Dread crept up her spine and settled in her shoulders. A knot of tension formed at the base of her skull and began to throb in a slow, steady rhythm.
“You wanna take a shot at where he got his training?”
Sunny briefly closed her eyes. “Where?” she asked, even though she had a good idea of the answer.
“Quantico, Virginia, Mac.” Jack’s tone sobered. “The son of a bitch is FBI.”
4
SUNNY APPROACHED THE young, pretty brunette seated at the reception desk of Chamberlain Recovery and Investigations and flashed her ID. “Special Agent MacGregor,” she said, her tone brusque. “FBI. Is Mr. Chamberlain in?”
The receptionist’s wide-set brown eyes filled with caution. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
Sunny tucked her ID back inside the pocket of her linen blazer. “You do that,” she said. “And tell Mr. Chamberlain he’d be smart to make himself available.”
The girl deserted her post and took off around the corner, leaving Sunny alone. She walked toward a pair of navy padded chairs, but she was too restless to sit. What she really wanted to do was kick something. Hard. She considered the brass planter with a thick potted palm in the corner as a possible target, then decided she’d rather unleash her anger on a certain someone, with seductive eyes and a kiss-me smile who’d made her look like an incompetent moron in front Caruso and Weidman.
The minute she’d hung up the phone with Jack, she’d accessed the Bureau’s personnel directory. The slow simmer of anger had silenced her disbelief the moment Duncan’s image had loaded on the screen of her monitor. Her temper still hadn’t cooled, even on the drive across town to his office.
The personnel file hadn’t provided her with a scrap of useful data other than to confirm Weidman’s findings and Duncan’s dates of service with the Bureau. No reference whatsoever to the reason behind his termination. A resignation? Perhaps, but to her “relieved of duty” sounded as if he’d been canned. Without the appropriate clearance level, though, she had no hope of verifying her suspicions, leaving her with no choice but to go directly to the source and demand answers.
Any number of reasons could result in a security classification of an agent’s service record. The need for clearance didn’t necessarily mean Duncan’s personnel file contained information on sensitive national security issues or even the whereabouts of a material witness to a crime. The medical findings of his last physical could’ve easily garnered the tag.
She blew out a stream of breath. Irritation made a fine companion to anger. She wanted answers, and was determined to have them, one way or another, along with whatever other information he may be keeping from her. He’d ignored her warning not to try to play her once. If he refused to take her seriously, then she’d simply confiscate his files related to SEDSCAM and ban him from the Wilder estate until the conclusion of her investigation.
The receptionist returned with a pleasant smile and an armload of files, which she placed on the center of her desk. “Mr. Chamberlain can see you now,” she said amiably.
Guilt nipped Sunny’s conscience for coming off as a hard-ass with the girl. Before she could formulate an appropriate apology, they’d reached the end of the short corridor and the receptionist ushered Sunny into Duncan’s office, closing the door quietly as she left.
He stood behind his desk, a cordless phone edged between his shoulder and ear as he flipped through a binder lying open on the desk. His tie was gone, and the khakis were not pressed so neatly now as they’d been that morning. All that thick, black hair was tousled, as if he’d been ramming his fingers through the wavy mass. Rumpled and sexy, she thought again. And still a damn fine specimen of massive sex appeal, no matter how much he’d ticked her off.
He glanced up and their eyes met. As if he were happy to see her, those incredible lips tipped upward in a smile, making her heart beat in an erratic rhythm. Did his office qualify as his place?
Only on a technicality, she decided. Not that it made a difference. She’d come for answers, not a little afternoon delight.
He motioned for her to sit while he finished his phone call, indicating the navy armchair across from his desk. The chaotic atmosphere was so arbitrary to her impression of Duncan. But what did she know? She hadn’t exactly been a shining example of sound judgment on that subject considering the enlightening phone call from Caruso. She never should’ve allowed him onto the estate without having him checked out first. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, but a plea of lust-on-the brain made for a pathetically thin defense.
Ignoring the offer to sit, she clasped her hands behind her back and took in his surroundings. The cool blues, deep wines and creamy whites of the color scheme would have been more soothing if nearly every available surface of the heavy furnishings weren’t a cautionary tale in the hazards of disorganization. Several stacks of files threatened to topple from the edge of the monstrous oak desk. The matching credenza parked beneath the window was no improvement, nor were the trio of lateral oak file cabinets along the wall. She caught sight of a pair of silver picture frames on the center file cabinet, but the photographs were obscured by a landscape of documents bound together with thick rubber bands.
She strolled over to an imposing armoire pulling double duty as a bookcase. In reality, the piece acted as a catch-all for more files and banded documents. A row of bulky binders were crammed to overflowing with papers, while the shelf directly above held a line of books, oddly arranged by height in a neat, organized row, ranging in topic from the federal penal code to rules of evidence along with several investigation trade manuals and journals. Taped to the interior of the open doors of the armoire, in no observable cohesive order she could determine, were brightly colored squares of paper with varying handwriting.
“I’ll get back to you once I review the police reports,” Duncan said to his caller. “Monday at the latest.” He paused. “I’ll talk to you then.”
She turned to face him as he set the phone on the desk. He wrote something down on another square of paper, then taped it to the armoire with the others. His to-do list? she wondered.
He set the tape dispenser on a tower of files. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. The files threatened to spill, but he caught them before they toppled to the floor, shoving them back in place. The chaotic disorder didn’t seem to faze him. She, on the other hand, was overcome with an urge to organize.
She reminded herself not to fall for his charm again. Or that impossible-to-resist tilt of his mouth. The pure male interest simmering in his eyes as he swept his gaze down her length didn’t affect her in the least. She just wished her nipples hadn’t tightened. Or her tummy hadn’t flipped.
Straightening her shoulders, she attempted a hard glare. Somewhere between the reception area and his office, her anger had cooled, so she settled for one filled with minor annoyance instead.
“I’m not here for pleasure.”
His expression turned downright wicked. “Too bad.”
Maybe his charm wasn’t her problem, but those recurring fantasies that kept playing hell with her resolve not to let him get to her. “You lied to me,” she accused, pretending to ignore the pImages** of tangled sheets and entwined limbs taunting her.
A single dark eyebrow winged upward. “I did?”
She moved to the chair and braced her hands over the back. “I warned you not to play me. You should have told me you were with the Bureau.”
“I’m not with the Bureau,” he said with calm emphasis. “Past tense.”
She narrowed her eyes at that innocent-of-all-charges expression on his too-handsome face. The guy was cool, she’d give him that much. Her reprimand elicited no remorse from him. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. Even by omission.”
He tucked his