Pride And Pregnancy. Sarah M. Anderson

if Agent Tom Yellow Bird was crooked and prostitutes were just the tip of the iceberg?

      Suddenly her blood was running cold. She moved to step past him. “The flowers were lovely. But I’m not interested.”

      * * *

      Damn, she was tough.

      “Whoa,” Tom said, holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “I didn’t send them.”

      “I’m sure,” Caroline murmured, stepping around him and heading for her car as if he suddenly smelled.

      “Caroline,” he said again, and damn if it didn’t come out with a note of tenderness. Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel tender toward her at all. She was his assignment, whether she liked it or not. It’d be easier if she cooperated, of course, but he’d get to the bottom of things one way or the other.

      He was nothing if not patient.

      She began to walk faster. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not interested. I hold myself to a higher standard of ethics and integrity.”

      What the hell? Clearly, she thought he’d sent the flowers. The idea was so comical he almost laughed. “Wait.” He fell in step beside her. “Carlson sent me.”

      “Did he?” She didn’t stop.

      He dug his phone out of his pocket. If she wouldn’t believe him, maybe she’d believe Carlson. “Here.” Just as she made it to her car, he shoved his phone in front of her face. She had to stop to keep from slamming her nose into the screen. “See?”

      She shot him an irritated look—which made him smile. She was tough—but he was tougher.

      Begrudgingly, she read Carlson’s email out loud. “‘Tom—the new judge, Caroline Jennings, contacted me. An anonymous person sent her flowers and apparently that’s out of the ordinary for her. See what you can find out. If we’re lucky, this will open the case back up. Maggie sends her love. Carlson.’”

      She frowned as she read it. This was as close as Tom had been to her and again, he was surrounded by the perfume of roses. He wanted to lean in close and press his lips against the base of her neck to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled—but if he’d gauged Caroline Jennings right, she probably had Mace on her keys. Given the way she was holding her body, he’d bet she’d taken some self-defense classes at some point.

      Good for her. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to defend herself.

      The moment that thought popped up, Tom slammed the door on it. He didn’t like Judge Jennings, no matter how sweet she smelled or how strongly he felt that pull. This was about the case. The job was all he had.

      She angled her body toward his, and a primal part of his brain crowed in satisfaction when she didn’t step back. If anything, it felt like she was challenging his space with her body. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s on the level, huh?”

      God, he’d like to be challenged. She was simply magnificent—even better out of her robes. “I don’t play games, Caroline,” he said. No matter how much he might want to. “Not about something like this.”

      She studied him for a moment. “That implies you play games in other situations, though.”

      His lips twisted to one side and he crossed his arms, because if he didn’t, he might start smiling and that was bad for his image as a no-holds-barred lawman. “That all depends on the game, doesn’t it?”

      “I put more stock in the players.”

      So much for his image, because he burst out laughing at that. Caroline took a step back, her hands clenched at her sides and her back ramrod straight—which was completely at odds with the unexpectedly intense look of...longing? She looked less like a woman about to punch him and more like...

      Like she was holding herself back. Like she wanted to laugh with him. Maybe do even more with him.

      If he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest, would she break his nose or would she go all soft and womanly against him? How long had it been since he’d had a woman in his arms?

      It absolutely did not matter—nor did it matter that he knew exactly how long it’d been. What mattered was cracking this case.

      “I don’t sleep with them.”

      “What?” She physically recoiled, pushing herself closer to the door.

      “The prostitutes,” he explained. “I don’t sleep with them. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? What I do in my free time?”

      “It’s none of my business what you do when you’re off duty,” she said in a stiff voice, shrinking even farther away from him. “It’s a free country.”

      That made him grin again. “This country is bought and paid for, and you and I both know it,” he said, surprised at the bitterness that sneaked in there. “I buy them dinner,” he went on, wondering if someone like Caroline Jennings would ever really be able to understand. “They’re mostly young, mostly girls—mostly being forced to work against their will. I treat them like people, not criminals—show them there’s another way. When they’re ready, I help them get away and get clean. And until they are, I make sure they’re eating, give them enough money they don’t have to work that night.”

      “That’s...” She blinked. “Really?”

      “Really. I don’t sleep with them.” For some ridiculous reason, he almost let the truth slip free—he didn’t sleep with anyone. It was none of her business—but he wanted to make sure she knew he operated with all the ethical integrity she valued. “Carlson can back me up on that.”

      “Who’s Maggie?”

      Interesting. There was no good reason for her to be concerned about Maggie sending Tom her love, unless...

      Unless Caroline was trying to figure out if he was attached. “Carlson’s wife. We grew up on the same reservation together.” He left out the part where he’d gone off to Washington, DC, and joined the FBI, leaving Maggie vulnerable to exploitation and abuse.

      There was a reason he didn’t sleep with prostitutes. But that wasn’t his story to tell—it was Maggie’s. He stuck to the facts.

      The breeze gusted, surrounding him with her scent. He couldn’t help leaning forward and inhaling. “Roses,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly tender again. He really needed to stop with the tenderness.

      She flushed again, and although he shouldn’t, he hoped it wasn’t from the heat. “I beg your pardon?”

      “You smell of roses.” Somehow, he managed to put another step between them. “Is that your normal perfume, or was that from the delivery?” There. That was a perfectly reasonable question to ask, from a law-enforcement perspective.

      “From the flowers. The bouquet was huge. At least a hundred stems.”

      “All roses?”

      She thought about that. “Mixed. Lilies and carnations—a little bit of everything, really. But mostly roses.”

      In other words, it hadn’t been cheap. He tried to visualize how big a vase with a hundred stems would be. “But you’re not taking any home with you?”

      She shook her head. “I didn’t want them. My clerk got rid of most of them. Leland took home a huge bunch for his wife.”

      “Leland’s a good guy,” Tom replied, as if this were normal small talk when it was anything but.

      “How do I know I can trust you?” she blurted out.

      “My record speaks for itself.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and held it out to her. “You don’t know what you’re up against here. This kind of corruption is insidious and nearly impossible to track, Caroline. But if there’s anything else out of the ordinary—and