Colorado Crime Scene. Cindi Myers

      He turned and stared into the angry eyes of the woman he’d been following. Hazel eyes of mingled green and gold, fringed with gold lashes. Eyes that had disturbed his dreams, though in those fantasies, they’d been considerably friendlier than they were right now. “Who are you, and why are you following me?” she demanded.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bluffing was as important a skill for an agent as it was for a poker player.

      “I’m not stupid. I saw you following me.” She folded her arms under her breasts; he wondered if she was aware how that emphasized her cleavage. If he pointed this out, she’d no doubt add “sexist pig” to whatever other unflattering descriptions she’d ascribed to him. “I want to know why.”

      She was calling his bluff. Time to fold. But that would mean leaving and walking away, and he hadn’t gone to all this trouble to do that. Maybe a better answer was to show her his cards—or at least some of them. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the folder with his credentials. “Special Agent Luke Renfro. FBI.”

      Her eyes widened, and some of the color left her cheeks. “What is this about?” The words came out as a whisper, and all her bravado vanished. In fact, she looked ready to faint, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

      Her reaction—more fear and guilt than an innocent citizen ought to exhibit—had all his instincts sounding alarms, his senses on high alert. He touched her arm lightly, though he was prepared to hang on if she made a run for it. “Why don’t we go into the bar and talk?” He nodded toward the hotel bar, which at this time of day was almost deserted.

      “All right.” She allowed him to usher her into the bar, to a red leatherette booth. The lighting was subdued, the music almost inaudible. Luke sat across from the blonde, and the waitress, who’d been seated at one end of the bar, hurried over to them. “I’ll have a glass of iced tea,” Luke told her. He looked to the woman across from him. “Would you like something stronger?”

      “Just water.” She pushed her hair back out of her eyes and settled her hands flat on the table in front of her. Her nails were short, polished a deep blue. She wore silver earrings that glinted in the bar light when she turned her head to look at him. Her hair, thick and shiny and sexy, curled around her ears and the nape of her neck.

      It bothered him that this woman had stuck in his head when so many others didn’t. Maybe that’s why he’d followed her, to see if up close he could identify the reason he’d become so fixated on her. But maybe it wasn’t simple attraction at work here. Maybe his cop instincts recognized some guilt in her he couldn’t yet put into words. He didn’t want to think of her as a suspect, but he had to if he was going to do his job correctly.

      “Why is the FBI following me?” she asked, reminding him they were alone again.

      “First, tell me your name, since you already know mine.”

      She hesitated, then said, “Morgan Westfield.”

      The name itself didn’t set off any alarm bells. Though his photographic memory for faces didn’t carry over to names or facts and figures, he’d learned the names of key suspects in his current investigation—at least, the names they knew. A series of terrorist bombings had rocked the cycling world in the past two years, with bombs killing and injuring racers and spectators alike at key races around the world. The Bureau hoped that by sending members of the team they’d code-named Search Team Seven to Denver they could prevent another attack. Was Morgan somehow involved and Luke hadn’t realized it?

      “You were following me and you don’t know my name?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

      “You were at the Tour de France last month,” he said. “And the Tour of Britain before that.” But not at the Paris-Roubaix the year before. Or maybe she’d managed to stay out of range of the security cameras for that event.

      “You’ve been following me all this time?” Her voice rose, and anger returned the color to her cheeks.

      He hadn’t been following her, but maybe fate or instinct or blind luck had led him to her. The waitress brought their drinks and glanced at them curiously. “Will there be anything else?”

      “No, thank you.” He handed her a ten. “Keep the change.”

      She stuffed the bill into her apron and retreated to the bar once more. Morgan leaned over the table toward him. “Why is the FBI following me?” she demanded again, tension straining her face.

      “I’m not following you,” he said. “I’m actually looking for someone else. But I remembered you and was curious.”

      “You remembered me?” She sat back, frowning. “But we’ve never met.”

      “No. But I’ve studied surveillance videos of both races.” And many others. “I remembered seeing your face.”

      “That’s crazy,” she said. She didn’t seem as nervous now, but more annoyed, as she had been when she’d first challenged him in the lobby. “There were thousands of people at those races. Hundreds of thousands. Why would you remember me?”

      “It’s what I do. It’s my job, actually. I’m paid to remember faces, and to recognize them when I see them again.”

      She took a long drink of water, her eyes never leaving his. “I’m not sure that explanation makes sense.”

      “You know how some people have photographic memories, right?”

      “You mean they can read a phone book or encyclopedia and remember everything on the pages? I thought that was just something in movies.”

      “No, it’s a real phenomenon. My brother is like that. Once he reads something, it’s committed to memory.” A familiar ache squeezed his chest at the mention of his twin brother. He’d give anything to know where Mark was now. To be assured he was safe.

      “But it’s different for you?” Morgan prompted.

      He nodded. “With me, it works a little differently. I never forget a face. Not if I’ve spent even a few seconds focusing on it.”

      “I thought they had computers that could do that—scan video for familiar faces and stuff.”

      “Facial-recognition software can’t compete with the human brain,” he said. “After riots in London in 2011, Scotland Yard’s team of super-recognizers identified 1200 suspects from video surveillance. Computer software identified only one person.”

      “So I shouldn’t be flattered that you remembered me—it’s just something you do.”

      “Some faces are more pleasant to remember than others.” He smiled, but she continued to regard him with suspicion.

      Fine. He needed to be more suspicious of her, as well. “What were you doing at the races?” he asked.

      “I’m a writer. I was covering the races for Road Bike Magazine.”

      “So you work for the magazine?”

      “No, I’m a freelancer. I write for a lot of different publications, though my specialty is bicycle racing.”

      “Are you in Denver to cover the Colorado Cycling Challenge?”

      “What if I am?”

      And what if she was here to do more than write about the races? “I’m here for the race, too,” he said. “We’ll probably see each other again.”

      “I never saw you at those other races.”

      “I wasn’t there.” Before she could ask the obvious question, he said, “I saw you on surveillance video.”

      She closed her eyes. Maybe she was counting to ten before she went off on him. When she opened them again, her voice was calm but chilly. “Why don’t we stop this game of twenty questions right now and you give me some straight answers. What is this about? Why were