out.

“Is it coffee?” Claire asked, unable to keep the note of desperation out of her voice.

Eva shot her a sly grin. “Maybe.”

“Oh, you are a goddess.”

Eva’s laugh followed her down the hall. She stepped into her office and there, on the middle of the desk, sat the distinctive black-and-white cup from her favorite coffee shop. She dropped her bag on the floor and snatched it up, holding it under her nose for a second to inhale the blissful aroma. Taking a sip, she nearly groaned aloud as the rich brew hit her tongue. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Morning.”

Jerry Witter stood in the doorway, his large frame leaving little room for anything else. “Hey Jerry, how’s it going?”

He shrugged and stepped inside her office, rubbing a hand over his bushy goatee before replying. “All right, I suppose. Had to shoot me a dog last night.”

She blinked, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “You shot a dog?” she repeated slowly, trying to understand. The lack of caffeine must be getting to her.

“Yep. There was a dog in my garage last night.”

“I see. Did you know this dog?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Seemed mean though. Kept jumping up on the door, barking and snarling at me. I read his owner’s number off the tag on his collar and called. They’re out of town, told me to just send him home.” He shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

She shook her head, sinking slowly into her chair. “So what did you do?”

“Well, I threw some hot dogs out there, but the dog kept coming back inside the garage before I could get the door shut. I can’t have a vicious dog by my house—what if he hurts one of my girls?”

Claire nodded, not sure she wanted to hear the end of this story.

“So I got my gun and shot him.”

She felt her jaw drop as she stared up at him. “Jerry, why didn’t you just call animal control?”

“What for?” He looked genuinely confused, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “I took care of it.”

“But...” She searched for something to say, trying hard to relate to a man whose first reaction to a problem was to pick up his gun. “You can’t just kill people’s pets when they annoy you!”

“I didn’t kill him.”

She frowned, confused. “You said you shot him.” I haven’t had enough coffee for this.

“Yeah, but I used rubber bullets. He took off like his tail was on fire,” he said, chuckling at the memory.

She smiled weakly. “Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“I ’spose so. Did you have a good night?”

She sighed, taking another sip of coffee. “Not bad. Prepping for damage control after this earthquake.”

He snorted. “That wasn’t an earthquake. That was barely a tremor.”

“Yes, well.” She pulled her laptop out of her bag, placing it on her desk along with a number of other papers. “The Central Virginia alarm went off, so it’s news.”

“Yeah. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

“Thanks—I appreciate it.” She powered on her computer, taking another sip of coffee as it booted up.

Jerry turned to go but stopped at her door, snapping his fingers. “Almost forgot. Dr. Reed wants to bring me in on the Russian cleanup project, and he told me to get some contact information from you.”

“No problem. Give me just a second....” She typed as she spoke, pulling up her contact list. It would be good to have another person on this project. There were so many nuclear power plants in Russia, many crumbling and unsecured, making them prime targets for terrorists looking to steal radioactive materials. The NSG had teamed up with their Russian counterparts in the hopes of reducing the threat, but it was an uphill battle, and they needed all the help they could get.

The new-mail icon popped up at the lower right corner of her screen, signifying an unread message. She clicked out of habit, smiling when she saw the email was from Ivan Novikoff.

“Actually, Ivan just emailed me, so I’ll forward this message to you and you’ll have his information.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” He walked out, his movements surprisingly quiet for such a large man.

She clicked to open the email, frowning as a picture began loading. That was strange. Ivan never sent images—he was hyperparanoid about security, not wanting to risk his messages being intercepted and used against him. Concerns regarding the safety of nuclear power already ran high, and there were many protest groups who would not hesitate to take images out of context and use them to needlessly scare people.

She reached for her coffee as she glanced at the screen, then gasped. The cup fell from her nerveless hands, hitting the floor and splashing the burning liquid on her legs. She ignored the stinging pain as she focused on the image in front of her, trying to process what she was seeing.

No.

She shook her head, putting a fist to her mouth to contain the scream that clawed up her throat. No!

Leaning over, she retched into the trash can next to her desk. Suddenly Jerry was there, his hand on her back, his voice a buzzing drone in her ears.

“Ivan...”

She knew when Jerry saw the image by his sharp intake of breath. He reached out a hand, slamming down the lid of her computer. “Don’t look at that,” he said, his voice gruff.

She nodded, but it was too late. The image was burned into her brain. All she had to do was close her eyes to see Ivan, her friend and collaborator, lying in a pool of his own blood, the horrible words painted in jagged red script across his chest.

You’re next.

* * *

“Again!”

Thomas looked down into his niece’s smiling face and couldn’t help but grin in return. “Okay, but this is the last time.”

Emily watched in wide-eyed fascination as he pulled out his badge and flashed it at her. “Freeze!” he said in his best tough-guy voice. She dissolved into a fit of giggles, nearly crumpling to the floor in hysterics. Her reaction would have worried a lesser man, Thomas mused as he bent to scoop her up. Still, as long as he didn’t have to bust a five-year-old girl anytime soon, he was probably intimidating enough to do his job.

“Let’s go, squirt. We’re gonna be late.”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” she said in the tone of a long-suffering victim.

He set her on the floor with a pat on the shoulder. “Go kiss your mom goodbye, but be quiet so you don’t wake her.”

Emily ran down the hall, slowing as she approached her mother’s bedroom. She carefully pushed open the door and entered on tiptoe. Thomas smiled as he watched her golden ponytail disappear into the dark room, then turned to press a kiss to his mother’s temple. “Have a good day, Ma.”

“You, too, dear.” She patted his cheek. “Be safe today.”

“Always.”

Emily reappeared, closing the door with exaggerated care. “I’m ready,” she said as she approached Thomas.

He handed her the pink-sequined backpack, let her struggle into it on her own. He’d made the mistake of trying to help her once, and the resulting fit had drawn Jenny from her bedroom. His sister-in-law worked nights at the hospital and needed her sleep, and she hadn’t been happy about being roused after only an hour of rest to calm down her hysterical daughter.

“Bye, Nana.” She reached up to hug his mother, who bent with effort to wrap her arms around the girl. She was moving slower and slower these days, but she still insisted everything was fine. He supposed it didn’t take much effort to watch Emily at night while Jenny worked, but even so, he worried about her health.

“Goodbye, sweet girl. Have a great day at school.”

Emily let out another sigh. “I’ll try.” She reached up to take Thomas’s hand, leading him out of the apartment.

