“I don’t know,” Jamie said. “That’s all I heard, and I’m not sure how much of that is reliable information.”
The door leading to the chief’s office opened. Stanley Buchan and two other men entered, moving toward the three chairs that had been reserved for them at the opposite end of the table from Jen and Jamie. The chief was puffed up like a rooster with his own importance, talking animatedly with the two agents. While most officers resented federal agencies moving in on their territory, Jen knew that Buchan welcomed the involvement because the FBI made for increased media interest.
Buchan had become chief three years before, the first to be hired from outside the department rather than promoted from within. Jen supposed that under the best of circumstances he would have been resented, since most of the officers believed the chief should be promoted from within the ranks. But by the same reasoning, she doubted Buchan would have been liked even if he had reached the office that way.
Now in his late forties, Buchan made it clear by his actions that he considered the position a steppingstone to something better. Most of the officers on the department wished him well in his quest for a juicier plum. His success would mean they could be rid of him and his posturing that much sooner.
The murmuring in the room dropped a decibel as the officers turned their attention to the two men with Buchan. There was a subtle shifting of posture among them that Jen doubted a civilian would notice. It was the reaction of territorial animals to a stranger invading their turf.
The agent on Buchan’s right looked regulation-issue FBI. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, clean-shaven, hair a nondescript brown cut short over the ears and neck. He wore a conservative blue suit and gray tie. He looked more like an accountant than a federal law enforcement officer, and Jen knew there was a good chance that was just what he’d been before joining the FBI. The federal agency preferred their people to come from accounting and law backgrounds rather than from other police agencies.
The man on Buchan’s left, however, presented an entirely different picture. He was tall, well over six feet, and Jen guessed him to be in his late thirties or early forties. He had thick black hair cut as short as the other agent, but the cut didn’t hide the waviness that would have been unruly if allowed to grow longer. Even with the cut, one wave threatened to fall rakishly over his forehead.
That body ought to be outlawed, she thought. His muscular shoulders and chest strained at the seams of his gray pinstriped suit jacket. He had pulled his pale blue tie loose at the collar, and the top button of his white shirt was open, revealing tan skin and just a hint of chest hair. His chest tapered down to a trim waist and flat abdomen.
He was turned slightly toward the chief and had one hand in his pants pocket, a position that held his jacket back, allowing Jen to see that his pants fit snugly over a well-shaped bottom. In fact, she thought, letting her eyes play over the curves of his buttocks, those just might be the nicest buns I’ve seen in a while.
“The temperature in this room just jumped twenty degrees,” Jamie whispered at her side. “Is that a hunk or is that a hunk?”
“That’s a hunk,” Jen confirmed. “Too bad he’s a fed.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Jamie murmured.
Jen’s eyes moved slowly up to the man’s face. He was listening to something the chief was saying, his eyes downcast and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a close-lipped smile. Something about that smile told Jen that the federal agent was not impressed with Stanley Buchan, that in fact he probably considered the man a fool. The expression was in sharp contrast to the studied seriousness of the younger agent’s face as he listened to the chief. Jen wondered how the tall man had become a fed to begin with, since they were not noted for their independence or rebelliousness, and this man radiated both.
He radiated one other thing as well. Sex appeal. Of a very dangerous kind.
As she watched him listening to the chief, he lifted his gaze and his eyes locked on hers. They were blue, like his tie, an icy clear Paul Newman blue. His smile changed slightly, and she knew he was no longer listening to the chief’s inane comments.
They stared at one another for what seemed an eternity, but Jen knew could only have been a few seconds. Her breath quickened, and her body grew warm in response to the message emanating from the man. The attraction between them was like an electrical charge sizzling its way across the length of the conference table, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a burn mark appear in the wood.
Her lips parted in an effort to draw in more air, and she felt her nipples come to attention as his gaze moved over what he could see of her body above the table. Then his eyes met hers again, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, his lips still curved in that maddening half smile. Buchan chose that moment to turn and speak to him directly. He looked away from her to respond, and the connection was broken.
Her breath whooshed out in a little gasp. Her legs were trembling with weakness, and she was thankful she was sitting down. No, she corrected herself, that’s not weakness. That’s plain old-fashioned lust, something she hadn’t felt in so long that she almost didn’t
