Serious Risks. Rachel Lee

this document, they would unquestionably wind up spending a lot of time together.

      “Actually, ma’am, we’re not so very different from your local police force. When you call to report something, we generally visit you to get the information. It would be just as easy for me to come to your home, if that would be more convenient for you. My only requirement is that we meet in a place where I can question you without interruption. It’s very important that you don’t get distracted and forget to tell me something.”

      “All right, all right,” Jessica said with a laugh. “Let me give you my address.” She rattled off a street and number, then added, “I just moved in a couple of weeks ago, so I’m still neck-deep in packing boxes.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll never notice.”

      “What time should I expect you?”

      “Say around seven, if that’s okay by you.”

      “That’s just fine.”

      “And, Ms. Kilmer? Don’t tell anyone at all that you called the FBI. I realize that sounds cloak-and-daggerish, but secrecy is essential. You wouldn’t want word of this conversation to get back to the wrong person.”

      How could she possibly tell anyone what she couldn’t quite believe herself? Jessica wondered as she climbed back into her car. She’d actually called the FBI! Her stomach, which had been sinking all day anyway, sank further at the significance of that realization. She forced herself to ignore the sensation, just as she had all day long. Other than dread and worry, the only other feeling she’d had today had been indignation.

      And frustration. She had always believed the facility security officer to be a reasonably intelligent man, but now she seriously wondered. Was she the only person with the wit to understand the gravity of what she’d been saying all day: that someone else had the combination to her safe?

      Mr. Coulter had apparently understood, she reminded herself, and felt reassured that her decision to call the FBI was correct. Correct? Of course it was correct! The company’s own Security Practice Procedures Manual said that the FBI should be informed if espionage was suspected, preferably from a pay phone off-site so there was no chance of being overheard. And Jessica most definitely suspected espionage.

      By the time she arrived at home, however, she was remembering the suspicion with which her every statement had been heard by the security officer. Barron obviously thought Jessica was making everything up to conceal her own negligence. What if Coulter suspected the same thing?

      Usually when Jessica stepped into the antique elegance of her two-story Victorian house she experienced the pride of her new ownership, the thrill of at last having a real home of her own. Tonight, however, all she felt was the weight of the mortgage, reminding her that she couldn’t afford job trouble. Not now. Not as long as she owed that payment every month. Not as long as most of her hard-earned savings, accumulated by scrimping for five long years, were tied up in the house.

      What if Barron managed to hang the missing document on her?

      As seven o’clock drew closer, Jessica grew edgier. She’d never been questioned by the FBI before—or any policeman, for that matter—and she found herself wondering why she hadn’t just let MTI security handle it. They couldn’t prove she had taken the document, no matter how much they might want to believe it. What if this FBI agent wanted to believe the same thing? What if he thought her call to him was all a smoke screen?

      What if he got rough?

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jessica!” she said disgustedly to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she finished brushing her teeth. “He’s an FBI agent! They don’t get rough except with criminals.” And spies?

      “I am not a spy!”

      She knew it, and so did the small, pale face staring back at her from the mirror. Pushing her eyeglasses up her nose, Jessica gazed into her own wide, worried brown eyes and thought she looked exactly, exactly, like a small brown mouse pinned by an eagle’s eye.

      A few strands of dark hair had escaped from the confines of her chignon, and she smoothed them back into place. Outwardly, at least, there was no nonsense about Jessica Kilmer. She might have the world’s most inventive, overactive imagination, but no one would ever guess it by looking at her.

      On the other hand, she thought with a sigh, she wasn’t quite passing as her usual businesslike self, not with worry stamped all over her face. “Mouse” was the kindest description she could give herself.

      The front doorbell sounded, and Jessica’s stomach plunged instantly in response. Oh, God, the FBI is here!

      A real, honest-to-gosh FBI agent.

      “Cut it out,” she told her reflection with more conviction than she really felt. “He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else.”

      She headed downstairs, drew a deep breath, expelled it and opened the door.

      And looked into the grayest eyes she’d ever seen. Not the pallid color that might be blue or green depending on the light, but gray like flannel, and fringed in thick, dark lashes. His hair was a rich, very dark brown, threaded with silver, and a little longer than she’d expected. Evidently FBI agents didn’t have to wear military-style haircuts anymore.

      He was tall, over six feet to her five foot two, broad shouldered, narrow hipped. Elegant-looking, especially in a gray suit, white shirt and dark tie. He wasn’t, thank goodness, handsome. Handsome would have been too much to handle. No, he was simply attractive. His face was at best pleasant, regular featured.

      But nothing in her life prepared her for this man’s total impact. The term sex appeal took on a whole new meaning for her in that instant, an understanding that might have frightened her except that there was nothing wolfish in his expression or posture. In fact, he was giving her a very pleasant smile and holding out his hand.

      “Ms. Kilmer? I’m Arlen Coulter.”

      Jessica felt her hand swallowed in his firm, warm grip and heard herself say something courteous in response, and tried not to notice the very acute and observant way his gaze measured her.

      Arlen recognized her nervousness, but it hardly surprised him. Most people were nervous at the prospect of dealing with the FBI. He saw past the nervousness, though, past the no-nonsense hairstyle and the high-collared white blouse and neatly pressed gray slacks. Behind the armor there was waiflike vulnerability. It peeped uncertainly out at him from the depths of astonishingly bright brown eyes, and, to him at least, it would have been much less obvious had she not gone to such great lengths to hide it.

      “A pleasure, Ms. Kilmer,” he said, releasing her hand. In order to seem less threatening, he plunged his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and waited for her invitation to enter. She continued to look uncertainly up at him, and then color rose from the neck of her blouse to meet the roots of her hair. Where did that blush start? he wondered, and felt an unexpected stirring of his body.

      Jessica licked her dry lips, unaware that the small, nervous gesture had an electric effect on the tall man who stood so casually before her in a conservative gray suit. “I, um, I don’t mean to be offensive, but can I see your badge, or whatever?”

      Arlen’s smile broadened a shade, and he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Handing her the slim leather wallet, he said, “I’m not offended. The whole reason I have ID is so people can ask to see it. All you’ve done is show me you’re not gullible, Ms. Kilmer.”

      Jessica, who wouldn’t have recognized a valid FBI identity card or badge if it had stood up and bitten her, stared at the contents of the wallet and registered the words Arlen V. Coulter, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Her blush deepening, she passed the wallet back.

      “Please come in, Mr. Coulter. Or do I call you Agent Coulter?”

      “If you insist,” he said with a smile as he followed her through the gleaming entry hall and into a living room