“Is everything okay at school, Em?” They walked down the stairs together, hand in hand, her eyes on the floor while she carefully navigated the steps.

“I guess.”

“Is anyone bothering you?”

“No.”

“Do you like your teacher?” he pressed. The FBI had courses on the best methods to use when interrogating children, but he hadn’t taken any of them since most of his investigations focused on adults. Now, faced with a recalcitrant niece, he wondered if maybe he should sign up for the next session.

Emily shrugged as he opened the passenger door. “She’s okay.” She climbed into the car, wriggling out of her backpack and setting it on the floor before reaching for the seat belt.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. “It just seems like you don’t want to go to school.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

He pulled into traffic, giving her time to think about her response. The silence went on for so long that he was about to ask her again when she said quietly, “I miss my dad.”

His heart clenched at the admission. He reached for her hand, gave it a squeeze. “I miss him, too, sweetie.”

Roger, his brother, had died in a car accident six months ago, but the details of that horrible day were never far from his mind. The afternoon phone call from his mother. The frantic drive to the hospital. The stale waiting-room coffee as they huddled together, waiting to hear if the doctors had worked a miracle. Jenny’s piercing scream when the surgical team walked over, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. And Emily’s pale, tear-streaked face after he told her the earth-shattering news.

Roger’s death had left a gaping hole in Jenny and Emily’s lives, one that Thomas had tried to patch, albeit with limited success. While he never wanted to replace her father, he did want Emily to have a male presence in her life, a man who loved her unreservedly and without question. He had begun taking her to school in the weeks after Roger’s death, stepping into the role Roger had performed so well. At first, Emily had been reserved and tearful, but she’d gradually begun to warm up to seeing him more often, and he treasured their mornings and the routine they had built. It was a small but important step on the path of healing.

But it was a bumpy road, as evidenced by Emily’s quivering lip. “All the other kids have dads,” she said in a wobbly voice. “I don’t understand why mine had to die.”

“I don’t either, love. Nobody understands it.” He ached to pull her into his lap for a hug, but contented himself with holding her hand as he kept his focus on the road. From the corner of his eye, he could see her lips press together in a pale line and knew she was trying hard not to cry. My sweet, brave girl.

She was quiet for the rest of the drive. He didn’t press her to talk—he wanted to be a safe place for her, and if he pestered her, she would withdraw from him. He pulled up to the curb in front of the school, then turned to face her.

“Try to have a good day, Emmycakes.” It was his pet nickname for her, a play on her name and patty-cake, her favorite game as a little one. The name never failed to make her smile, and it didn’t disappoint now.

She grinned up at him, her earlier sadness cast off like a discarded coat. “I will. You, too, Uncle Thomas.”

He smiled at her serious tone. “I’ll do my best,” he assured her.

She leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, then climbed carefully out of the passenger seat. He watched while she made her way up the steps to her teacher. He gave the woman a wave as she collected Emily and guided her inside along with the other children, then merged back into traffic.

Must be nice, he mused, thinking how quickly she had gone from tears to smiles. Would that his own grief and sadness were as easy to shake.

Although he understood on a logical, rational level that his brother’s death hadn’t been his fault, he couldn’t dismiss the guilt that plagued him at the thought of Roger.

I should have taken Mom....

After a late-winter storm had pounded the city, his mother had called needing a ride to a doctor’s appointment. Buried at work, Thomas had asked Roger to cover for him. Since he was off duty at the time, Roger hadn’t hesitated to hop in the car and head over to their mom’s house. It should have been just another drive, a normal errand, nothing to write home about.

Except for the garbage truck that hit a patch of ice and slammed into the car, crushing it and his brother in the blink of an eye.

For the first few weeks after the accident, Thomas had woken almost nightly, soaked with sweat and with a scream trapped in his throat. The nightmares were graphic and all too real, the accident playing out in horrible slow motion while Thomas stood on the sidewalk, helpless to do anything but watch as his brother disappeared into a pile of twisted metal.

The images had gradually faded, but the worst part was that Thomas still couldn’t think about his brother without imagining Roger’s last conscious moments as he lay trapped in the wreckage. His pain. His fear. His worry for Jenny and Emily. He hoped that one day, he would be able to remember Roger without recalling the accident, but for now, thoughts of Roger just left him feeling raw, like he’d taken a bath in acid.

So he tried not to think about it.

With a shake of his head, he reached for the dial, wanting some music to distract him for the rest of the drive. No sense in brooding over a past he couldn’t change. In that way lay madness.

Before he could settle on a station, his phone rang. A quick glance at the lit display showed his boss calling, which was unusual. Agent Harper liked to keep track of the team, but he usually wasn’t overbearing about it. For him to call now, minutes before Thomas was due to show up at the office, meant something was going on.

“Kincannon here.”

“How close are you?”

Thomas bit back the urge to reply Good morning to you, too. Harper’s brusque tone made it clear his sense of humor was on vacation, and since Thomas still didn’t know him all that well, he decided to play it safe. “Five minutes, give or take a few.”

“I need to see you when you get in. Right away.”

“No problem,” Thomas replied to the dial tone. Snapping the phone closed, he tucked it back into his jacket pocket and pressed on the accelerator to beat a yellow light.

It sounded like Harper had a new case for him, an idea that had his pulse quickening with anticipation. Forget music—work was the best distraction.

* * *

Harper’s door was partially open, so Thomas gave it a perfunctory rap with his knuckles as he walked into the office. The older man looked up from his computer and gestured for Thomas to take a seat. He did, glancing about the room as Harper finished typing.

While Carmichael, his former boss, had been a bit of a pack rat, keeping papers and other bits of miscellany piled high on every flat surface, Harper was practically a monk by comparison. His desk was clear of everything but his computer, a cup of pens and pencils, a desk calendar and a single piece of paper. The filing cabinets were a new addition to the space, the neatly labeled drawers a testament to Harper’s organizational prowess. Thomas thought briefly of his own desk, which fell somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. Even though he wasn’t terribly messy, he had the fleeting thought that Harper would not approve of his filing system. Good thing the man stayed in his office most of the time.

“I have an assignment for you.”

Thomas returned his focus to the man in front of him, belatedly realizing Harper had stopped typing and was staring at him.

“What’s up?”

The older man winced slightly at his choice of words, and Thomas bit his lip to keep from smiling. He knew his casual speech bothered the buttoned-up man, and the small, rebellious part of him liked to poke the bear. One of these days it was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he didn’t care.

“Dr. Claire Fleming received a death threat this morning,” Harper informed him, pushing the paper across the desk toward him.

