“FBI,” the woman announced, and the steel in her voice put Leila’s to shame. “Agents Smith and Cantrell. We have some questions for you. We’d like you to come with us—”
Eric pushed his way up beside her, taking a step slightly forward. “You can’t possibly have warrants. What kind of scare-tactic BS—”
“Stop,” Leila hissed at him.
The other agent spoke over them both, his voice raised to carry to the employees behind him, their heads all peering over their cubicle walls. “We can talk here if you prefer.”
Leila grabbed her purse and shook her head. “I’ll come with you.”
“And I’ll contact our lawyer,” Eric said, his too-loud voice a stark contrast to her too-soft one.
She kept her head up, met the gazes of her employees with confident, “don’t worry” nods as she followed Agents Smith and Cantrell out of Petrov Armor.
She prayed that slow, humiliating walk wouldn’t be the beginning of the end of everything her father had worked for, of the legacy she’d promised herself she’d keep safe for him.
Chapter Two
Despite its location in a nondescript building on the outskirts of Old City, Tennessee, the Tactical Crime Division had an interview room that would be the envy of most FBI field offices. Maybe it was a result of working with a profiler who believed in setting the stage for each individual interview. That meant sometimes the room looked like a plush hotel lobby and other times it was as stark as a prison cell. It all depended what Melinda thought would work best to get the subject talking.
Today it leaned closer to prison cell, with uncomfortable, hard-backed chairs pulled up to a drab gray table. But what Davis was most cognizant of was the video camera up in the corner, ready to broadcast in real time to the rest of the team everything he was doing.
Don’t lose your cool, he reminded himself as the door opened. He could hear Smitty telling the CEO of Petrov Armor to go ahead in.
He’d read Leila Petrov’s bio. Even with her undergraduate degree in business with minors in communications and marketing followed by an MBA, thirty years old was awfully young to be the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Then again, nepotism had a way of opening doors that little else could.
He’d seen her picture, too. She was undeniably gorgeous, with shiny, dark hair and big brown eyes. But she looked more like a college student getting ready for her first job interview than a CEO. Still, he wasn’t about to underestimate her. He’d seen what that could do on too many missions overseas, when soldiers thought just because someone was a young female meant they couldn’t be strapped with a bomb.
But as she came through the door, he was unprepared for the little kick his heart gave, sending extra blood pumping to places it had no business going. Maybe it was her determined stride, the nothing-fazes-me tilt of her chin in a room that made hardened criminals buckle. He felt her reciprocal jolt of attraction as much as he saw it in the sudden sweep her gaze made over his body, the slight flush on her cheeks.
She recovered faster than he did, scowling at the setup. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work. I’m here voluntarily. I want to help, but I don’t appreciate being bullied.”
He debated rethinking the whole interview plan, but decided to trust Melinda. He’d never worked with a profiler before coming to TCD, but in the short time he’d been here, he’d become a believer. “If you think this is being bullied, you have no business working with the military. Take a seat.”
Instead of following the directive, she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Her stance shifted, as if she was considering walking right out.
Silently Davis cursed, because the truth was, she could leave whenever she wanted. But he’d picked a course and he refused to back down now. So, he crossed his own arms, lifted his eyebrows and waited.
A brief, hard smile tilted her lips up, and then she pulled one of the chairs away from the table and perched on the edge of it. Rather than looking poised to run, with her perfect posture and well-tailored black suit, she managed to look like she was in charge.
Never underestimate someone who’d made CEO by thirty, no matter the circumstances, he told himself. Then he pulled his own chair around the table and positioned it across from her. Settling into the seat, he leaned forward, reducing the space between them to almost nothing.
If he couldn’t intimidate her with this room and his job title, maybe sheer size would work. She was tall for a woman—probably five foot ten without the low heels she wore—but he still had a few inches on her. And a lot of breadth with muscles he’d earned the hard way in the rangers.
Her eyes locked on his without hesitation. They were the shade of a perfect cup of coffee, with just a hint of cream added. This close to him, he could see how smooth and clear her skin was, with deeper undertones than he’d first realized. The flush on her cheeks was still there, but now it was darker, tinged from anger. And damn it all, she smelled like citrus, probably some expensive perfume to go with the designer clothes.
Clothes that hung just a little looser than they should suggested she’d been skipping meals. Despite her appeal, he didn’t miss the heavy application of makeup underneath her eyes that couldn’t quite hide the dark circles. He didn’t miss the redness in those eyes either, as if she’d been up late crying. Most likely still grieving the father she’d lost unexpectedly three weeks ago.
“I’m Special Agent Davis Rogers. I’m sure Agents Smith and Cantrell told you what this was about—assuming you didn’t watch the news this morning.” Davis
