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  There was only one person who’d be able to help her out: Mom. She and Pop were due to arrive tomorrow, and Nic had told her to be at their place for supper. Yippy skippy, an awkward meal with Pop topped off with Cassy begging her mother to locate a proper dress for her—an opportunity Mom would use to bully Cassy into making amends with Pop. At this stage, she’d rather face off against Boyce and his sexual urges.

  Well, nothing she could do about it this minute. She tossed the card on the table and went to her room to change. Finally comfortable in a pair of stretchy athletic pants and a hoodie, she dug through the freezer to find one of the small containers of beef-and-veggie stew. She ran hot water over the bottom of the container to loosen the frozen block then dropped it into a pot to heat. Still, it would take a while for her food to thaw, so she plopped on the sofa to channel surf. Finding nothing mind-numbing that interested her, Cassy chose a station that played Christmas music. The choral strains of “Silent Night” filled the house. She leaned her head against the back of the couch and tried to let the melody replace her uncomfortable thoughts.

  After a few minutes, her leg began to jiggle. Lifting her head, she stared out the windows. She was restless. The events of the past few days, culminating in the adrenaline-filled arrest this morning, left her unable to sit still or focus. She got up and paced. Usually a ride on one of Nic’s horses would do wonders, but with the snowy conditions, there would be no horseback ride. Pacing back into the kitchen, she stirred the stew. She pulled a stool closer to the stove, sat, and dragged out a cookbook to flip through the pages. Maybe a recipe would trip her interest.

  She stopped on a recipe for an elaborate and time-consuming Christmas candy, drumming her fingers against the pages. She had everything listed in the ingredients. She could take it to Nic’s tomorrow night … or find something else that wouldn’t prove too difficult.

  Her head jerked up at the loud rap on the front door. She swiveled around on the smooth seat and tiptoed to the entrance. A bundled figure, obscured by the beveled glass on the sides of her door, lingered on the front stoop. Of course he would continue to trample all over her ultimatum. It’d been less than two days. Steeling herself, she opened the door and then sagged against the door frame.

  “When am I going to get rid of you?”

  Boyce tilted his head to the side. Flecks of snow on his hair reflected in the twinkling lights, giving him a rakish appearance. “Probably never.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To get out of this agonizing cold.”

  She peered around his body to see the government-issued car parked in the drive. It was empty. “You left Liza at the hotel without a vehicle?”

  “She understands.”

  “I’m sure.” Cassy stepped aside, shutting the door behind him. She padded around him.

  Cleaning the packed snow off his shoes, he slid his coat off and hung it on a hook. “What smells heavenly?”

  “My supper. Are you going to explain your presence here, or am I expected to read your mind?”

  “Is this as far as your hospitality extends—I’m stuck standing in your foyer with no offer to sit or have a drink?”

  “You didn’t expect that kind of courtesy last night when you just barged in and made yourself at home, drinking my wine and trying to weasel your way into spending the night uninvited.”

  “I’ve since learned the error of my ways and reverted to my gentlemanly upbringing.”

  Sighing, Cassy left him and headed back to the kitchen. “What would your honor like to drink?”

  “Anything hot would be wonderful.”

  She peeked at her stew, completely thawed and bubbling. As long as Boyce was here, she wouldn’t be eating any time soon, unless she offered to share with him. This was a double portion. She could hear Mom now, chastising Cassy for not using the manners she’d drilled into her. Swallowing down her ire, Cassy stared up at the ceiling.

  “Could I interest you in having a bowl of stew with me?” Surprisingly, her voice didn’t carry the irritation she felt for having to ask.

  “Thank you for asking, but I’ve already eaten. But don’t let my presence stop you from enjoying your supper.”