Thomas picked it up and glanced over the dossier. Claire Fleming. Thirty-two years old. Scientist with the Nuclear Safety Group. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t do her any favors, but he could see she was pretty enough, with her light hair piled atop her head and slightly plump lips under a straight nose. She didn’t look like the kind of person to inspire death threats, but there were a lot of unhinged people in the world.

“Why do we get the case?” Death threats usually stayed at the level of the local police, so there must be something more to the story.

“This particular threat came from Russia. Dr. Fleming’s contact, Ivan Novikoff, was killed yesterday, and she received a picture of his body with the threat.” Harper pressed a few keys, then flipped the monitor around so Thomas could see the gruesome photo.

“Has this been verified?” Ivan Novikoff lay sprawled in a puddle of blood, his open mouth an echo of the gaping wound in his neck. “You’re next” was written on the man’s white shirt, the reddish-brown of the letters a stark contrast to his pale skin.

“Yes. It’s legitimate.”

Thomas frowned. “Is State involved?”

Harper pressed his lips together, a sure sign of agitation. “They are...facilitating discussions with the Russians,” he said delicately, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their involvement. “We’re hoping to hear more from our counterparts regarding the circumstances surrounding Dr. Novikoff’s death.”

“Well, it wasn’t accidental, that much is clear.”

“Quite.”

Thomas set the paper back on Harper’s desk and stretched out his legs. “What are we doing?”

The older man regarded him with a level gaze. “There is no ‘we’ at this point. There is ‘you.’ And you will act as our contact with Dr. Fleming. I want you to stick by her side and keep her safe until we figure out what is really going on here.”

“You want me to act as her bodyguard?” Disbelief made the words come out a bit sharper than he intended, but Thomas didn’t bother to apologize. No way was he going to take a babysitting job when he had other cases to work, other responsibilities that needed his attention.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there kind of is. I’ve got other cases—I can’t just drop everything to hang out with this woman on the off chance someone tries to pull something.”

Harper narrowed his gray eyes, the atmosphere in the office growing decidedly chilly. “Agent Kincannon,” he began icily, “lest you forget, you are in a precarious position. After the debacle that was the Collins investigation, the suits upstairs want nothing more than to fire this entire unit. I am all that stands between you and the brass. You will go where I tell you, do what I tell you and take the assignments I give you without question, or you will find yourself without a job. Are we clear?”

Thomas felt his face heat but kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to protest that they had all done the best they could with the limited information they’d had at the time. It wasn’t their fault a crazy man had blown up part of the Smithsonian. Besides, the injuries had been minor and the group had brought in not one but two suspects. It really should have counted as a win, but the guys upstairs had no tolerance for deviations from the plan. In the end, Carmichael had fallen on his sword to protect the rest of the team, but it sounded like the big boys wanted more blood.

“Yes, sir,” he bit out, trying to keep his voice level.

Harper leaned back with a nod. “Very good. Dr. Fleming is still at her office, along with the local police and someone from computer crimes. I suggest you meet her there and introduce yourself. You’ll be spending a lot of time together in the coming days, so do try to be nice.”

Recognizing a dismissal when he heard it, Thomas stood and turned to leave. His fingers itched to fire off a mocking salute, but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would likely send Harper over the edge.

He paused at the threshold. “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear from the Russians?”

Harper nodded, already turning back to his computer. “Of course.”

Thomas frowned. He knew in his gut that something else was going on but had no idea what. He left the office, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck to massage away the tingling sensation dancing across his skin. Was it any wonder his alarm bells were ringing? Russians, nuclear scientists and death threats. All the makings of a disaster.

Pausing to grab a notebook from his desk, he headed back out to the car, softly whistling the James Bond theme music as he went.

* * *

“So it’s done?”

Victor rubbed the blade of his knife with a soft cloth, buffing the metal to a gleaming shine. “He’s dead.”

“Did you have any trouble?”

He held back the snort of laughter. Trouble? Of course not. Ivan Novikoff had been an easy mark, a soft, careless man. He hadn’t known he was being followed, hadn’t suspected a thing when Victor had appeared in his office. The man had even offered him coffee, for God’s sake. He shook his head. A stupid mistake, and the last one Novikoff had made.

“No trouble. It was quick and easy.”

“Not too quick, I hope.” The man’s voice took on a slight edge. Victor’s lip curled up in disgust. He didn’t torture people without reason. He prided himself on making a clean kill—to do anything else was a waste of time and talent. The only reason he’d written on the scientist’s shirt was because his employer had demanded it, and he was being paid very well for his efforts.

“The message was delivered as you requested,” he said, hoping to change the subject. The man on the other end of the line could be a bit stubborn, grabbing on to topics like a dog with a bone, and Victor wasn’t in the mood to relate the precise details of the job. He was paid to kill, not to give a play-by-play after the work was done.

“Good. And the papers?”

He hesitated a beat, knowing his employer wouldn’t react well to the news. “There were no papers.”

There was a pause, and Victor could practically feel the man’s anger build in the charged silence. Victor wasn’t happy about the missing documents either, but there was nothing to be done at the moment.

“Look, the job isn’t over yet,” he pointed out, hoping to stave off an explosion.

“You’re right, it is not.” His voice was lethally quiet, the cultured accent making his words seem even more dangerous. “You still have to take out Fleming. I hope, for your sake, she knows where the papers are. Otherwise, I will take it out on you.”

Victor sucked in a breath. He had known the threat was coming, but it still hit him like a fist to the gut.

“That won’t be necessary. I think she has them.”

“What makes you say that?”

He set the knife aside, smoothing out the cloth as he spoke. “I found a package receipt in Novikoff’s office. He’d sent a collection of documents to her the day before I got there, if the customs form is to be believed.”

“You should hope it is. I don’t have to remind you what happens to associates who disappoint, do I?”

The images flashed through his mind, a horrific movie reel of pain and blood and a final, merciful death. The Russian mafia wasted no time in meting out retribution in creatively gruesome ways, and Victor had no intention of experiencing it firsthand.

“No. I remember,” he said, suppressing a shudder.

“You have three days.”

Victor flipped the phone closed, carefully placed it next to the knife and smoothed his hands over his face. He was walking a tightrope, to be sure. Killing Novikoff had been easy enough, and while he didn’t relish the thought of killing a woman, it had to be done. The papers were the real target—Novikoff and Fleming were just collateral damage. There was no guarantee Fleming would have the papers he needed, though, and he knew that if he didn’t get them, his mission would be considered a failure.

