The District. Carol Ericson

      “I don’t know, Christina. Either way, it’s a break.”

      “Either way, we need to inform Rich.”

      He hauled his suitcase from the trunk and piled Christina’s briefcase and his own bag on top of it. She waited while he approached the front desk.

      “Checking in. Brody.”

      “I have your reservation right here, Mr. Brody, room 632.”

      Christina made a sharp movement beside him. “I’m in 634.”

      The clerk tapped a few keys on her keyboard. “Those two rooms are connected. That was a special request on the reservation for Mr. Brody.”

      Eric held up one hand. “It wasn’t me. Travel made my arrangements.”

      The hotel clerk’s gaze darted from him to Christine. “D-do you want a different room?”

      “It’s fine.”

      “Fine.” Christina echoed in a faint voice.

      Eric tapped his Bureau credit card on the counter once before handing it to the clerk. He had to get ahold of his professionalism here. But why had the Bureau decided it was a good idea to pair him with his ex-fiancée on a case? Of course, it wasn’t the Bureau who had made that decision. It was the killer when he decided to leave those tarot cards on his vic in San Diego, linking that crime with Christina’s three cases.

      He followed Christina’s clicking heels, dragging his suitcase behind him, trying to keep his eyes off her swaying hips.

      She’d always been slim and athletic with some nice curves. Now those curves had become dangerous. She’d filled out where it mattered most.

      Professional, Brody.

      They got off the elevator and Christina stopped halfway down the hallway. “That’s yours and this is mine.”

      “I’ll try to keep the noise down.”

      She slid her key card into her door. “Well, let me know when you’re ready to head out to Kindred Spirits.”

      “Do you want to join me for dinner first?” He’d suggest that to any colleague, wouldn’t he?

      Her long lashes fluttered. “Sure. Knock on my door when you’re ready.”

      Eric stepped into the room, closed the door and slumped against it, allowing the facade to slip from his body. He’d always been able to be himself around Christina, but now he felt as if he had to hold himself in check.

      He shrugged out of his suit jacket and hung it in the closet. He crossed the room to the window and paused halfway there, glancing at the door that connected his room to Christina’s.

      He didn’t need the temptation, but if he requested a different room he’d come off looking weak or worse, as if he really cared that she was on the other side of the wall sleeping, undressing, showering.

      He smacked his fist into his palm. He could get through this assignment.

      Filmy, white drapes covered the windows and he yanked them back to reveal a view of Union Square. He’d grown up in this city. Knew it like the lines crisscrossing his palms, but his job with the FBI had taken him all over the place, including D.C. where he lived now. Could he ever live here again with the constant reminders of his family tragedy, and views of the Golden Gate Bridge from vantage points all over the city?

      He left the drapes open and crashed across the bed. It was high time he came to terms with that past, including his kidnapping as a child.

      He stared at the ceiling for several seconds until he heard the shower from Christina’s room. He toed off his shoes and sat up on the edge of the bed where he got rid of his socks and loosened his tie.

      Dinner and then the bookstore—no drinks, no casual conversation, no flirting. Definitely no flirting.

      He shed the rest of his clothing and padded into the tiled bathroom. Bracing his hands on the vanity, he hunched closer to the mirror. What did she see when she looked at him? Had he changed in the past two years like she had?

      Because she had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She seemed softer, less brittle. Maybe in stoking his anger against her, he’d built up her hard shell in his mind.

      He’d watched for it, but he never did see that book come out about his father. Never saw any wedding announcement for Christina and Ray Lopez either. Not that he still didn’t see Lopez around.

      In fact, Lopez had been sniffing around his brother’s case recently, trying to poke at old wounds. Sean had shown Lopez a lot more courtesy than he would have. Of course, Lopez had never been in cahoots with Sean’s fiancée either.

      Eric stepped into the shower and let a steady stream of hot water cascade down his back. He rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. The leave of absence had done him good. He didn’t want to have to take another after this case.

      He twisted the towel around his waist. His toes sank into the carpet as he approached his suitcase in the corner where he’d parked it, his garment bag folded across the top. He hung up the garment bag in the closet and unzipped the suitcase.

      He pawed through some shirts on the top and pulled out a pair of jeans. Dropping the jeans on the floor, he scooped up an armful of shirts and shook out each one before laying it out on the bed.

      The knock on the adjoining door made him drop a shirt. “Yeah?”

      “Are you ready for dinner yet?”

      His gaze flicked to the towel slipping from his waist. “Give me a few more minutes.”

      “I’m starving.”

      “Five minutes.”

      He left the shirts on the bed, grabbed a clean pair of underwear and stepped into his jeans. A sharp knock on the door halted his progress back to the bathroom.

      “Ready yet?”

      Blowing out a breath, he crossed to the connecting door, unlocked it and yanked it open. “Impatient, aren’t you?”

      She made some reply that didn’t register with his brain—because all reasoning had fled the scene, crowded out by his visceral emotions.

      Christina had shed the pantsuit and replaced it with a pair of dark skinny jeans topped with a wide-necked red sweater that slid off one shoulder, revealing a black lacy tank top. Her loose, dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, and she tossed it back as she sized him up with narrowed eyes.

      “You’re not even dressed.”

      He dipped his chin to his bare chest. “Almost there. You had the advantage of being here a few days. I went straight to the P.D. from the airport.”

      “Excuses, excuses, Brody. Put some clothes on, will ya?”

      He grunted and grabbed the shirt he’d dropped onto the bed. Had they slipped back into that easy camaraderie after just one afternoon spent together? That was part of Christina’s charm. She came off like one of the guys, but lurking beneath the sarcastic banter was a potent sensuality that could lure you in and wrap you up before you even knew what hit you.

      Now that he knew all her tricks, he could resist her. He stuffed his arms in the sleeves of his shirt and his nostrils flared. Her exotic perfume wafted across the room and slid into his shirt with him.

      “Did you bring the case files with you?” As he buttoned up the shirt in front of the mirror, his eyes strayed to her empty hands.

      She arched an eyebrow. “I’m not bringing those to dinner. We know the basics. I have a notepad and pen in my purse just in case we have some amazing breakthrough.”

      He wouldn’t bring case files to a normal working dinner either but this was no normal working dinner and he wanted the security of a distraction—a distraction from those dark, liquid eyes that shimmered with a hypnotic