and walked out of her room, she didn’t call him back.
“You want to take a look at this?” Scott asked as Chelsie finally emerged from the bedroom.
He was set up at the old pine table in the kitchen, his laptop in front of him, and the file from the police station in DC open. He didn’t move his gaze from the screen as her footsteps slowly came toward him.
She stopped behind him, leaning over his shoulder, and a strand of soft blond hair brushed his arm before she tucked it away. “What is it?”
Her tone was wary, as if he’d been at fault for what had happened in her room fifteen minutes ago. But there was no way he’d have been able to not kiss her, the way she’d been staring up at him, longing in her big blue eyes.
He didn’t know what her game was. A year ago, she’d been anxious to come home with him. And, okay, she’d made it clear afterward that she wanted nothing more from him. But as soon as he’d seen her in the WFO parking lot, she’d broadcasted her desire like it was a neon sign.
He was only human. And she was the only woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind after he’d had her in his bed.
He’d tried hard, though, in the past six months. He’d gone from one fling to the next as though he was going for a record. And he was tired of it. One deep breath of Chelsie’s shampoo and he was right back where he’d been a year ago.
What had he been thinking, volunteering for this gig?
Scott moved to the side, so she could see his screen. A picture from inside her apartment living room filled his monitor.
She gasped and leaned closer. “What is this?”
“The cops who were called to the break-in took them. I asked them to email me the pictures so you could see if anything obvious was missing.” He twisted in his seat so he could look up at her, careful to keep his emotions off his face.
Bent down to scrutinize his computer screen, she was only a few inches away, her knee pressed against his leg. When she turned to him, her face was close to his and her pupils were huge.
He couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to think.
Chelsie frowned, returning her eyes to the screen. “Not that I can see.”
Scott reached forward and clicked to the next image, this one a picture of her bedroom. The walls were a pale pink, her bedspread a thick, puffy white down, and there was actually a vanity with perfumes and jewelry in the corner. It was unbelievably girly, not at all what he’d expected Chelsie’s bedroom to look like.
Did she actually wear perfume and jewelry? Certainly not at the office, unless he counted the small gold locket she’d been wearing a year ago and had on now, paired with a crisp black blouse and wide-cut gray pants. Was there some lucky guy she actually changed out of her figure-hiding work clothes for, some lucky guy that made her dab on perfume and slip into a slinky dress?
He tried to ignore the thought and asked, “How about here?”
She shuffled her feet and her cheeks went red beneath the curtain of wheat-blond hair. Apparently she didn’t like him peering into her private life, into the apartment where she’d never invited him. “I don’t think so.”
He opened a few more pictures—her kitchen, her bathroom, even inside her closets—but each time, she shook her head.
He shrugged. “Worth a try. The cops didn’t think he messed with anything. The neighbors might have scared him off.”
“Or since I wasn’t home, there was nothing else that interested him,” Chelsie countered.
Scott nodded slowly. “It’s possible.”
Though as a trained marksman, the reality was, Connors could have set up on the roof of the apartment building across the street and waited for her to come home, then picked her off as soon as she got out of her car. Had he chosen to break in instead because he was on the run and couldn’t risk waiting? Or was it because he wanted to do more than just kill her?
Either way, Scott was grateful Connors had made that mistake, because it had forced the Bureau to act, to get Chelsie to safety.
“What are you thinking?” Chelsie asked.
He shook his head, not wanting to scare her. It didn’t matter what Connors was after; he wasn’t going to find it now.
“Scott...” Chelsie fiddled with her locket, avoiding his gaze. “About before...”
“Yeah?”
She scowled, finally looking into his eyes.
She’d probably wanted him to jump in, to say he understood, that it was a mistake, that it wouldn’t happen again. But he wasn’t going to make it so easy. Her feelings about him might be running cold right him now, but he had a feeling she’d swing hot again sooner or later. And when that happened, there was no way he’d be turning her down.
Chelsie flushed, as if she could read his mind, and stammered, “I—I think we need to forget about our history, okay? I’m sure Connors will be caught soon. And then you can get back to whatever you want to be doing right now.”
She didn’t know he’d volunteered to be on her protective custody detail? Instead of telling her, he turned back to his laptop. “Let’s go over the case file from last year.”
“What?” Chelsie jerked backward. “Why?”
He frowned up at her. “Because it might give us something useful.”
“What could it possibly give us?”
Scott narrowed his eyes, taking in the tight line of her lips, the furrow in her forehead, the clenching of her jaw. She didn’t want to see the pictures, he realized suddenly.
He understood it. He didn’t particularly like viewing crime-scene photos himself. But it went with the job. And Chelsie might have switched to white-collar crime, but he knew she’d started in counterterror. She’d probably seen photos of much worse.
Was it because she’d been there? He’d heard part of her testimony at Connors’s trial. He knew she’d tried to talk him down. But she’d arrived on the scene about sixty seconds before he killed everyone except her. Not exactly enough time to establish a connection and start up a dialogue. Not enough time to change his mind, or stall him until HRT could take him down.
As a trained negotiator, she should have known that. There were some personalities who were hell-bent on killing, and no dialogue, no matter how well thought out, could stop it. And this type of killer—a spree shooter—was usually one of them.
Most of them actually planned on dying themselves before the day was done, either by self-inflicted gunshot or “suicide by cop.” Connors might have had that plan in mind, too, but when he’d gotten the chance to run, he’d taken it. And when he’d been caught at a roadblock later that day, rather than lift the rifle lying across his lap, he’d been too cowardly to take his own life. Instead,