Failure was not tolerated by the Bratva. Failure was punished. The greater the failure, the greater the punishment. It was that simple. And since he would not tolerate failure, would not give his employer the satisfaction of punishing him, he had only one option.

Kill the woman. Find the papers.

Survive.

Chapter 2

Claire sat on the sofa in the break room, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a vain attempt to control her shaking. Ivan was dead. Ivan, who had visited just two months ago, who had been so full of life and energy, tirelessly taking on the problems of safeguarding Russia’s nuclear material, was gone. And not just dead, but murdered in a horrific fashion. She blinked furiously to clear the tears that threatened to fall.

No crying. Not now. There would be time for that later, when she was home and could fall apart in private. But it just didn’t make sense. Who would want to kill Ivan? He was—had been, she corrected grimly—such a wonderful man. He had made it his mission to keep people safe, to ensure that the crumbling nuclear power plants in Russia were decommissioned safely, that their dangerous fuel sources were disposed of properly. He had been a force of nature, using humor, charm and sheer stubborn will to get the authorities to listen to him. He’d had his share of enemies, but in the years they’d worked together she’d seen that even those who disagreed with him respected him.

Or so she’d thought.

A uniformed police officer sat by the door, idly flipping through one of the Nuclear Safety Group’s newsletters. She didn’t understand why he had to stay with her—she’d much rather be alone right now to gather her thoughts—but the detectives had insisted on leaving someone here while they checked her office. They’d shooed her out the door, politely but firmly, giving her no choice but to retreat to the break room while they pored over her computer and files. Even though she didn’t keep anything personal in her office, she still felt a bit disconcerted by the knowledge that her things were being scrutinized by strangers.

You’re next.

Goose bumps broke out across her skin as the bloody image popped into her head again. Why? Who would want to target her? What had she done?

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a new face. A tall man stepped into the room, stopped to murmur something to the police officer who had looked up at his entrance, and then turned and walked over to the couch. He sat down, close but not crowding her, and gave her a small smile.

“Dr. Fleming, I presume?” His voice was deep and smooth, calming. She nodded.

“I’m Agent Thomas Kincannon, FBI.” He removed a badge from his jacket and held it out. She took it, inspecting the gold shield and picture ID. He looked so young in the picture, a fresh-faced boy probably just out of the academy. She glanced at his face as she returned his identification. The long nose was the same, but his cheeks were a bit leaner, and faint lines bracketed his mouth and feathered from the corners of his bright blue eyes. It would seem Agent Kincannon had grown up a bit since this picture was taken.

“Claire.” She relaxed her arms, stuck out a hand. Standing five foot eight, she’d never felt particularly small before, but when his large hand enfolded hers, she felt positively tiny. His skin was warm, and the brush of his fingertips against her wrist had tingles shooting up her arm.

What was she supposed to say to him? Nice to meet you was a lie, given the circumstances, but manners dictated she say something. He turned to glance at the officer by the door, and the light from the window caught Agent Kincannon’s hair, highlighting the mix of red, gold, amber and copper strands in the tuft that fell across his forehead.

“Your hair—it’s beautiful,” she blurted out. He turned to face her, eyebrows lifted and mouth twitching, and she wished desperately for the couch to open up and swallow her whole.

Where the hell did that come from?

“I always wanted red hair,” she muttered, knowing she sounded like a crazy person.

“Trust me, you don’t. I burn within five minutes of stepping outside. It’s like I’m a vampire or something.”

“I stay inside most of the time anyway, so it wouldn’t affect me.” Stop talking!

He merely stared at her with a faint smile, as if trying to determine if she was just socially awkward or if she’d skipped a dose of medication. Desperate to fill the silence, she rushed ahead. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I talk when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know what’s going on here. Ivan is dead, and I have no idea who killed him or why they would want to.” She paused to swallow, hating the tightness of her throat. It felt like a fist was squeezing her neck, making it hard to breathe or speak. Needing a distraction, she dropped her eyes to Agent Kincannon’s hands. His wrists were lightly dusted with red-gold hair, and a large silver watch peeked out from under his jacket sleeve. She focused on the blue watch face, tracking the second hand as it ticked around.

“And apparently someone is after me, too, but I don’t know why. It’s not logical. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything!” She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the morning’s events. A small part of her hoped this was all a bad dream, that she’d wake up in her bed and start the day over again. Things would go back to normal. But as she raised her eyes back up to Agent Kincannon’s face, his expression of pity made it clear her life would never be the same again.

“I know you’ve had quite a shock this morning,” he said, his voice kind and soothing. “But right now I want you to let us worry about finding out the who and why of this situation.”

She nodded, knowing she wasn’t much help in that department. “Have you already talked to the other detectives? They may have found something on my computer—I think they were trying to trace the email.”

He shifted a bit, giving her the impression he was uncomfortable with her question. “No,” he said after a few seconds. “I haven’t spoken with them. I’m actually here for you.”

What? That doesn’t make sense. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would the FBI send an agent for me? Shouldn’t you guys be looking for Ivan’s killer?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “We can’t interfere in the Russian investigation, which ties our hands a bit. Really, all we can do is wait and see if Ivan’s killer comes after you.”

Her stomach somersaulted as his words sank in. “So you’re saying I’m bait?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he assured her. “We’re not actually trying to lure the killer in. We just want to make sure you’re safe, on the off chance the threat to you does materialize.”

He made it sound as if she wasn’t in any danger, but his words did nothing to ease the leaden weight in her stomach. “I see.”

He stood, looming over her briefly before taking a step back. “There’s not really anything you can do here, so I can take you home or I can take you to my office. Your choice.”

Apparently, whatever she chose, she was now going to have a shadow. It might be safer for her at his office, but the thought of home was too tempting to pass up. She could brew a cup of tea, sink into her favorite chair and try to forget the image of her murdered friend. She may even be able to ignore Agent Kincannon and crawl back into bed, where she could cry for Ivan in peace.

“I’d like to go home,” she replied. Alone, preferably, but since that was not an option, she’d settle for his company.

Agent Kincannon nodded, holding out a hand to help her off the couch. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The drive to her apartment was quiet, with Claire speaking only to give him directions. It was just as well, because he didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry your friend is dead seemed a bit insensitive, even to him. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be up for conversation, so he wasn’t forced to make small talk.