  This formal, polite conversation was enough to make her gag. They had been anything but civil in all the time they had known each other. Theirs had been a relationship of passion and fire, whether it was physical or verbal. She set a mug down on the counter with a thunk then started up her single-cup coffeemaker to fix him a mug of hot apple cider. The sticky, sweet aroma gave her a craving for the same thing, so she made a cup for herself. Dishing out a heaping bowl of stew and setting it on a tray, she carried the bowl, crackers, and the two mugs into the living room.

  She placed the tray on the battered steamer trunk that served as her coffee table, handed Boyce his mug, and then positioned herself on the middle cushion of the sofa. Boyce took the plush armchair to her right. A mound of crackers crushed on the top of her stew, Cassy dug in, letting Boyce have the floor to explain why he was bothering her tonight.

  “I forgot how cold it got in Iowa,” he said after a while.

  She continued to eat. He drank the cider.

  “Cassy, has anyone been following up on the convenience store robbery?”

  “Besides you and Liza? Yes, that’s Jennings’s case.”

  “Then you’re in charge of Officer Wallis’s murder?”

  “Gold star for the FBI agent.” She polished off the last hunks of beef and potato and set the bowl back on the tray. “So nice of you to come here and talk shop when I’m doing my damnedest to decompress.”

  He leaned forward, placing his empty mug on the tray. “I didn’t think this should wait until tomorrow.”

  “Work can wait. That was my biggest problem with you, Boyce. You never shut down. You couldn’t walk away from the job and just be you. It was always about whatever case you were working. I swear the only time you weren’t thinking about it was when we were having sex.”

  “It’s who I am. I have never been able to ‘shut down,’ as you put it.”

  She gripped the tray handles. “And yet you never made an attempt to try, either.” She stood, hoisting the tray with her.

  “Cass, did you seek out a mental health professional after your kidnapping?”

  Criminy, he just kept coming with the hits. “Why do you care?”

  “I care, because it’s nothing to sneeze at. You were drugged and mentally tortured ... ”

  “And almost killed my sister. Yeah, I get it. As much as it’s none of your business, I couldn’t exactly return to my job until I had. If this is all you came here to do, you can take a hike. I’m not discussing anything further with you.” With that, she returned to the kitchen.

  Air stirred behind her, and she whipped around, jabbing the tray into Boyce’s stomach. The ceramic crockery clattered and tipped over. Boyce grunted, bending at the waist, holding the spot where the corner of the tray had done its damage.

  “Mind where you’re going,” she said and turned her back to him.

  “Cassy, be reasonable.”

  Slapping the tray on the counter, she pointed a finger at him. “This is me being reasonable. The unreasonable thing to do would be to haul your ass out the door. As it is, I’m giving you the chance to leave on your own.” She shook her head. “What was I thinking even letting you inside? Nothing good ever comes out of you being around me.”

  Hands braced on the opposite side of the counter, Boyce leaned over it, staring at her. “Is that how you felt about our relationship? That nothing good ever came from it?”

  “You’re like heroin, Boyce. A drug I know I shouldn’t have but just can’t resist because, damn it, it feels so good when it kicks in. I know the pain that will follow when it wears off, but in the heat of the moment, I just don’t give a damn. The more you keep coming around, the more I want to fall off the wagon.”

  He pushed himself erect. His posture, so straight, so sure, accentuated all the parts
of him that screamed male, from his broad, well-muscled chest to the chiseled line of his jaw. Where it all fell apart for her, kept her from giving in to her baser needs, was the statue-like stare.

  Cassy slammed the side of her fist onto the counter. “Feel something, Boyce! Get mad at me! Yell, scream, call me a whore. Show me anything but that damn stone mask.”

  “I can’t feel.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled and exhaled. The rapid rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of the emotions that had to be warring in his mind.

  Against her better judgment, Cassy rounded the counter. He shifted to follow her movements until they were facing each other.

  “Why not?” she persisted.

  Boyce’s Adam’s apple bounced. Gradually, his breathing evened out. He still stared at her, his gaze roaming from her eyes to her hair then down to a spot on her chest. She trembled under the heavy weight of his gaze. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to her face. “I’m leaving.”

