her. He’d already made arms broker when we met.”
“Touching story.”
The story had touched her, damn him. She’d sympathized with Andrew Moore, a tortured ex-soldier struggling to honor his promise to his fallen comrade, no matter how long it took. She’d respected his desire for justice, his need to bring closure to his painful past. She’d believed him. She’d slowly begun to confide in him. And in the end, she’d fallen for him. Hard.
But what mortified her the most was how close she’d come to blowing her cover and revealing the truth about her job. She’d nearly confessed it to him so many times—that she was an FBI agent, that she was trying to bring down Moretti just like he was, and that she was on his side. Only the need to protect her fellow operatives had held her back.
Thank God for that.
“Who initiated the first...intimacy?” Moretti asked.
Her cheeks burned. She closed her eyes, fighting the collage of erotic images the thought evoked—even knowing what a fool she’d been. “We were in Englewood selling some guns. The deal went south. The buyer tried to cheat us, and we ended up in a shoot-out with his gang. We barely escaped. We made it to an abandoned warehouse and were waiting until it was safe to leave...and that’s when he kissed me.” A predictable enough reaction in the circumstances: life-threatening danger, adrenaline rocketing through their systems, the very human need to confirm that they’d survived.
But the brutal truth was that Andrew Moore had compelled her from the start with his dark, hypnotic eyes, that sensual mouth in his gorgeous face. That raw strength and masculinity that hid a tender heart.
And when he’d kissed her... She shivered at the memory. It had been fiery, molten, explosive. Like nothing she’d ever felt.
“Good memories?” Moretti taunted.
Lara snapped open her eyes. She met Moretti’s smirk, and a tsunami of shame flooded through her—exactly as she knew he’d planned. She hated how he sat there gloating, hated the control he had over her.
And she especially hated knowing how badly she’d erred. She’d done more than ignore the rules. She’d crossed a line so completely that her judgment had been impaired. She’d disobeyed every FBI mandate, broken her own ironclad moral code. And she’d gone from doing what was necessary to crack the case to falling in love with Andrew Moore.
“No,” she said evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on. “What I have are regrets. Andrew Moore was a huge mistake.” The worst one she’d ever made. And she’d paid for it—physically, mentally, emotionally—which was exactly what she deserved. But now others were paying, too.
And it was up to her to make it stop.
“A mistake,” Moretti mused. “Interesting choice of words.”
Her belly tensed. Wary now, she studied his face, wondering what diabolical plot he was hatching behind that inscrutable facade. But that was exactly what he wanted—to make her worry and wait. And she’d be damned if she’d let him gain the upper hand.
“I’ve told you what you want to know,” she said. “Now it’s your turn. Who kidnapped Victoria’s daughter?”
He didn’t answer, and she leaned forward, her face inches from the glass. “Come on, Moretti. You owe me answers. Who kidnapped Anna? Who ordered those hits on Dunst and Nadia Green? What about Olivia Conner and the others? Who hired the sniper and murdered them?”
And the baby? she wanted to scream. Did you send those photos? The rattle? Do you know who and where she is?
But she clamped her lips together, knowing better than to tip her hand. She couldn’t reveal the baby’s existence on the off chance that he didn’t know.
One dark brow arched. “That’s a lot of questions.”
“And I’m waiting for a lot of answers. Did you order those hits or not?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was the Black Stamp Serial Killer? I read about him in the newspaper.”
Anger erupted inside her, a furious blaze of resentment that took every ounce of strength she had to control. Damn him. He’d played her. He’d never had any intention of answering her questions. This interview had been a sham!
Moretti’s grin widened, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. “I like the way this is working out, though, that you’re the one being destroyed now—after all you’ve done to ruin me.”
“Ruin you?” She scoffed at that. “Because we took apart your syndicate?” If she knew Moretti, he probably still had millions of dollars squirreled away.
His eyes flashed. He shifted forward, his sudden show of temper causing her to flinch. “You took away my freedom. And you’ll pay for that, Lara, I promise—assuming you’re still around to see the grand finale.”
Grand finale? She swallowed hard, his veiled threat shaking her more than she cared to let on. But she couldn’t let him intimidate her. Her team was depending on her for answers. She couldn’t leave without some clues.
“You helped me the other day,” she reminded him. “You warned me about Victoria’s daughter, that she’d be targeted next.”
“Did I?” Suddenly sounding bored, he motioned to the guards, signaling that he wanted to leave. “If so, it didn’t do you any good. The FBI still screwed up. Pretty nice deal for the kidnappers, though. They collected a million bucks.”
A guard stepped forward and unlocked his handcuffs. Moretti began to rise, and her desperation surged. “Come on, Moretti. We had a deal. I told you my story. Now you need to do your part.”
He came to a halt, his gaze arcing back to hers. And once again, his beauty struck her, his sheer masculinity making her heart race, despite the abject depravity that lurked behind those potent eyes. “You’re right. I do owe you something. And you’ll get it. You can bet on that.”
He paused, letting those ominous words sink in. “In the meantime, how’s this for a clue? There’s no place like home.” He laughed, the low sound strafing her nerves even after he hung up the phone. Seconds later, he exited the room.
Lara stayed in her seat, her pulse suddenly chaotic, her thoughts in disarray. Home. What did he mean by that? Was he talking about the Bureau? The baby? The little girl’s family? Was he going to target them next?
She slowly got to her feet, knowing she’d been a fool. Moretti had told her nothing. This visit had been a waste of time. While she’d humiliated herself telling him stories, the killer was out there, drawing closer to his next victim.
And she had no idea when he would strike.
“There’s no place like home? What is that supposed to mean?” Victoria Russo demanded as she paced across the conference room at the Bureau’s headquarters, her ash-colored bob swinging furiously with every step. “Who does he think you are? Dorothy with the ruby slippers? There’s no place like home. Jesus. What kind of ridiculous clue is that?”
“Good