She held herself carefully, as though she was in pain or would break if jostled. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a thin white line, and her eyes shone with that thousand-yard stare of shock he’d seen all too often on the faces of people who had suffered a life-changing blow. It was the same expression she’d worn when he’d entered the break room and found her sitting on the couch, lost in her own thoughts. He hated seeing that look on a woman’s face, hated the feeling of helplessness that rose up in him at the sight of her suffering. He was struck by the urge to act, to do something, but no amount of soothing words would fix what a killer had done to her.

Besides, it wasn’t his job to comfort her. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe from harm. Well, physical harm, anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her emotional pain, and she likely wouldn’t welcome any of his clumsy attempts to make her feel better. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and it was easier for both of them if it stayed that way. He had his hands full helping Jenny, Emily and his mother deal with their grief. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to help Dr. Fleming process hers, too.

She directed him to an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue, along a residential stretch of the busy thoroughfare. A wide sidewalk ran alongside the street, punctuated every few yards with small trees, the city’s attempt at beautification. It was a pleasant-looking neighborhood. The sidewalk was in good repair, if littered with fallen leaves, and a quick glance at the cars parked nearby confirmed his initial impression that this was a solidly middle-class area.

After taking a few steps into her apartment, Claire stopped and stared at the living room, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to figure out how and why she was there. Recognizing the signs of an imminent collapse, Thomas stepped forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We can talk once you’ve had some time to process everything.”

She nodded but made no move to head for a bedroom. He gave her a gentle push to get her started, and she walked mechanically down the hall until they reached her bedroom. The room was cool and dark and smelled faintly of lavender. He wasn’t surprised to find the bed neatly made, the pale yellow comforter spread smooth across the expanse of mattress. The quick glance he’d seen of her apartment had left the impression of a woman who liked organization, wanted everything kept in its place. Now that her life had been flipped upside down, the lack of control must be killing her.

He helped her pull the covers down, then knelt to tug off her shoes as she sat on the edge of the bed. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and he felt a sudden flare of heat as he pulled off the sensible brown pump to reveal the graceful arch of her foot, the pretty pink of her toenails. He’d never considered himself a foot man before, but he couldn’t deny the good doctor was lovely. What else was she hiding beneath her professional armor? The thought drew him up short and he reared back, almost falling onto his ass in the process. Get it together, Kincannon. One look at her toes and you’re drooling? Pathetic.

He stood abruptly, hoping she didn’t notice the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He glanced down at her and realized he could have paraded a brass band through her apartment without disturbing her—she was beginning to shut down, withdrawing further into her shell in a bid to block out the world. He recognized the impulse, having done the same thing after Roger’s death.

Moving woodenly, as if every gesture required more effort than she could bear, Claire stretched out on the bed and turned to her side, giving him her back. Interpreting the gesture as a dismissal, he stepped toward her bedroom door but paused when he realized he still held her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want them just dropped on the floor, so he arranged them carefully next to the hunter-green chair that sat in front of a mirrored dressing table.

“Thank you.” The words were soft but distinct in the silence of the room. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to the bed. She was so still, a pale statue that blended in with the light sheets.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” He pulled the door closed after him, leaving it slightly ajar, then made his way back down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, noting the window above the sink before moving on to the main room. The large room was lined with windows along the far end, giving the apartment a bright, friendly air. He walked over and drew the blinds down, effectively shrouding the room in a muted gray light. He was probably being paranoid, but there was no sense in making it easy for someone to see in.

The front door was the only entrance, which wasn’t ideal. He walked back into the kitchen and leaned forward to see out that window, nodding in satisfaction as he caught sight of the fire escape railing. He unlocked the window and gave an experimental shove, wincing when it shuddered up with a creaking protest. He briefly debated oiling the tracks. On the one hand, it would be tough to make a quiet escape this way, but it would also provide an excellent warning if someone was trying to get in. Deciding the advanced notice of an intruder outweighed the need for a stealthy exit, he pushed the window back down, locked it and drew the shade.

Opening the cabinet next to the sink, he was rewarded with the sight of rows of glasses lined up with military precision. He pulled one down and filled it with water, shaking his head. While his collection of glasses was a mixed bag of free cups and hand-me-downs from his mom or sister-in-law, Dr. Fleming’s were clearly of a set, uniform in appearance and size and all spotlessly clean. Her underwear drawer was probably the same way—white cotton panties all neatly folded and stacked...

Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? He had no business thinking about Dr. Fleming’s underwear, or her underwear drawer for that matter. Pushing the unsettling thought firmly out of his mind, he walked back into the main room, pausing before the bookshelves. There were a few photos on display, mostly of landscapes or landmarks from past trips. His eyes caught on a picture of Claire, smiling and happy as she sat beside Ivan Novikoff on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The older man had his head turned and was pressing a kiss to her hair as she grinned up at the camera. Interesting. Had they been an item? He was old enough to be her father, but maybe she preferred older men. It would certainly explain her shock at his death.

If Ivan Novikoff had gotten entangled in something dangerous or illegal, would he have told his lover? Not likely, Thomas mused as he moved to scan the other set of bookshelves. He’d probably wanted to keep her safe, and had thought that keeping her out of the loop would protect her. But protect her from what?

His position gave him access to lots of nuclear material, both spent fuel from aging reactors and potent radioactive fuel. There was quite a demand for radioactive supplies on the black market, and Ivan was the ideal supplier. As one of the people who kept track of nuclear material, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to fudge the records, divert a little bit of fuel at a time in exchange for money or power. And if he’d been in the business of selling radioactive materials, the kind of unsavory characters who were buying wouldn’t think twice about coming after his lover if he’d betrayed them.

If that was the case, the Russians wouldn’t work too hard to find his killer. If Ivan was part of an underground, black market arms trade, it would be hugely embarrassing for the Russians to admit that the man they had entrusted with the safe disposal of nuclear fuel had been selling it to terrorists and rogue states.

No, better for them to characterize his death as a random, horrible act, brush it under the rug and move on. Which meant it would be that much harder to figure out who had targeted Dr. Fleming.

Running a hand through his hair, Thomas set his glass on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Just as he flipped it open to dial Harper, Claire’s terrified scream rent the air.

* * *

Claire sat across from Ivan, enjoying his company as they drank coffee and talked. His daughter was a musician with the Moscow orchestra, and he was telling her about Anya’s latest performance, his eyes glowing with fatherly pride as he bragged about her violin solo.

“She was so beautiful,” he gushed, patting his pockets in search of something. “My phone—you must see the pictures.”

