recovery firms and the people that ran them were a microstep above repossession agents on the humanity food chain. All too often they had a reputation for unorthodox, or even unethical, means of recovering stolen merchandise. The last thing she needed was some self-proclaimed hot shot recovery expert screwing with her investigation, especially one attempting to charm his way onto her crime scene.
“I’m here to conduct an interview with the victim,” she said. “Considering the sensitive nature of this case, I’m not sure Ms. Wilder would appreciate an audience.” In all honesty, she didn’t feel comfortable conducting the interview in his presence. “A male audience, in particular.”
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the trees but doing little to cool the air so heavy with summer humidity. A lock of wavy hair fell across Duncan’s forehead.
“I would think it’d be easier on the vic the less she has to relive the humiliation.” He shoved the hair back in place, then leaned slightly toward her, his gaze intent. “Come on, Mac. You’re not going to make me beg, are you?”
She seriously doubted any guy as tempting as Duncan Chamberlain ever had to resort to begging, especially from a woman. Interagency cooperation was hardly unusual, though, and they were supposedly on the same side. Did it matter if that wasn’t the only reason she considered allowing him to sit in on her interview?
“All right,” she agreed. “In the spirit of cooperation, I’ll permit it, provided the victim has no objections.” She did her best interpretation of hard-ass agent and gave him an appropriately matching stare. “But I’m conducting this interview. Forget that, and I’ll have you banned from the premises.”
Despite the threat, his smile deepened. She struggled to remain standing and not have herself a good old-fashioned Victorian swoon.
“You won’t even know I’m there,” he promised.
She had her doubts. Based on her reaction to the sensuous tilt of his mouth and those get-lost-in-me eyes, if he was in the vicinity she’d know it—with every last, rudely awakened, nerve ending in her body. Okay, so maybe he had managed to capture the attention of her neglected libido, but that didn’t mean she was willing to dive headfirst into the steamy waters of sexual attraction. Or was she? The idea sure held a wealth of intriguing possibilities she found hard to ignore.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” Weidman said.
While Weidman entered Duncan’s information in his neatly kept log, she issued reminders to Caruso about keeping quiet should the press show up again. Five days after the incident, Margo Wilder was officially old news, but Sunny expected more attention once word leaked to the press the FBI was conducting an investigation into the theft. Her only hope was that the nonviolent nature of the crime would hold little interest to reporters.
Weidman returned Duncan’s ID, and she took off on foot for the main gate. Duncan fell in step beside her and her libido instantly zinged back to life. She had a job to do, but professional or not, she really wanted to take a flying leap off the high dive and go for a nice long swim in those steaming waters.
DUNCAN TRAILED Sunny and the uniformed butler who led them away from the foyer with an elaborate, curving, gilt staircase, down a long rosewood-paneled corridor. While Sunny was busy taking in the opulent surroundings, Duncan enjoyed the view of her curvy backside swaying enticingly beneath her navy slacks.
He’d spent eight years in Dallas as an agent for the FBI, the last three working deep-cover assignments. In all that time, he’d never seen anything on the Bureau’s payroll as remotely sexy as the perky little superagent that had managed to spark his interest in something other than his work.
Too bad she was off limits.
He gauged her age to be in the vicinity of thirty. She was young to have attained the status of a special agent, which told him she was being fast-tracked by someone high up in the Bureau. An agent on the rise wouldn’t be caught dead fraternizing with someone drummed out for gross misconduct. Still, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt his chances of their becoming better acquainted…at least until she discovered he was ex-Fibbie and dropped him faster than a fence with a cache of hot gems.
They were shown into an elaborate sitting room that smelled of fine whiskey with a faint trace of expensive cigars still clinging to the furnishings, heavy velvet draperies and plush Persian rug. Real estate mogul Jerome Wilder had been dead three months, yet the room still held his essence. Duncan couldn’t help wondering what the old man would have to say about his niece and sole heir losing a half a million bucks worth of personal property and cash to a con artist.
Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Whether the client had more money than God or was some poor schmuck who’d lost his last dime, Duncan’s goal never changed. It wasn’t supposed to matter if the loss wouldn’t put so much as a dent in the claimant’s holdings.
Except lately, it had started to matter. A lot.
“Ms. Wilder has been detained and has asked me to convey her apologies. She will be with you shortly,” the butler informed them. “May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?”
Sunny set her briefcase on the rug next to a tapestried love seat and sat. “No, thank you. We’re fine.”
Duncan took the heavy leather chair across from her. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees. “So you wanna tell me why CID is involved in this case?” he asked her once the butler disappeared. “An isolated incident of grand theft doesn’t exactly fall under federal jurisdiction.”
She looked at him from beneath a crown of chin-length, burnished-gold waves, her soft green eyes full of cautious suspicion. “Why Mr. Chamberlain, surely you’re not asking me to divulge facts from an ongoing FBI investigation?”
The corner of his mouth tipped upward at her feigned innocence routine. Never con a con, babe. Still, she was damned cute and sassy, which equaled one lethal, hard-to-resist combination.
“Yes ma’am,” he said in a congenial tone intended to chase the doubt she attempted to hide from her gaze. First rule: gain the trust of the mark. “I believe that’s exactly what I am asking.”
The innocent facade faded, and she leveled him with a direct stare full of determination. “Don’t try to play me, Duncan, and I won’t attempt to bullshit you.”
She inflected enough of a warning in her tone to let him know she was no easy pushover. Too bad. He’d like to push her right into the closest bed.
“Fair enough,” he conceded with a brisk nod. “But I’d still like to know what the feds are doing here.”
Her golden eyebrows slanted downward into a frown. “I fail to see how the Bureau’s interest is relevant to your investigation.”
He recognized a tap dance when he saw one, having performed enough of them himself during his stint with the FBI. Unfortunately, he’d made a drastic error in judgment and had danced across the line one time too many.
“I know I’m here only as a matter of professional courtesy, but I believe your involvement is relevant.” The last of his smile faded and he returned her direct stare with one of his own. “My firm is currently investigating two other similar cases of women recently coming into substantial sums of money and basically handing over the keys to their newly acquired kingdoms. Unless the Supreme Court issued a surprise ruling this morning that I haven’t heard about, then the rules of federal jurisdiction
