The Chosen. BEVERLY BARTON

but he had to ask.

      She nodded. “That’s right. I’m heading up the task force now.”

      “Is there any way we can bury the hatchet and work together?”

      “Only if I can bury it in your back.”

      Griff let out a quiet yet dramatic groan. “You’re not going to give an inch, are you, honey?” He tacked on the generic endearment because he knew it would piss her off.

      She glowered at him. “I can be reasonable, honey.”

      “You can’t prove it by me.” He shouldn’t have mouthed off, but couldn’t help himself. She brought out the worst in him and apparently he did the same for her.

      “Keep insulting me and see where that gets you.”

      “I guess I should apologize.”

      “That would be nice.”

      Damn, she actually expected him to grovel. “All right. I apologize.”

      She flopped her hand across her heart. “How sincere.”

      “It’s all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it.” Griffin Powell didn’t grovel. Not for anyone. Not ever again. He’d rather die first.

      “Look, if you’re willing to acknowledge that this is my case, that I’m the one who calls the shots and makes the decisions, I won’t cut your balls off and hand them to you on a silver platter.”

      Go to hell, bitch had been on the tip of his tongue. “In order to safeguard my balls, what do I have to do, sign an oath in blood that I’ll stay out of your way?”

      “Don’t tempt me.”

      “Believe me, Special Agent Baxter, I would never intentionally tempt you.”

      Nic groaned. “Believe me, you have nothing to worry about on that count.”

      He held out his hand, offering her a truce. “Let’s agree to disagree. I’ll stop hoping for cooperation from you, and you don’t put up any roadblocks in my path.”

      She stared at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake, then reluctantly shook hands with him. A quick, let’s-get-this-over-with exchange.

      “If you start interfering, our deal is off. Understand?”

      He nodded. He understood all right; he just wasn’t sure how long he could play nice in the sandbox with this particular she-cat.

      Seemingly satisfied, Nic nodded toward the ICU waiting area. “The woman in there is Barbara Jean Hughes. She’s Gale Ann Cain’s older sister and the one who found her only moments after she was attacked and left for dead.”

      Griff’s gut instincts kicked into play. “Tell me that the sister caught a glimpse of our killer.”

      “I might as well tell you since I can’t stop you from talking to Barbara Jean. And you are going to talk to her, aren’t you?”

      “Yep.”

      Frowning, Nic said reluctantly, “When Barbara Jean was entering her sister’s apartment building over on Loretta Street, she saw a man in a trench coat and sunglasses coming down the stairway.”

      “Can she describe him in more detail?”

      “I think she can,” Nic said. “But she’s scared to death—for herself and her sister.”

      “So, even if the sister dies, we’ve still got a possible witness.”

      “You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Powell. You know that, don’t you?”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      “One other thing, Mr. Powell—we, as in you and I, don’t have anything. I gave you the info about Barbara Jean because you’d get it anyway. But that’s it. The sister is the bureau’s eyewitness. And it will be our responsibility to protect her, if that becomes necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

      Griff grinned. “Crystal clear, honey.”

      Nic groaned.

       Chapter 3

      The old hunting lodge looked deserted, as if it hadn’t been occupied in a decade or longer. Actually, the place hadn’t been used for its original purpose in well over fifteen years, not since Judge Judson Walker IV died. Judd had not enjoyed hunting as much as his ancestors had, instead preferring polo and tennis to killing for sport. He had turned the old lodge into a weekend getaway, and as a young bachelor had hosted numerous parties for his friends; but word had it that because his bride hated the great outdoors and roughing it in the woods, Judd had closed up the place during his brief marriage.

      The road leading to the lodge had never been paved and was now little more than a winding path overgrown with snow-topped grass, weeds, and dead leaves. Towering trees surrounded the drive and the old lodge itself: Ancient hardwoods, worth their weight in gold to any lumber company, their limbs bare and coated with a thin layer of ice; huge cedars shimmering with a frozen glaze; pines tipped with small, glistening snowballs.

      A two-story structure created out of native stone and brick, the hundred-year-old building boasted numerous long, narrow windows, four chimneys, and a wraparound front porch. Out back, there was a small carriage house that had been converted into a garage in the late 1930s. Peeling paint on the eaves and window seals of both the house and garage exposed their neglected state. Two broken windowpanes on the second story of the lodge begged for repair.

      Lindsay pulled her Trailblazer to a halt directly in front of the wraparound porch, but she left the truck’s motor running. The freezing rain had stopped a good twenty miles back, and the sun was fighting to make its way through the thick clouds. The temperature gauge on the dashboard read thirty-four degrees, which meant it had warmed up just enough to begin the thawing process. But by nightfall, those temps would drop again, probably into the twenties, and refreeze any remaining moisture.

      If possible, the place looked sadder and more dilapidated than when she’d last seen it over six months ago. Dripping icicles hung from the edges of the roof. Melting snow clung in clusters to the grassy lawn and several inches of the white stuff, hidden in corners protected from the struggling sunlight, rose several inches high. Lindsay’s gaze traveled up the stone and brick front steps to the porch, then to the huge wooden door with decorative black iron bars crisscrossing the series of descending four-by-six-inch glass panes.

      Inside, she remembered, just beyond the front entrance, lay a small foyer that opened up on either side to large sitting rooms. Each room boasted a massive stone fireplace, hardwood flooring, and dark wood paneling. In the room to the left, trophy deer heads hung on either side of the fireplace; in the room to the right, mounted and framed prize catches from the Tennessee River lined the walls, three fish on either side of the fireplace. She had not seen the upstairs bedrooms, but she assumed that they, too, screamed macho domain, no women allowed.

      The thought of facing Judd, of looking into those cold, topaz gold eyes, kept Lindsay from leaving the warm safety of her SUV. Repeatedly, she had told herself that she didn’t love him, that she never had. She had felt sorry for him, wanted to comfort him, tried to help him.

      All those introspective talks she’d given herself over the past six months had convinced her that what she felt for Judd Walker was a combination of sympathy and lust, not love.

      So, if she didn’t love him, why was she so afraid of seeing him again?

      You can’t put it off forever, you know. Get out of the car and go knock on the door. Face your fears. Prove to yourself that Judd no longer has any power over you.

      After donning her red knit cap and matching gloves, Lindsay buttoned her navy peacoat, shut off the ignition, and opened the car door. As she stepped down, her black leather boots hit a slushy