Brent hurried through the debris that littered Forrester’s rented storage unit, knowing that he had only minutes to search.

When the cops arrived, they’d secure the crime scene, and no one would be permitted inside until the CSI guys had completed their painstaking evidence-gathering process. Then more time would be wasted while the Bureau and the local police department wrangled over jurisdiction.

The acrid smell of smoke and chemicals invaded his nostrils and burned his eyes. The Trans Am stood directly ahead of him, its trunk empty and cleaved in two by a blue metal projectile that had once been part of the storage unit door. The fender looked like crumpled aluminum foil. All the windows had shattered, dusting the vehicle with a layer of sparkling crystals.

He edged around the side of the car. The driver’s door hung ajar from the force of the explosion.

Tugging on his driving gloves, he proceeded to search the interior. The glove compartment contained a Trans Am owner’s manual and a flashlight. He thumbed through the manual, then unscrewed the top section of the flashlight, removed the batteries and peered inside the empty cylinder.

Next, he flipped down both sun visors and checked the pockets on the driver and passenger doors. Using the flashlight, he went over the front seats and carpet, trying not to disturb the glass shards while he examined every damn inch. Then he moved to the backseat and repeated his search.

Nothing.

That left the interior of the roof. His fingers ran back and forth, feeling for any irregularity in the fabric. After several passes, he detected a raised section near the overhead light. He traced the shape with his fingers, then blasted the area with the flashlight. The fabric had been neatly sliced and something inserted. He coaxed the thin, ragged-edged item from its hiding place.

A key.

Too small for a vehicle or door lock, it seemed about the right size for a locker or trunk. He exited the car, trying to remember if he’d seen anything the key might fit at Forrester’s house.

The flashlight lit up the back wall of the storage unit, revealing a multidrawer metal cabinet. He went over and tugged on the top drawer. When it wouldn’t open, he tried the key, which quickly released the locking mechanism. The cabinet drawers held numerous automotive tools.

Why would Forrester bother to secure them separately when he had a locked storage unit?

After extracting all five drawers from the cabinet frame, Brent knelt down, reached inside and felt along the back and both sides. Then, remembering the car, he touched the top of the cabinet. His hand made contact with a half-inch ridge in the shape of a square. The flashlight showed a CD case taped to the underside.

As he removed the case, the ripping sound was followed by the muted wail of emergency sirens. He pocketed the CD and strode out of the storage unit.

“How’s he doing?” he called out, crossing the parking lot.

“Not good,” Claire said, strain evident in her face. “He passed out a few minutes ago, and his color’s been getting worse ever since. Those sirens had better be his ambulance.”

When she touched the side of Langdon’s neck for his pulse, Brent saw her hands were shaking and bloodstained. “I’m sorry you had to deal with this.”

She glanced up, squinting in the bright sunshine. “Did you find anything?”

“An unlabeled CD.”

As the sound of the sirens grew louder, he added quickly, “My gut tells me it’s important.”

An ambulance swung onto the U Lock It property and drove up the laneway toward them, followed closely by a police cruiser.

“Let’s hope your gut is right,” she said.

THE PASSWORD protecting the unmarked CD was a clear sign to Brent that Forrester didn’t want others accessing it. He made attempt after attempt to type the right combination of letters and numbers in the password box. He tried the man’s birth date, his Social Security number and his employee number. Then his middle name, his mother’s maiden name and all of the names listed in his address book. Within an hour, he was grinding his molars. The Bureau’s tech guys had more practice unlocking protected files than he did, but it would take too long to go through official channels.

After another fifteen minutes, he was out of ideas—and caffeine.

Claire wandered into the kitchen as the coffee finished brewing. He poured two mugs and handed her one.

“Thanks.” She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. “I’ve never had this much free time. I feel restless.”

“You could take the canoe out. Or go for a swim.” An image popped into his head of Claire wearing a skimpy bikini, her curves covered by only scraps of material, her skin soft and bare—

He gulped down the hot coffee so fast his throat burned.

She strolled to the window, oblivious to the fantasy torturing him. “Anything creepy in the lake?”

He tried to settle himself down, but his voice came out hoarse. “Nothing but minnows near the shore. The last few days have been sunny so it should have warmed up a little.”

She smiled. “Cold water doesn’t bother me.”

It didn’t bother him, either. In fact, his body temperature could use lowering. But taking a dip in the lake with Claire wouldn’t have the desired effect. It would only increase his desire for her.

