Classified Baby. Jessica Andersen

you were dead when I first saw your office. I thought—” He broke off and looked away. “I wanted to kill the murdering sod who’d pulled the trigger, followed by the bloody bastard behind it all, and then myself, because I don’t want to live another day without you.”

      Her heart turned over in her chest at the banked violence in his voice, at the raw grief that pressed up into her own throat, the desire to throw herself into his arms, forget the past and only look forward. But early in her life, when she’d lost her childhood to the foster system in the wake of her parents’ murders, she’d learned that wanting something wasn’t enough, especially in the absence of honesty and trust, so she hardened her heart and said, “Now you know how it feels not to know whether the person you love is alive or dead.”

      “That’s not fair,” he said, lowering his voice to a growl when a trio of uniformed police officers emerged from the nearby elevator and headed for the crime scene.

      “I know.” Evangeline took a step back, away from her husband. “You want things to be like they were before you left, but it doesn’t work that way. We’ve both changed. Hell, I ran your company.”

      “Is that what this is about? Take the damn company. It’s yours, I don’t care, just so long as we can get past this and I can have my wife back. So I can have my life back.”

      He cursed and dragged a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, leaving it spiky. His torn, soiled clothes and disheveled hair made him look sexy and dangerous. Tempting.

      Forcing herself to stand her ground, she shook her head. “It’s not about the company, Robert, it’s about you not trusting me and not letting me be an equal partner in our marriage.”

      “I trust you,” he said, but they both knew his actions over the past two years said otherwise.

      “Come on,” she said. “Ever since my name turned up on that list you’ve been trying to marginalize me.”

      His eyes glinted with building fury. “I’m not marginalizing you, I’m protecting you, and if you don’t see the difference, you’re—” He clicked his teeth on whatever he’d been about to say, retreating behind the calm, cool facade she thought of as his spy face.

      “I’m an FBI-trained agent who neither wants nor needs protection.” And here we are again, Evangeline thought. Back at that same old impasse. She was suddenly tired beyond words and her injured arm throbbed with the beat of her bruised heart. Tears stung her eyelids, a weakness she could ill-afford if she wanted to prove herself to the man who mattered most. Not wanting him to see, she turned away and headed for the stairs. “On that note, I’m going to speak with Ethan’s friend. If anything, her abduction says we’re not the only ones who think she saw whoever blew up the office.”

      Evangeline started up the stairs, part of her foolishly hoping Robert would call her back. When he didn’t, a single tear broke free and tracked down her cheek.

      WHEN NICOLE regained consciousness this time, she knew exactly where she was—back in her hospital room—and what had happened to her—some guy had grabbed her and tried to turn her into a Popsicle.

      What the hell was going on?

      She looked for Ethan before she could stop herself, before she could remind herself he’d wanted nothing to do with her or their baby.

      Yes, he’d rescued her from the cold room, but then again he was a professional bodyguard; she’d learned that much from the Prescott Personal Securities Web site, along with the fact that he’d mustered out of the military a year or so before he’d joined PPS. A Google search had pulled up little else, which either meant he was relatively baggage-free, or that his baggage wasn’t the sort that made it onto the Web.

      “And why the hell are you worrying about him when there are more important things going on?” She said the words aloud, partly for emphasis, partly to test her voice, which came out audible but scratchy.

      Because, a small voice said inside her, guy problems are normal. Being nearly killed twice in one day isn’t.

      “Do you talk to yourself often?” a female voice asked from the doorway.

      Nic winced and turned her head in that direction, and was relieved to see Dr. Eballa rather than…well, just about anyone else who might’ve been there. At least the doctor was a neutral third party. Because of it, Nic dredged up a smile. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I just usually check to make sure I’m alone first.”

      “I think we can forgive the lapse, given the day you’ve had.” The doctor crossed the room and touched her wrist in the same habitual move she’d used before, part reassurance, part pulse check. “How are you feeling?”

      “Tired.” Nic emphasized the word with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Exhausted, in fact.”

      “That’s not surprising. You should shut down for a bit and let the healing begin.”

      Nic couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice when she said, “Do I have to stay here?”

      “As a matter of fact, no,” Dr. Eballa said, surprising her. “Medically, I’m willing to discharge you. But ethically, I need to be sure you’ll be safe.”

      “I don’t know—” Nic began, but broke off when a small group appeared in the doorway of her hospital room, with Ethan in the lead.

      He announced, “Miss Benedict will be under the protection of Prescott Personal Securities until her attacker has been apprehended.”

      Nic narrowed her eyes at him. “I appreciate it, but I’m not a client.”

      When Ethan didn’t answer, a fit-looking man in his late fifties stepped forward. His tattered clothes said he’d been in the PPS offices when the missile hit, and his air of authority indicated that he ranked. “I’m Robert Prescott, founder of PPS,” he said confirming her guess in a voice that held a faint English accent. He nodded to a blond woman in her late thirties, maybe early forties, who was wearing a sling and a faintly sulky expression. “My wife, Evangeline. You already know Ethan, and these other two are Detectives Riske and Montenegro.”

      Nic wasn’t sure which detective was which: one was a dark-haired woman who walked with an aggressive swagger, the other an older black man with wise eyes and white-frosted hair beneath a Colorado Rockies baseball cap.

      “Don’t worry, Miss Benedict,” Robert Prescott continued. “We’ll take care of everything. There’s no reason you should suffer because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” His eyes searched her face. “We’re pretty sure that man grabbed you because you were in the elevator at the time of the attack. We’re hoping you might remember something that could lead us to the perpetrators.”

      “I told Ethan before that I don’t remember anything about the first attack. I don’t even remember being in an elevator,” she said slowly. “But I can certainly describe the man who took me out of my room.”

      Robert nodded. “Then we’ll start there.”

      He stood so the female detective could have his chair. She sat and pulled out a small PDA, which she flipped open and activated with a few touches of a plastic stylus. Then she said, “Detective Shelia Riske, recording an interview with Miss Nicole Benedict.” She reeled off the date and location before she focused on Nic. “Miss Benedict, could you please walk us through what happened earlier today?”

      Nic thought for a second, trying to line up her memories in some sort of coherent order. “Ethan had just left my room, and all I wanted to do was go home. I figured if I could make it to the bathroom on my own, I’d be able to convince the doc to spring me. I was halfway across the room when the door opened and a stranger came in…”

      ONLY A sheer effort of willpower kept Ethan leaning against the wall as she described what had happened. He wanted to pace and growl, wanted to be out of the hospital, tracking the bastards who’d set their sights on PPS.

      Before,