Claire nodded, sipping her coffee as Ivan pulled out his cell phone. His head bent in absorption, he carefully pressed buttons on the keypad, his bushy eyebrows drawing together as he searched for the images. While he fought with his phone, she let her gaze drift past the table, frowning when she noticed a dark, amorphous mass creeping forward. What was that?

She shivered as the smoky cloud drifted closer. There was something about it that seemed...malicious. As it drew nearer, she could see sparkles in the black fog as it glided across the ground, glints of light winking off something solid and metallic inside. It moved with such purpose that she knew it was heading for their table, and her heart began to pound, alarm sending spikes of adrenaline shooting through her limbs.

Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching out her arms to grab him, but came up with nothing. After a breathless moment, the shadow disappeared to reveal Ivan, slumped over the table, his normally pale skin coated in blood from the thousand shallow cuts that crisscrossed his face and hands.

Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”

“Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”

She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”

“I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”

She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.

She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.

Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.

Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?

She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.

She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.

The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.

“What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?

“You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”

He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”

The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.

“Fair enough.”

She moved to get out of bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?

Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.

“Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”

She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.

She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

Agent Kincannon seemed like a nice enough man, but she didn’t like having a stranger in her home, especially not when she was grieving the loss of Ivan. She wanted privacy so she could fall apart without fear of being overheard. The last thing she needed was for him to hold her again. She was hanging on to her self-control by a very thin thread, and further temptation would cause her to break, a reaction that would only make things worse.

After a few splashes of water, she patted her face dry and then quickly brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a serviceable ponytail. Her shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but she couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She didn’t really care how it looked anyway. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head out into the living room. I can do this.

She settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs up so she was curled into a ball. Agent Kincannon took the recliner, leaning forward to place a glass of water on the table next to her. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, absurdly touched by his thoughtful gesture. Not wanting him to see her emotional reaction to such an ordinary event, she reached for the glass, taking a small sip of water to wet her throat. “So, Agent Kincannon, where do we start?”

“How about we start with you calling me Thomas? We’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future, so I think we can dispense with the formalities, if that’s all right with you?”

Keeping her fingers wrapped around the glass, Claire nodded. “Okay,” she said carefully, feeling her way into this new conversational territory. “Where do we start, Thomas?”

He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of his soapy-starchy scent as he moved. He rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands together in a loose fist, expanding his imprint in the chair.

He’s so big, she thought, taken aback by how much space he occupied. She wasn’t used to having a man in her apartment, especially such a large man. Ivan had been slight of stature, whereas Thomas was tall and broad. She could reach out a hand and touch his shoulder without having to stretch. The room seemed to shrink around her as he focused on her face, the space collapsing until only the couch and chair remained.

“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Ivan?” His tone was friendly, belying the intensity of his gaze.

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you two close?”

She nodded. “I think so. We worked together for several years, so we got to know each other pretty well.”

He cocked his head to the side. “How well?”

She frowned, searching his face for a clue as to what he was really asking. His eyes were flat, expressionless—the blue of a quiet sea. No help there. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he cast a meaningful glance toward the bookshelf. She followed his gaze to the picture of herself and Ivan, taken two months ago during his last visit.

“I am so happy, milaya, my dear girl!” he’d said, using his favorite pet name for her. “The project is going very well, and I have you to thank for it.”

She smiled up at him, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. “It seems like we’re finally getting through to the government—they can’t just leave these sites unattended and hope for the best.”

“They are learning,” he replied, patting her shoulder. “They listen when a pretty woman talks, eh?” He winked at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, as if he took personal credit for her successful presentation.

“Were you romantically involved with him?” Thomas’s voice interrupted her memories, pulling her back to the room. He was watching her carefully, like a stalking cat, waiting to pounce on any weakness. Focus.

“No.”

He raised a brow, his doubt plain.

“No,” she said, this time with an edge. “We were not sleeping together.”

Thomas stood and walked to the bookshelf, picking up the photograph and studying it as if seeing it for the first time. “You seemed rather close,” he remarked, extending the frame to her, his tone oh-so-reasonable.

“He was my mentor,” she bit out from between clenched teeth. “He was like a father to me, and I won’t have you twisting that into something dirty, something it’s not.” Her hands tightened around the glass, fingers pressing into the sides so hard she could see the tips turn white as they flattened against the smooth, wet surface.

“Okay.” He set the frame back on the shelf, turned and walked over to the recliner, settling himself into the chair again. “Tell me about it.”

She shook her head, unsure of where to start. “We met five years ago. I had just started at the Nuclear Safety Group, and one of my first assignments was to provide support to the international decommission team, Ivan’s group.”

“What does his group do?” His voice was soft and unobtrusive, steering the direction of her story without distracting her. She kept her eyes focused on the water glass, tracing the lines of condensation while she spoke.

“They advocate for the safe and effective disposal of nuclear material from decommissioned nuclear power plants. There are a lot of plants in Russia that are crumbling in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, which is a huge security risk. In some places, it’s so bad that anyone could walk in and steal radioactive fuel. Ivan’s group pressed for greater security, tried to coordinate with the government to secure the money needed to provide it.”

“And you worked with him?”

“Yes. The first time I met him was at an NSG dinner. He was in town to drum up U.S. support for the latest round of talks with the Russian government, and I was seated next to him at the table. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and said, ‘My dear, you are too pretty for this job. No one will take you seriously. You should get out while you’re still young, find yourself a husband.’” She smiled wryly at the memory. “He was so...charming about it that I couldn’t get angry at him. Over the next few days, I sat in on the meetings and eventually convinced him that I knew what I was talking about. After that, he decided to take me under his wing and introduce me to his contacts in Russia.”

She paused, glancing up to find Thomas watching her, his gaze steady as he listened. He nodded encouragingly, so she took a deep breath and continued.

“That’s how we started working together. He was always very kind to me, making sure I was comfortable and included. He went so far as to introduce me to his family, take me to his daughter’s concerts, his wife’s dinner parties. I returned the favor when he was stateside, showing him around D.C. and keeping him fed and entertained when we weren’t in meetings. Not that kind of entertainment,” she said darkly, seeing his brows rise slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thomas replied, eyes wide with false innocence. She glared at him, but he merely smiled in return. “Was there ever any indication he was involved in something...shady?”

She shook her head forcefully, denying the question before he’d even finished asking it. “No. No way. Ivan was a good man—he’d dedicated his life to keeping these dangerous materials out of the wrong hands, and there’s no way he would have compromised that.”

“Not even for money? It sounds like securing these sites takes a lot of cash. Is it possible he was selling a bit on the side, not enough to be suspicious, but enough to fund some other operations?”