“Do you want to join me?” she asked.

Of course he did. But until he cracked the password, he had no business doing—or thinking about—anything else.

He returned to the couch. “I’m still working on the CD from Forrester’s car.”

Her smile faded. “Of course.”

He knew his words had reminded her of the incident at the storage unit, and he regretted that. Claire had made several calls to the hospital to check on Mickey’s condition but hadn’t been given much information.

He turned back to the computer on the coffee table.

What should he try next? Forrester’s driver’s license number? He checked the info in the file Lisa had downloaded at the office, then entered the necessary keystrokes.

Access denied.

“How long have you been at that?” Claire asked.

“Too long,” he muttered.

“What are you trying to do?”

Brent rubbed the back of his neck. “Figure out his password. Most people pick something easy to remember.”

“I use my zip code,” she admitted.

“If Forrester had, I’d have cracked the sucker in ten minutes.”

He leaned back, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. “Why don’t you take a stab at it?”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

He’d spoken on impulse but now decided that getting her involved wasn’t a bad idea. “Hey, you’ve spent more time with this guy than I have.”

“That doesn’t mean I can help.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas. It’s your turn to get frustrated.”

She sat beside him. “Forrester’s passion is classic cars. Have you tried the Trans Am’s license plate number?”

“Puh-lease,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Sorry. What about the year of the car?”

“It’s worth a shot.” He typed in “1969,” hit Enter and checked the screen.

Access denied.

He was beginning to hate those words.

“Forrester has a nickname for his car that he mentioned during one of our sessions. It’s Beauty.”

Brent typed in the six letters, just to humor her.

The empty password box disappeared, and the image of a Trans Am loaded onto the screen. He was in.

Beauty, indeed.

Claire peered over his shoulder. “Hey, it worked. Are you happy?”

He was very happy. And damn grateful she hadn’t taken his suggestion and gone swimming. He leaned over and pressed his mouth against hers.

What started as a kiss of gratitude quickly became more. As soon as his lips made contact, he forgot everything but how much he wanted her. He kissed her again, not caring that there were reasons he shouldn’t. He’d been holding back too long, stifling urges that were demanding to be acted on.

She sighed and kissed him back.

Last time, he’d misjudged her comfort zone by moving too fast. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. It wasn’t a damn race, it was an experience to be savored. She was an experience to be savored. And he intended to show her he understood that.

He had to be doing something right because Claire kept up with him, kiss for kiss. Then she wrapped her arms around him. As her fingertips massaged his heated flesh through his shirt, he moaned in pleasure.

He was damn well going to make her moan, too.

He nibbled a trail of kisses along her jaw, then down her neck to her collarbone, marveling at the softness of her skin and her tantalizing fragrance. Near the swell of her breast, he slowed, not wanting to assume too much, but she threaded her fingers through his hair and urged him to move lower. Her breathing quickened in anticipation, and his heartbeat did the same.

She was beautiful, vibrant and passionate. And so very responsive to his caresses. Her nipples pebbled under her tank top, and she strained against his body so that he hardened until he ached.

His lips nuzzled her breast through the thin cotton. He slid a hand under her top and stroked her stomach.

It’s wrong to be making out with Claire while Sanderson’s killer is on the loose.

He sucked in a breath and pressed his hot face against her neck. Although he desperately wanted to keep touching Claire, the voice inside his head couldn’t be ignored. He had more important priorities than to satisfy his desires.

Before he could change his mind, he moved away.

Claire swayed in her seat, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her skin flushed with excitement.

“Thanks for cracking the code,” he said, keenly aware that his words sounded brusque and impersonal. “I have to get back to work now.”

She looked away, but not before he saw the hurt and confusion in her eyes.

Disgust lodged in his stomach. He shouldn’t have touched her, shouldn’t have allowed himself to forget—even for a moment—that his energies had to be directed elsewhere. She might not appreciate it now, but he’d done her a favor by stopping. He couldn’t give her the attention she deserved—even in the short term—and he’d never been a long-term kind of guy.

From this point on, he had to focus solely on catching Forrester and identifying Sanderson’s killer.

CLAIRE GRIPPED the sides of her chair, struggling for composure. The last time she’d felt like this, she’d been riding a friend’s horse when it had spooked and thrown her to the ground. Then as now, having the breath knocked out of her wasn’t the worst part. It was the sense of complete disorientation.

