The Girl Who Couldn't Forget. Cassie Miles

retired. The FBI office sent Sloan instead.”

      He pointed to Brooke’s phone, which was still connected to an emergency operator asking questions. “Are you going to talk to her?”

      This situation just got worse and worse. She’d requested emergency assistance, and she knew from past experience that nothing would divert the officers from coming to her aid. Rather than wasting time with long explanations to the dispatcher, she disconnected the call. Another rule broken.

      Sloan asked, “Franny, do you have milk?”

      Her ingenuous blue eyes opened wide. “Are you thirsty?”

      “He wants milk to counteract the sting of the capsaicin in the pepper spray,” Brooke explained as she snapped the cover onto the small canister and returned it to her fanny pack, where she also kept a supply of medicated wipes to use in case the pepper spray got onto her fingers. She opened the package, took out a wipe and handed it to Sloan before using one on her own hands. “Water is ineffective in washing off the oil-based propylene glycol.”

      “About that milk,” Sloan repeated.

      “Come with me,” Franny said as she scampered barefoot toward the arched doorway leading to the kitchen. “I always have milk for the cats. Don’t worry, I don’t give them much. It’s not healthy, you know. But they do love it.”

      Brooke trailed behind Special Agent Sloan and Franny, whose curly black hair bounced around her elfin face. For some unfathomable reason, she was wearing a purple sequin tiara. In her paisley-patterned yoga shorts and pink T-shirt with a sparkly unicorn on the front, she looked childlike and vulnerable. Actually, she was only four years younger than Brooke, who was twenty-six but felt like she’d already lived three lifetimes. No tiaras for her. She kept her long hair slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail, which she twisted into a bun.

      Her attention shifted to Sloan. He was tall, approximately seven inches over her five and a half feet, and he appeared to be in good physical condition. His gray suit jacket fit neatly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was something disturbing about the way he moved. Athletic and masculine, he seemed to exude confidence. Or was it arrogance? Either way, his presence unnerved her.

      When she looked away from him, her gaze ricocheted around Franny’s small apartment, where the decor was based on clutter, half-finished projects and more clutter. Brooke counted no fewer than four cats. The table in the dining area was covered with stacks of unopened mail, multicolored scraps of fabric and a sparkling array of beaded jewelry. Beside the table was a wicker basket of unfolded laundry that a fat gray-and-white cat was using as a bed. A teetering tower of books lurked in the corner. Instead of a curtain, Tibetan prayer flags draped across the dining room window, offering an alarmingly clear view of the sidewalk outside. Any passerby could easily see into the house. The security here was even worse than her last place.

      In the kitchen, dirty dishes filled one side of the double sink. Half-eaten meals were scattered across the counter. Brooke couldn’t help herself. She started washing the dishes.

      “What are you doing?” Franny asked.

      They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “Left-out food attracts mice. I’ll have this cleaned up in a sec.”

      “Don’t bother.” Franny laughed and pointed to a black cat and a calico. “My mousers will protect me from varmints.”

      “Do any of these cats actually belong to you?”

      “I don’t own them, if that’s what you mean.”

      As soon as Franny moved into a neighborhood, she made a point of befriending the local feline population. Brooke never knew from whence the cats came or where they went or why they liked to hang out with her friend. Maybe they recognized a kindred spirit.

      “If you’re looking for something to do, take care of him.” Franny pointed to Agent Sloan, who had found a carton of milk in the fridge. “You broke him. You should fix him.”

      There was a certain amount of logic in what she said. If Franny is making sense, I must be losing my mind. Brooke directed Agent Sloan toward a straight-back chair beside a table where pots, pans and a basket full of green glass baubles took up most of the space. She took the carton from him, searched the cabinets for a clean bowl and poured the milk. While trying to find a fresh dish towel in the drawers, she said, “Take off your jacket, and be careful where you touch. The left sleeve probably has pepper spray on it.”

      He removed the holster clipped to his belt and placed his gun on the table next to the baubles. Then he peeled off his jacket and folded it into a neat package, which he stuck into a paper grocery bag that Franny handed him. The striptease didn’t end there. He loosened his necktie. “I should probably take off my shirt, too.”

      Her already-speeding pulse jolted into high gear. “By all means, take off the shirt. Your collar might be...compromised.”

      Being careful to avoid handling the collar, he removed the short-sleeved cotton shirt. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His nicely muscled chest showed off his tan.

      Her fingers itched with an unexpected urge to rake though his black chest hair and slide over those taut pecs. Snap out of it! True, it had been a long time since she’d been this close to a half-naked man, but she wasn’t the type to get all hot and bothered. Self-control was her middle name. With the bowl of milk and dish towel in hand, she approached the chair where he had taken a seat.

      “Tilt your head up and to the right,” she said.

      His gaze connected with hers and...her heart stopped. Held in suspended animation, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Her ears were ringing. This wasn’t a panic attack; it was something different, something she’d never experienced before. She blinked until her vision was clear and she found herself staring into the most fascinating eyes. They were deep set and gray with glittering facets of silver and green. His angular cheekbones matched a square jaw. His face was saved from severity by an ironic twist of his mouth. He had the kind of lips that were meant for kissing. Not that she was an expert. Her social life was only slightly more interesting than Franny’s.

      Her friend spoke up. “I’ll see if I can find something for Sloan to wear.”

      “Excellent idea,” Brooke said.

      In an uncharacteristically clumsy manner, she swabbed the milk on the red blotches near his left ear. Excess from the dish towel dripped down his chest. She reached out with her bare hand to wipe it away. As soon as her fingers touched his flesh, a jolt of electricity traveled up her hand to her arm, then across her shoulder and down her chest, where it zapped her heart like a cardiovascular defibrillator. She jumped back. The milk spilled.

      Breathlessly, she said, “No use crying over that.”

      He took the bowl from her. “Maybe I should do this myself.”

      “Yes, that would be easier.” Aware that they were alone in the kitchen, she stepped back. This federal agent was a clear and present danger to her mental stability. “Have you spoken to Franny about why she called the FBI?”

      “I have.”

      “Would you care to share that information?”

      “She was trying to contact your mutual friend Layla and couldn’t reach her.” He dabbed at his cheek with the milk. “The text messages to her weren’t answered. The phone calls went straight to voice mail.”

      “It’s not unusual for Layla to go off the grid, and it’s hardly a reason to call in the FBI.” Brooke eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

      “Franny’s fears appear to be connected to what happened twelve years ago.”

      She didn’t want to hear about this but had to know. “Tell me.”

      “Wait!” Franny dashed into the room with a crocheted poncho that she threw toward Sloan. She turned to Brooke. “Maybe we