Claire blinked at him, not following this line of thinking. Was he serious? “Why would he do that? Why would he sell off spent fuel, only to turn around and use the money to keep spent fuel from getting into the wrong hands?”

“Maybe he didn’t think he was selling to the bad guys,” Thomas said, shrugging a shoulder as if he didn’t care either way.

“That’s not logical,” she pointed out, needing Agent Kincannon to understand the fallacy of his argument. “Anyone who wants spent fuel has questionable motives, and Ivan knew that better than most. He wouldn’t do that.”

Thomas leaned forward again, mouth drawn as he regarded her. “You have a bit more faith in Ivan than I do.”

“It’s got nothing to do with faith.” Exasperation made her voice shrill, and she paused to swallow the emotions tightening her throat before continuing. “It’s logic, plain and simple. Ivan wouldn’t do something so unreasonable.”

“You like things to be logical, don’t you?”

Was she seeing things, or did the corner of his mouth twitch upward? She arched an eyebrow, sending him what she hoped was a cool look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Okay, that really was a twitch.

“Not at all. I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate,” he said.

“And this is funny to you?”

The hint of a smile vanished from his face. “Absolutely not. I just want you to consider the possibilities.”

“But you’re wrong.”

He stared at her for a beat, then sighed, a teacher disappointed in his student. “You just told me that you and Ivan were close, that he took you under his wing and made you part of the family. Do you really think he would have included you in something like this?” When she didn’t respond, he pressed a bit more. “Or would he have tried to protect you, keep you out of the loop because he knew that it was dangerous and he knew you wouldn’t approve?”

Claire stared at her lap, her thoughts swirling like flakes in a snowstorm. Could he be right? If Ivan had been involved in something illegal, she knew he would have kept it from her. But...why would he do that? What would compel him to toss aside his values and morals and his entire career? He’d spent his whole professional life trying to keep this material out of the hands of people who would use it for evil, so why would he join forces with them now?

He’d been so excited during his last visit, so hopeful for the future. She refused to believe he’d been selling spent fuel on the side.

As if sensing her turmoil, Thomas leaned back in the chair, giving her space. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her face as she worked through his hypothetical scenario.

“I suppose what you say is possible,” she allowed, knowing she had to at least acknowledge the chance he was right, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t true. “But I don’t think that’s what happened here.”

Thomas nodded. “Fair enough. I just need you to consider the possibility that Ivan was not what he seemed.”

Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Thomas cocked his head toward the door, holding up a hand to keep her quiet. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer to her apartment. He rose silently from the chair and padded over to the door, sliding up to the peephole to watch. Claire shrank down into the couch, huddling into a small ball, her palms slick from sweat and condensation. Her heart thumped hard in her chest when the footsteps stopped outside her door. She jumped when the doorbell rang, eyes glued to Thomas’s broad back as he stared out into the hall. Who was at the door? Someone dangerous? Why wasn’t he moving?

She heard a faint beeping sound, then a thud. Whoever it was walked back down the hall, and as the sound faded, Thomas relaxed. He opened the door, bent down and turned back into the apartment, an express mail package in his hands. She sighed as she realized the visitor had been nothing more than a deliveryman, shaking her head at her over-the-top reaction.

“Are you expecting something?” He set the package on the table with a frown.

“No.” She scooted forward to examine it, reluctant to touch it while Thomas regarded it with such open suspicion. “Oh!”

“What?” He held out an arm to keep her from getting too close, alarm evident in his voice.

“I know that handwriting.” Ignoring his grunt of displeasure, she reached out to trace the letters of her name. She looked up at him, his face blurry as she blinked back tears. “This is from Ivan.”

Chapter 3

What the hell?

After a few tense moments, Thomas had agreed to open the package. He’d insisted on doing the honors himself—no telling what it contained, and if there was some kind of chemical or biological agent inside, better for him to be exposed than her. It was his job to protect her, and somehow, he didn’t think Harper would shed too many tears if he were to meet his untimely demise.

The envelope contained nothing more than a yellowing stack of papers, neatly clipped together in the upper left corner. Claire removed the paper clip and began to flip through the pages, her eyebrows drawing together as she looked them over. He could see they were covered in tiny rows of precise, dark script but couldn’t make out the language at this distance. He sat next to her on the couch, leaning over her shoulder to get a better view.

She smelled like lavender, and the neck of her shirt gaped open enough to show the edge of her bra strap. A soft pink that matched the color on her toes, not white as he’d assumed earlier. Cut it out, he told himself sternly. She’s a job, not a woman. Feeling disgusted with himself, he forced his eyes away from the enticing sight, focusing instead on the papers in her hand.

At this range, he could see the writing was Cyrillic. “Can you read this?”

She jerked at his question, and he realized she’d been so focused on the papers she hadn’t known he was close. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I don’t understand why Ivan would send these to me. He knows—” she swallowed hard “—knew I don’t speak Russian or read Cyrillic.”

“Maybe he knew he was under threat and sent them to you for safekeeping.”

“Maybe,” she said, still sounding doubtful.

He stood, reaching into his jacket for his phone. “We need to get them translated, the sooner the better,” he said as he dialed. “If there’s a message there for you, we need to know what it says.”

She said nothing as he relayed this latest development to Harper, who agreed with the necessity of a rapid translation. “Bring them in,” he said. “I’ll get the translator lined up.”

He turned to find her standing next to him, her eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “We need to take these papers to headquarters,” he told her, reaching out to take them from her. “My boss is lining up a translator for us.”

“Fine. Just give me a minute. I need to change my shirt.”

She walked down the hall, leaving him holding the papers. He busied himself tapping them into place and returning them to the envelope, anything to keep his thoughts from drifting to images of her without a shirt on, that pale pink bra on display....

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Not an option. Yes, she had a delicate beauty about her—the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck, the graceful lines of her jaw and brow—and right now, she did have the whole damsel-in-distress thing going on, which had his protective instincts flaring. It had felt good—too good—holding her as she woke from her nightmare. She had fit so perfectly in his arms, her head naturally tucking under his chin, as if she’d been made for that spot.

She had rallied quickly, though, and he knew underneath her tears and grief was a core of steel. He had to admire the way she’d held it together this morning, only letting her emotions out when she had surrendered to sleep. He could relate to that. He understood all too well what it cost to project an image of calm composure when grief and sadness and rage were boiling inside. God knew he’d done it often enough for Jenny, Emily and his mother.

