some ridiculous reason, this situation reminded her of her brother. Trent Jennings had been a master of creating a crisis where none existed—and he was even better at making it seem like it was her fault. Because she’d been the mistake, the squalling brat who’d taken his parents away from him. Or so he was fond of reminding her.
That wasn’t what she was doing here, was it? Creating a crisis in order to focus the attention on herself? No, she didn’t think so. The house had felt wrong. Then something occurred to her. “Why are we outside again? It’s hot out here.”
“The place is probably bugged.”
He said it so casually that it took a few moments before his words actually sank in. “What?”
“I’ve seen this before.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, wondering if he was ever going to answer a straight question. “You’ve seen what before?”
For a moment, he looked miserable—the face of a man who was about to deliver bad news. “You have a feeling that someone was in your house—although nothing appears to have been moved or taken, correct?”
She nodded. “So my sixth sense is having a bad day. How does that mean there are bugs in my house?”
One corner of his mouth crept up. “They’re trying to find something they can use against you. Maybe you have some sort of peccadillo or kink, maybe something from your past.” He smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring. “Something worse than speeding tickets?”
The blood drained from her face. She didn’t have any kinks, definitely nothing that would be incriminating. She didn’t want people to watch when she used her vibrator—the thought was horrifying. But...
It would be embarrassing if people found out about her lapse of judgment in college. Although, since her parents were dead, she wouldn’t have to face their disappointment, and the odds of Trent finding out about it were slim, since they didn’t talk anymore.
But more than that...what if people connected her back to Vincent Verango? That wouldn’t just be embarrassing. That had the potential of being career ending. Would she never be able to escape the legacy of the Verango case?
No, this was fine. Panicking would be a mistake right now. She needed to keep her calm. “I stay within five miles of the speed limit,” she said, trying to arrange her face into something that wasn’t incriminating.
Tom shrugged. At least he was interpreting her reaction as shock and not guilt. “They want something on you so that when they approach you again and you say you’re not interested, they’ll have a threat with teeth. If you don’t want them to inform the Justice Department about this embarrassing or illegal thing, you’ll do what they say. Simple.”
“Simple?” She gaped at him, wondering when the world had stopped making sense. “Nothing about that is simple!”
“I don’t have a bug detector,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And seeing as it’s Friday night, I don’t think I can get one before Monday.”
“Why not?” Because she couldn’t imagine this oh-so-simple situation didn’t justify a damned bug detector.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m off duty for the next four days. I’d have to make a special case to get one, and Carlson and I like to keep our investigations off the record as much as possible.”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. She sounded horrible, even to her own ears, but it was either that or cry. This entire situation was so far beyond the realm of normal that she briefly considered she might’ve fallen asleep in her office this afternoon.
“The way I see it,” he went on, again ignoring her outburst, “you have two choices. You can go about your business as normal and I’ll come back on Monday and sweep the house.”
It was, hands-down, the most reasonable suggestion she was probably going to hear. So why did it make her stomach turn with an anxious sort of dread? “Okay. What’s my other choice?”
That muscle in his jaw ticked again, and she realized that he looked hard—like a stone, no emotions at all. The playful grin was nowhere to be seen. “You come with me.”
“Like, to your home?” That was it. She was definitely dreaming. It wasn’t like her to nod off in her chambers, but what other reasonable explanation was there?
“In a professional capacity,” he said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone.
Caroline was not reassured. “If they bugged my house and I’m new here, why would your home be any less susceptible to surveillance?”
And just like that, his stony expression was gone. He cracked a grin and again, she thought of a wolf—dangerous but playful. And she had no idea if she was the prey or not.
“Trust me,” he said, pushing off the car and coming to stand directly in front of her. “Nothing gets past me.”
They had been in the car for an hour and fifteen minutes. Seventy-five silent minutes. Any attempt at conversation was met with—at best—a grunt. Mostly, Tom just ignored her, so she stopped trying.
Pierre was a distant memory and Tom was, true to his word, breaking every speed limit known to mankind and the state of South Dakota. She’d be willing to bet they were topping out well past one hundred, so she chose not to look at the speedometer, lest she start thinking of fiery crashes along the side of the road.
There was no avoiding Tom Yellow Bird. This muscle car was aggressive—just like him. He filled the driver’s seat effortlessly, seemingly becoming one with his machine. She didn’t know much about cars, but she could tell this was a nice one. The seats were a supple leather and the dashboard had all sorts of connected gadgets that were a mystery to her.
Just like the man next to her.
The landscape outside the car hadn’t changed since they’d hit the open plains, so she turned her attention to Tom. They were driving west and he still had his sunglasses on. She couldn’t read him. The only thing that gave her a clue to his mental state was how he kept tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. At least, she thought it was a clue. He might just be bored out of his mind.
It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t thought of the Verango case in, what—ten years? Twelve? But that was exactly the sort of thing a bad guy would be looking for, because she didn’t have anything kinky hiding in her closet. And a vibrator didn’t count. At least she hoped it didn’t.
She liked sex. She’d like to have more of it, preferably with someone like Tom—but only if it were the kind that couldn’t come back to bite her. No messy relationships, no birth control slipups, no strings attached.
Not that she wanted to have sex with him. But the man had inspired weeks of wet dreams, all because he had an intense look and an air of invulnerability about him. And that body. Who could forget that body?
She wished like hell she didn’t have this primal reaction to him. Even riding next to him was torture. She was aware of him in a way she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried. She
