“Well,” she said, feeling awkward about this whole encounter.
“Well,” he agreed. He shoved off his car—an aggressive-looking black thing with a silver stripe on the hood that screamed power—and extended his hand. His suit jacket shifted, and she caught a glimpse of his gun. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Tom Yellow Bird.”
“Tom.” She hesitated before slipping her palm into his. This didn’t count as a conflict of interest, right? Of course not. This was merely a...professional courtesy. Yes, that was it. “Caroline Jennings.”
That got her a real smile—one that took him from intensely handsome to devastatingly so. Her knees weakened—weakened, for God’s sake! It only got worse when he said, “Caroline,” in a voice that was closer to reverence than respectability as his fingers closed around hers.
A rush of what felt like electricity passed from where her skin met his, so powerful that Caroline jolted. Images flashed through her mind of him pulling her in closer, his mouth covering hers, his hands covering...
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back. She knew she was blushing fiercely, but she was going to blame that on the heat. “I generate a lot of static electricity.” Which was true. In the winter, when the air was dry and she was walking on carpeting.
It was at least ninety-four out today, with humidity she could swim in. She was so hot that sweat was beginning to trickle down her back.
He notched an eyebrow at her, and she got the feeling he was laughing. But definitely on the inside, because his mouth didn’t move from that cocky half grin.
Her breasts ached, and she didn’t think she could blame that on the sun. She was flushed and desperately needed to get the hell out of her skirt suit to cool down. What she wouldn’t give for a swim in a cool pool right now.
Alone. Definitely alone. Not with Agent Tom Yellow Bird. Nope.
“About the flowers,” Tom said, looking almost regretful about bringing up the subject as he leaned back against his spotless car.
Caroline recoiled. “What?” It wasn’t as if the fact that she’d received the bouquet wasn’t common knowledge—it was. Everyone in the courthouse knew, thanks to Andrea passing out roses to anyone who’d take some. Leland had taken a huge bunch home for his wife. Even Cheryl had taken a few, favoring Caroline with a rare smile. Caroline had left the remaining few blooms in her office. She didn’t want them in her house.
Had Agent Yellow Bird sent them? Was this whole conversation—the intense looks, the cocky grins—because he was trying to butter her up?
Crap, what if Lasky had been right? What if Agent Tom Yellow Bird was crooked and prostitutes were just the tip of the iceberg?
Suddenly her blood was running cold. She moved to step past him. “The flowers were lovely. But I’m not interested.”
* * *
Damn, she was tough.
“Whoa,” Tom said, holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “I didn’t send them.”
“I’m sure,” Caroline murmured, stepping around him and heading for her car as if he suddenly smelled.
“Caroline,” he said again, and damn if it didn’t come out with a note of tenderness. Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel tender toward her at all. She was his assignment, whether she liked it or not. It’d be easier if she cooperated, of course, but he’d get to the bottom of things one way or the other.
He was nothing if not patient.
She began to walk faster. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not interested. I hold myself to a higher standard of ethics and integrity.”
What the hell? Clearly, she thought he’d sent the flowers. The idea was so comical he almost laughed. “Wait.” He fell in step beside her. “Carlson sent me.”
“Did he?” She didn’t stop.
He dug his phone out of his pocket. If she wouldn’t believe him, maybe she’d believe Carlson. “Here.” Just as she made it to her car, he shoved his phone in front of her face. She had to stop to keep from slamming her nose into the screen. “See?”
She shot him an irritated look—which made him smile. She was tough—but he was tougher.
Begrudgingly, she read Carlson’s email out loud. “‘Tom—the new judge, Caroline Jennings, contacted me. An anonymous person sent her flowers and apparently that’s out of the ordinary for her. See what you can find out. If we’re lucky, this will open the case back up. Maggie sends her love. Carlson.’”
She frowned as she read it. This was as close as Tom had been to her and again, he was surrounded by the perfume of roses. He wanted to lean in close and press his lips against the base of her neck to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled—but if he’d gauged Caroline Jennings right, she probably had Mace on her keys. Given the way she was holding her body, he’d bet she’d taken some self-defense classes at some point.
Good for her. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to defend herself.
The moment that thought popped up, Tom slammed the door on it. He didn’t like Judge Jennings, no matter how sweet she smelled or how strongly he felt that pull. This was about the case. The job was all he had.
She angled her body toward his, and a primal part of his brain crowed in satisfaction when she didn’t step back. If anything, it felt like she was challenging his space with her body. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s on the level, huh?”
God, he’d like to be challenged. She was simply magnificent—even better out of her robes. “I don’t play games, Caroline,” he said. No matter how much he might want to. “Not about something like this.”
She studied him for a moment. “That implies you play games in other situations, though.”
His lips twisted to one side and he crossed his arms, because if he didn’t, he might start smiling and that was bad for his image as a no-holds-barred lawman. “That all depends on the game, doesn’t it?”
“I put more stock in the players.”
So much for his image, because he burst out laughing at that. Caroline took a step back, her hands clenched at her sides and her back ramrod straight—which was completely at odds with the unexpectedly intense look of...longing? She looked less like a woman about to punch him and more like...
Like she was holding herself back. Like she wanted to laugh with him. Maybe do even more with him.
If he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest, would she break his nose or would she go all soft and womanly against him? How long had it been since he’d had a woman in his arms?
It absolutely did not matter—nor did it matter that he knew exactly how long it’d been. What mattered was cracking this case.
“I don’t sleep with them.”
“What?” She physically recoiled, pushing herself closer to the door.
“The