Thomas shook his head and released a small sigh. Why was he having these feelings now, after months of apathy? Roger’s death had left him reeling, and he’d had no desire to start a relationship. Of all the times for his libido to wake up...

His brain recognized he had no business thinking about Claire outside the bounds of his professional responsibilities, but his body had felt her curves and wanted more.

“Not gonna happen,” he muttered, taking a long sip from his glass of ice water. Probably would have been more effective to pour it down his pants, but this would have to do. Besides, he thought, trying to use logic to appeal to his baser nature, Claire was dealing with a huge shock. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to hit on a woman who was in the throes of grief.

She won’t be sad forever, whispered his inner sixteen-year-old.

Damn.

* * *

Claire stared blindly at the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, her mind back on the papers and the man in her living room. He was too much...everything, she decided, reaching up to pluck a white blouse off the hanger. Too tall, too broad, too warm, too hard. His arms had made her feel safe and secure, and the steady thump of his heart under her ear had been a comforting rhythm. And that smell—soapy, clean, with the faintest hint of starch from his shirt. She could get lost in that smell, stay pressed against his chest for days. It would be the perfect escape from the nightmare her life had become.

Except it wouldn’t solve anything.

Shaking her head, she stripped off her wrinkled shirt and shrugged into the clean blouse. She had no business thinking of Thomas—Agent Kincannon, she corrected—as anything other than a man assigned to a case. A blanket of guilt settled over her shoulders as she remembered why he was here in the first place. Ivan was dead, and she was now a target.

But I’m not dead, a wicked little voice inside her head proclaimed. And if I really am marked for death, why not enjoy the time I have left?

Firmly shutting the door on that line of thought, she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into her slacks. She wished, now more than ever, she was the kind of woman who could have a no-holds-barred affair, to simply enjoy the physical pleasures of a relationship without letting her heart get involved. But she had tried that tack once before, and it had been a disaster. No, she thought, shaking her head as she smoothed a hand over her hair. Agent Kincannon might be quite nice to look at, and his touch might set her heart racing, but she knew all too well how things would end between them.

She didn’t have the best track record when it came to the people in her life, starting with the death of her adoptive father when she was eleven. It hadn’t been his fault, of course, but growing up, she’d harbored a lot of anger toward him for leaving her in the care of an adoptive mother who had never really wanted her to begin with. Dena had viewed her as a burden, something to be tolerated but never embraced. Her new husband had followed suit, and their apathy had turned to outright emotional neglect when they had a child of their own.

“Don’t call her that,” Dena had snapped when she overheard Claire refer to Amanda as “my sister.” “You’re not related to her.”

Despite everything, she had still loved the woman, trying everything in her power to please her. Because Claire had been adopted as a baby, Dena had been the only mother she’d ever known, and her rejections had stung each and every time. Eventually, though, Claire had learned a valuable lesson—no one could hurt her if she didn’t let them get close.

Now she made it a point to safeguard her heart, never granting anyone the power to hurt her. It was a safe, if sometimes lonely, way to live, but it kept her heart in one piece.

So, as much as she might enjoy his company, Agent Kincannon was not a risk worth taking. She consoled herself with the thought that he probably wasn’t attracted to her anyway. After all, she hadn’t exactly been at her best today. First she’d blurted out any number of awkward statements, making her sound like an escaped mental patient. Then she’d woken up screaming, another strong moment for her. Finally, she’d snotted all over his clean shirt and argued with him, all while looking like a hungover college student with wrinkled clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Oh yeah, she was quite the catch. He probably couldn’t wait to hand her off to someone else and get back to his swimsuit-model girlfriend.

He was standing by the windows when she returned to the living room, his back to her as he peeked through a crack in the blinds. “Is everything okay?” Had he seen something?

“Yeah.” He gave the street another quick scan, then turned to face her. “Everything is fine,” he said with an absent smile. “Just checking to see if anything is out of the ordinary.”

She felt the corner of her mouth lift, amused despite her resolve to keep him at arm’s length. “And how would you know what ‘ordinary’ is for this neighborhood?”

He tapped his temple with his forefinger as he walked over, carrying the papers in his other hand. “My extensive training and lethal instincts allow me to spot danger before it has a chance to appear. Why do you think they chose me to protect you?”

“Because of your modest and humble nature?”

He grinned at her, dimples appearing on his lean cheeks. “That, too.”

He passed her the papers as he walked to the door, checking the peephole before opening it. “Stay close, all right?” he instructed, all traces of teasing gone.

Suppressing a shudder, Claire hugged the papers to her chest and followed him into the hall.

* * *

Where the hell is the package?

Victor rummaged through another drawer, his patience running low as he pushed the contents aside in a desperate search for the papers. The deliveryman had confirmed the package had been dropped off, and since it was no longer on the welcome mat outside the door, she must have brought it inside. Unless he was lying to me...

He quickly dismissed the thought. He had been rather...convincing with his interrogation, and the man’s screams and pathetic begging hadn’t been faked. He wouldn’t have considered lying, wouldn’t have seen a reason to. The package had been delivered, all right, but it was now gone.

He stepped away from the desk, scanning the rest of the apartment as he considered his next move. He could wait here, but who knew when she’d be back? By now, she’d received his email and would know she was a target. Was she running scared, or would she go to ground? Probably the latter, he mused. Her dossier gave no indication she’d know how to evade him, so even if she was running, it wouldn’t be hard to track her down.

He wandered into the kitchen, considering his options. He could hide here, attack her when she came home and grab the package then. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. That would be the easiest thing to do. But then his gaze snagged on the glasses in the sink, incongruous in the otherwise spotless kitchen. Two glasses. One for her, and one for someone else.

Damn. She had protection. He hadn’t expected that so soon. He’d known it was a possibility, of course, had even suggested that to his employer. The icy voice on the other end of the line had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to do as he was told, no questions asked. They’d wanted Novikoff’s image sent to her, so he had done it. Part of him wondered now if they had wanted to make this job more difficult for him, to give them a convenient excuse to dispose of him later.

A cold ball of anger settled in his stomach. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Waiting in the apartment was out. She might come home with someone, and he needed to know what he was up against before making his move. Going back to the desk, he carefully rearranged the drawer, placing all the contents back in order. At first glance, she wouldn’t suspect anything was different. He needed to keep the advantage of surprise for as long as possible. He cast an assessing look around the apartment, making sure he hadn’t left anything out of place, then slipped out the door.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered, the promise hanging in the empty air.

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