  Her body stiffened at his answer. He moved to get his coat. Her frozen limbs suddenly thawed, and her hand shot out to grasp his bicep. Yanking hard, she pinned him against the counter and blocked his escape.

  “You don’t get to run away this time. I will get an answer, one way or another.”

  “Threats will get you nowhere with me.”

  Fisting a handful of his shirt and blazer, she placed her bare feet on the toes of his shoes and rose up on tiptoe until her lips were a hairsbreadth from his. “I never said I was going to use threats.”

  “Sweet pea,” he whispered.

  “Feel something, Boyce. Anything is better than living without a heart.”

  “Cassy, please.”

  She angled her mouth, letting her lips brush his. “There’s a man inside this suit, wanting … no, begging to be free. I want to see the real you.”

  His stiffened body shuddered under her. He was fighting her. The bastard. He liked playing the seducer, but God forbid she be the seductress. So be it!

  She crushed her mouth against his. He yielded in a fraction of a second, parting her lips, nipping and licking. Cassy’s head went light. God, she’d forgotten how good he felt, how his lips could set her on fire. Their lips parried, each trying to get the upper hand. Boyce buried his fingers in her hair, cradling her head as he deepened the kiss. Cassy moaned, her limbs threatening to turn to gelatin. One of Boyce’s hands trailed down the length of her arm and hooked around her hip, thrusting her flush to him. Trapped, she sank deeper into him, losing herself.

  Gradually, she became aware of the shift in power. Ripping her lips from his, she gasped for air, glaring at him. “You don’t get to win this battle.”

  A wicked glint passed through his eyes. “Sweet pea, we both know you can’t take the kissing as far as you want, because it means you lose one way or another. You don’t get your answer, and your demand that I leave you alone becomes null and void.” His expression turned guarded, dark. “I don’t play fair, and you can’t play dirty.”

  She released him with a jerk and backed away from him. “Bastard.”

  Adjusting his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles, he straightened his cuffs, never breaking eye contact with her. “There’s a reason I don’t feel, Cassy. You don’t get where I am by letting your emotions rule you.” He stepped around her.

  “You’re lying.”

  Boyce paused as he reached for his coat. “That, you’ll never know.” In one swift motion, he slid into his coat and then exited the house.

  Cassy glared at the closed door. “We’re not through, Boyce Hunt. I’ll tear the truth out of you if I have to.”

  • • •

  Boyce bolted to the car and locked himself inside. He sat there, staring at the front stoop and its festive decorations until his breath fogged the windshield. The anger, arousal, frustration, fear, and distress—everything he’d kept restrained raged out of him. With a shout, he beat the heels of his hands against the steering wheel.

  Damn her! Damn her for pushing him. Damn her for demanding he give in to her. She didn’t know what he was holding back. The ugliness he couldn’t show the world. A side of him Mother had fostered and yet loathed in him. A part of his soul that would damage anyone who got too close.

  There were so many reasons he locked down his emotions. So many people who could get hurt, the top among them being Cassy, if he ever gave in. Boyce refused to live with the consequences.

  Now the palms of his hands throbbed. He gripped the top of the wheel and sagged against it. Too close. He’d come too close to giving in to Cassy’s seduction. Had he given in … No. It was one thing to be the pursuer, the playboy, and wholly another to give her the upper hand to jerk him around by his balls.

  Cassy wasn’t wrong. He’d always used work as a means to avoid anything more personal, intimate, with her. His feelings for her scared the hell out of him. She was the only woman to give him these odd sensations, things he’d never felt before. Drawing in a steadying breath, he started the car, let the windshield clear of the condensation, and then backed out of the drive. Pointing the sedan toward town, he escaped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At four fifteen Boyce gave up trying to sleep, made a pot of the hotel coffee, and began to analyze the evidence and reports from the bank robbery, again. Taking what he learned from Teddy about the convenience store robbery, Boyce compared the two. As Teddy had assured him, from what each scene revealed, there was no possible way both robberies had been done by the same people. The bank’s had been done methodically, professionally, whereas the convenience store’s was reckless, sloppy—almost as if it was a last-minute decision. Had the previous gas station robberies been the same or more like the bank’s? He’d have to check.

