Pride And Pregnancy. Sarah M. Anderson

were standing very close together in the hall, and Tom reached out and touched a finger to her lips. Then he stepped in closer and whispered in her ear, “Outside.”

      For a second, neither of them moved. She could feel the heat of his body, and she had an almost overwhelming urge to kiss the finger resting against her lips. Which was ridiculous.

      What was it about this man that turned her into a blubbering schoolgirl with a crush? Maybe she was just trying to bury her embarrassment at having called him out here for nothing beneath a more manageable emotion—lust. Not that lust was a bad thing. Except for the fact that she still had no idea what he did in his spare time or whether or not it broke any laws. And there was the unavoidable fact that acting on any lust would be a conflict of interest.

      They were actively on an investigation, for crying out loud. It was one of the reasons she couldn’t read romantic suspense novels—it drove her nuts when people in the middle of a dangerous situation dropped everything to get naked.

      She was not that kind of girl, damn it. So instead of leaning into his touch or wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him in tight, she did the right thing. She nodded and pulled away.

      It was harder than she’d thought it would be.

      When they were outside, she tried apologizing again. “I’m so sorry that I called you out here for nothing.” She didn’t enjoy making a fool of herself, but when it happened, she tried to own up to the mistake as quickly as possible.

      He leaned against her car, studying her. She had met a lot of hard-nosed investigators and steely-eyed lawyers in her time, but nothing quite compared to Tom Yellow Bird. “Are you sure it was nothing? Tell me again how you felt there was something wrong.”

      She shrugged helplessly. “It was just a feeling. Everything looked fine, and you saw yourself that there was no one in the house.” She decided that worse than feeling stupid was the fact that she had made herself look weak.

      For some ridiculous reason, this situation reminded her of her brother. Trent Jennings had been a master of creating a crisis where none existed—and he was even better at making it seem like it was her fault. Because she’d been the mistake, the squalling brat who’d taken his parents away from him. Or so he was fond of reminding her.

      That wasn’t what she was doing here, was it? Creating a crisis in order to focus the attention on herself? No, she didn’t think so. The house had felt wrong. Then something occurred to her. “Why are we outside again? It’s hot out here.”

      “The place is probably bugged.”

      He said it so casually that it took a few moments before his words actually sank in. “What?”

      “I’ve seen this before.”

      “I don’t understand,” she said, wondering if he was ever going to answer a straight question. “You’ve seen what before?”

      For a moment, he looked miserable—the face of a man who was about to deliver bad news. “You have a feeling that someone was in your house—although nothing appears to have been moved or taken, correct?”

      She nodded. “So my sixth sense is having a bad day. How does that mean there are bugs in my house?”

      One corner of his mouth crept up. “They’re trying to find something they can use against you. Maybe you have some sort of peccadillo or kink, maybe something from your past.” He smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring. “Something worse than speeding tickets?”

      The blood drained from her face. She didn’t have any kinks, definitely nothing that would be incriminating. She didn’t want people to watch when she used her vibrator—the thought was horrifying. But...

      It would be embarrassing if people found out about her lapse of judgment in college. Although, since her parents were dead, she wouldn’t have to face their disappointment, and the odds of Trent finding out about it were slim, since they didn’t talk anymore.

      But more than that...what if people connected her back to Vincent Verango? That wouldn’t just be embarrassing. That had the potential of being career ending. Would she never be able to escape the legacy of the Verango case?

      No, this was fine. Panicking would be a mistake right now. She needed to keep her calm. “I stay within five miles of the speed limit,” she said, trying to arrange her face into something that wasn’t incriminating.

      Tom shrugged. At least he was interpreting her reaction as shock and not guilt. “They want something on you so that when they approach you again and you say you’re not interested, they’ll have a threat with teeth. If you don’t want them to inform the Justice Department about this embarrassing or illegal thing, you’ll do what they say. Simple.”

      “Simple?” She gaped at him, wondering when the world had stopped making sense. “Nothing about that is simple!”

      “I don’t have a bug detector,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And seeing as it’s Friday night, I don’t think I can get one before Monday.”

      “Why not?” Because she couldn’t imagine this oh-so-simple situation didn’t justify a damned bug detector.

      A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m off duty for the next four days. I’d have to make a special case to get one, and Carlson and I like to keep our investigations off the record as much as possible.”

      She couldn’t help it—she laughed. She sounded horrible, even to her own ears, but it was either that or cry. This entire situation was so far beyond the realm of normal that she briefly considered she might’ve fallen asleep in her office this afternoon.

      “The way I see it,” he went on, again ignoring her outburst, “you have two choices. You can go about your business as normal and I’ll come back on Monday and sweep the house.”

      It was, hands-down, the most reasonable suggestion she was probably going to hear. So why did it make her stomach turn with an anxious sort of dread? “Okay. What’s my other choice?”

      That muscle in his jaw ticked again, and she realized that he looked hard—like a stone, no emotions at all. The playful grin was nowhere to be seen. “You come with me.”

      “Like, to your home?” That was it. She was definitely dreaming. It wasn’t like her to nod off in her chambers, but what other reasonable explanation was there?

      “In a professional capacity,” he said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone.

      Caroline was not reassured. “If they bugged my house and I’m new here, why would your home be any less susceptible to surveillance?”

      And just like that, his stony expression was gone. He cracked a grin and again, she thought of a wolf—dangerous but playful. And she had no idea if she was the prey or not.

      “Trust me,” he said, pushing off the car and coming to stand directly in front of her. “Nothing gets past me.”

       Four

      They had been in the car for an hour and fifteen minutes. Seventy-five silent minutes. Any attempt at conversation was met with—at best—a grunt. Mostly, Tom just ignored her, so she stopped trying.

      Pierre was a distant memory and Tom was, true to his word, breaking every speed limit known to mankind and the state of South Dakota. She’d be willing to bet they were topping out well past one hundred, so she chose not to look at the speedometer, lest she start thinking of fiery crashes along the side of the road.

      There was no avoiding Tom Yellow Bird. This muscle car was aggressive—just like him. He filled the driver’s seat effortlessly, seemingly becoming one with his machine. She didn’t know much about cars, but she could tell this was a nice one. The seats were a supple leather and the dashboard had all sorts of connected gadgets that were a mystery to her.

      Just