Why had Brent withdrawn from her just when things were getting interesting? To pay her back for shying away from intimacy before? Or had he decided making love to her would be a mistake? Both possibilities upset her. She’d finally accepted their relationship for what it was: an exciting, sexually-charged connection. That fell short of all that she wanted, but maybe it would grow into more if she took a chance.

Apparently, he wasn’t going to give them that chance.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the lake and beach a glittering gold. Despite the turmoil in her life, she couldn’t remember a more peaceful setting. No wonder Brent and Pete had enjoyed coming here. Maybe if her father had had such a place to unwind, things would have turned out differently.

The old ache rose up, but she ruthlessly pushed it back down. The past was done, and no amount of speculation could change it.

Even though a relationship between her and Brent was a no-starter, she was worried about him. He had so much on his mind that he could delay coming to terms with his loss. But eventually there would be a lull, and then the pain and grief would strike him like a tidal wave. She hoped, when the time came, he had somebody to call on for support.

Too bad he wouldn’t allow that somebody to be her.

UNABLE TO SLEEP, Brent lay in the darkness, his mind jumping from one thought to another. The discovery of Forrester’s password had allowed him to open the CD’s files, but then he’d hit a wall. The contents were strings of letters and numbers whose meaning eluded him.

What he wished would elude him was his awareness of Claire. It didn’t matter how often he told himself to ignore her, he simply could not shut her out. Every move she made, every look she sent his way, fed his attraction to her.

He wanted to taste her and touch her again—not just her lips, but every inch of her. It was an urge he’d been feeling since they’d met, an urge that was harder to resist with every minute they spent together. Today, she had responded with heat and passion…until he’d shoved her away.

That seemed like such a stupid, hurtful move now.

He didn’t want her spending the night alone next door. He didn’t want a wall separating them. He wanted them to be in the same room, in the same bed, where he’d soon take away her hurt and make her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

Stop it.

He’d lost sight of his assignment. He was supposed to protect her, not lust after her. Besides, she wouldn’t be content with a fling, and he couldn’t offer her anything more.

His stomach grumbled, and he decided a quick trip to the fridge might help him sleep. He padded barefoot through the hall but stopped when he reached the living room. Moonlight streamed through the window, showcasing a blanketed form huddled in a chair. Evidently, Claire couldn’t sleep, either.

He debated beating a retreat, but that was a coward’s way. He had to face her and tell her she hadn’t done anything wrong earlier. He just wasn’t the right man for her.

As he advanced into the room, only the soft curls of her hair and pale oval of her face were visible above the blanket.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked.

“An hour,” she admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about Mickey. One minute, he was standing there, perfectly fine. The next…” She pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I wish they’d let me ride in the ambulance with him.”

“He wouldn’t have known you were there,” Brent pointed out. “And once he reached the hospital, the doctors would’ve sent you away while they worked on him.”

“I know you’re right.” She let out a weary sigh. “I just wish I knew how he’s doing. The hospital won’t tell me much.”

“Gene called after you went to bed,” Brent said. “Langdon’s scheduled for surgery the day after tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“He has to have a few inches of bone removed so the skin can cover the stump.”

She shivered, and drew the blanket more tightly around her. “Poor Mickey.”

“His doctor said the prognosis is good. There’s no sign of infection, and he should be out of surgery in a few hours.”

“Thanks for telling me,” she said, her lips curving softly.

Maybe this was his chance to make amends. “Do you want to go to the hospital tomorrow? You could visit with him, maybe meet his fiancée. Gene said she wants to thank you in person for calling the ambulance and staying with him until it arrived.”

Her eyes glowed in the moonlight. “Thanks, I’d like that.”

Her gratitude sent a rush of warmth through him. Actually, her company often had that effect on him—and not only when he was kissing her.

The thought brought him up short. The late hour was probably to blame, but even so he shouldn’t be thinking along those lines. It didn’t matter what he felt when he was around Claire. It only mattered that he kept her safe until Forrester was in custody.

“We’ll go after breakfast,” he said.

Before Claire could respond, the ring of his cell phone intruded.

He glanced at the illuminated display, frowning when it showed Gene’s home number. He flipped it open. “What’s up?”

“It’s Langdon,” Gene said. “There was a blood clot.”

He swore softly. A blood clot could mean a dozen different things—none of them good. “How is he?”

“He died an hour ago.”