there’s plumbing.”
That smile was the one she remembered from their first meeting, the one she had found so appealing, the one she had wanted to make happen. Now that she’d succeeded, she grew wary. Young’s smile made him far too sexy.
Careful what you wish for.
Grabbing her carry-on, she exited the car. Young hustled around to the trunk, retrieved his gear and set off along a narrow, winding path through the woods.
A pale sliver of moon glowed in the sky, lending just enough light for them to walk without tripping over rocks and tree roots. Their footfalls made rustling noises in the grass. Other sounds carried on the night air. Water lapped against the shore. Crickets chirped noisily. An owl hooted in the distance. Normally, being surrounded by nature calmed her nerves, but tonight she was on edge. Of course, adrenaline could still be coursing through her blood from being shot at. That explanation was certainly less perturbing than the other possibility: sexual awareness of her companion.
She walked faster, telling herself she wasn’t running away, she was merely anxious to reach her temporary accommodations.
A wooden structure appeared at the end of the path, nestled among the trees. Built entirely from rough-hewn logs, the cabin was larger than she had envisioned.
“How many bedrooms are there?” she asked, as Young climbed the porch steps.
“Two.”
The right answer, since it meant neither of them would be stuck sleeping on the couch. He unlocked the front door and stood aside so she could enter. She stepped over the threshold, more than a little curious to see the cabin’s interior. With Young’s guidance, she located the light switches. On the left side was a country-style kitchen. To the right, the main room contained a leather couch and several oversize chairs grouped in front of a granite fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the full length of one wall.
A flash of metal caught her eye. A silver trophy stood on the coffee table. She moved closer. What did Young excel at—besides making her uncomfortable?
The nameplate read 2007 Weir Marina Bass Derby Winners—Brent Young and Pete Sanderson.
Sanderson?
That was the name of the FBI colleague who had been shot—and evidently had been a close friend of Young. No wonder he had fidgeted throughout her presentation.
She edged away from the trophy, then shot him a glance. How was he taking it? Had the reality of his loss sunk in yet? Did he forget sometimes that his friend was dead? She didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess.
“The cabin hasn’t been used since the fall,” Young said.
She looked at the living room again, this time noting signs of neglect. Cobwebs clung to the central light fixture and a layer of dust coated every visible surface. Her nose registered the staleness of a place that hadn’t been aired out in months.
“I guess you can’t fish here in the winter,” she commented.
His gaze fell on the trophy. “Sanderson convinced me to go ice-fishing in Alaska once. We just about froze solid….” For a brief, unguarded moment, Young’s lips trembled and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Her heart twisted as she witnessed his struggle for composure. One thing she’d learned early in life: healing from grief was a painful process that often unfolded over years. This place had to hold so many memories. Would Young have come here now, if not for her need for a safe haven? His action displayed an inner strength that she couldn’t help but admire.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “I’m sorry that your friend died.”
Opening his eyes, Young pinned her with a furious glare. “Pete Sanderson didn’t die. He was murdered. And when his killer is apprehended, he’s the one who will be sorry.”
His glare discouraged conversation, but she had to ask. “Do you know who killed him?”
He shook his head. “Fifteen agents are assigned to the case. They’ve interviewed everyone known to have come in contact with him in the past two months. His recent assignments are also being reviewed for possible suspects.”
So clinical. So emotionless. As if he were speaking about a stranger.
Everybody had different coping mechanisms. Apparently, Young’s was to distance himself.
“With that many men assigned to the case, there’ll be a break soon,” she said.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No matter how long it takes, the bastard responsible for ending Sanderson’s life will be brought to justice. I’m going to make sure of that.”
Brent grabbed the can of Folgers fine grind from the freezer, tossed half a dozen scoops into the coffeemaker and punched the on switch.
Why had he talked to Claire about Sanderson last night? That wasn’t his way. In fact, he was known around the Bureau for being tight-lipped. Nobody knew anything about him outside of work. And even though his reticence had fueled wild speculation at times—especially regarding his choice of female companionship—he valued his privacy too much to divulge details of his personal life to anybody.
The only exception had been Pete. That man had known him inside out. His strengths, weaknesses, accomplishments and failures. And now his mentor—and best friend—was gone. Blown away in an abandoned warehouse two weeks ago.
The lack of progress in the investigation was gnawing at him. A prime suspect should have been identified by now. All those agents on the team and what had they come up with? Squat.
But it was more than frustration he’d felt last night. Returning to the cabin had hurt like hell. He’d never been here without Sanderson. For years, the two of them had deserted the city as often as they could. To fish and swim, drink beer and unwind from the pressures of work. Now the place was his. But everything about it—every stick of furniture, every fishing magazine, every boating knickknack—was a cruel reminder that those good times were gone forever.
Claire had picked up on that as soon as she’d seen the inscription on the trophy. The sympathy in her eyes had drawn him in, dulled the memories, eased his pain a little….
He’d quickly reminded himself that she’d been trained to show concern in these types of situations. Just as she’d been trained to dig around inside people’s psyches, ferret out their innermost secrets and then slap labels on them.
Oh, yeah. He knew from bitter experience more than he wanted to about psychologists and their modus operandi.
Safeguarding an FBI shrink was the last assignment he’d have ever chosen. But it wasn’t up to him to choose. Guys like Gene Welland made those calls. His role was to fulfill the requirements of the job with kickass proficiency. Protecting Claire would be no exception. Even though he couldn’t respect her profession, he would watch over her as though she were the most important person in the world.
He’d just have to take care