  What was most troubling was why Silas Vega’s store had lost video surveillance the same day as the robbery, yet the cameras had been rolling during the bank robbery. Had the other gas station stores lost their cameras, too? That question nagged at him and had driven him to talk with Cassy about it last night. Except their … entanglement, for lack of a better word, had interfered. Now he’d have to discuss it with Hamilton, along with revealing Teddy’s remembered piece of information. Boyce doubted getting this info from “a hotshot FBI agent” would go over smoothly with Hamilton, who’d then want a reason Boyce was looking into an investigation he’d been asked to stay out of. There were just some answers that couldn’t be given.

  Boyce rose from the edge of the bed and wandered to the window. Stars winked in the early-morning sky. Predicted highs for today were in the upper thirties and would probably melt some of the snow. From his vantage point on the second story of the hotel, he spotted lights in some of the businesses closest to the building. He checked his watch—nearly five. The diner would be open soon, and a breakfast made by Betty Lamar would taste good. Her midwestern dishes rivaled some of the best cooks from the south Boyce had sampled growing up.

  Suddenly aware that he was rubbing the spot on his shoulder with the burn scars, Boyce jerked his hand down to his side. No good came from remembering his youth. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he returned to the bed littered with the case files.

  He would give the bank robbery investigation one more day, then he and Liza would return to Cedar Rapids. Whether the station robberies and the bank were connected to Officer Wallis’s murder or not, he’d relay the news and move it along. This would have been better coming from Cassy.

  Looking back at how things had progressed between them last night, Boyce had to admit that he’d gone to her in an attempt to finalize what he knew in his head: There was no going back.

  When he left Eider, he would tell her goodbye. For the last time.

  His cell rang.

  He glanced at the number—it was the Memphis office. “Hunt.”

  “Hunt, this is Isaacs, do you have a few minutes?” Isaacs was one of the agents assigned to Mother’s case.

  Boyce sat on the corner of the
unmade bed. “I’ve got all the time you need.”

  “Where you at, again?”

  “Iowa.”

  “Man, sorry, it’s gotta be colder than a witch’s tit there.”

  Boyce smiled. “I’ll survive. What can I help you with?”

  “There’s been a new development with the Gladstone case, and I’m hoping you can shed some light on this. We had a CI report that you were seen visiting one of the warehouses that’s rumored to be a place Ruby Jean uses as a transaction area with her customers or business partners.”

  “When was this supposed sighting to have happened?”

  “In August.”

  “August, you say? No actual date or time?”

  “The CI was sketchy on that particular information.”

  In other words, the guy was possibly an addict and not too reliable. Confidential informants tended to use law enforcement as an easy score for keeping up with whatever addiction had them in its grasp.

  “Isaacs, your guy is feeding you a line of hogwash. In August I was working a fraud case that didn’t give me much time to go anywhere. But my biggest question would be, how does this CI know who I am and what I look like?”

  “He claims you’ve been to see Ruby Jean before. She’s called you by name and asked after your job with the FBI.”

  Boyce rubbed his forehead. “Am I to assume he couldn’t give you exact days or times?”

  “See my problem? Special Agent in Charge Ulrich wanted me to double-check with you. After all, this is your mother.”

  And they still didn’t fully trust him? No one could. How was it possible a man raised in that type of environment—to be a thug, a criminal—could make a clean break and become a legit FBI agent? On more than a few occasions he’d overheard speculation that Boyce Hunt had infiltrated the Bureau in an attempt to keep his mother informed of their maneuvers against her. Yet no one was able to provide proof, so the accusations floundered and died. If anything, he’d given them more insight and fodder to shut his mother’s operations down for good.