Brent wasn’t able to reach Gene until an hour after he and Claire had arrived back at the cabin. Sitting alone in the living room with the cell phone pressed against his ear, he decided it was time he was fully candid with his supervisor.

“There was a CD hidden in Forrester’s vehicle,” he told Gene when the other man finally came on the line. He quickly briefed him about decoding the information in the CD’s files, matching a name to Sanderson’s murder investigation and meeting with the blackmail victim.

When he was finished, Gene let out a low whistle. “As awful as this may sound, the Bloodhound’s murder is finally beginning to make sense to me.”

“Forrester must have figured out Pete knew about the blackmail scheme,” Brent said. “He paid a snitch to set him up, and then he killed him.”

Acid roiled in his stomach, and he shifted position, trying to ease the discomfort. Since the beginning, he’d been keeping Pete’s loss at arms’ length, telling himself he had to stay detached in order to solve the puzzle. But instead of feeling good that a crucial piece of the puzzle, motive, had slipped into place, he felt hollow, emptied out.

Gene cleared his throat. “Forrester’s participation in the Bureau’s Internet porn investigation means he had access to everything known about the suspects.”

“That info helped him choose his targets.”

“Nothing to stop him,” Gene added.

“Until he picked the wrong one.” The wrong one being Sharratt, longtime acquaintance of Pete Sanderson, who recognized Forrester’s pet phrase.

“The blackmail drop is the best chance we have of apprehending Forrester,” Gene said. “Let’s meet tomorrow at nine to work on a plan.”

“Sounds good.”

“If the Bloodhound had lived a little longer,” Gene added quietly, “he would have nailed Forrester’s sorry hide to the wall.”

“Damn right he would have.”

“I’m sorry about Pete. I know I’ve said it before, but it always seems so damn inadequate.”

Brent swallowed around the lump in his throat. Usually, he could come up with a glib response without breaking a sweat, but not right now.

After a lengthy pause, Gene continued, “I guess some things are just too big for words, huh?”

Brent cleared his throat and searched around for a way to lighten things up. “Don’t let Claire catch you saying that. That woman believes talking can solve all the problems of the world.”

“You should listen to her. She’s a smart lady.”

Smart enough to know he’d had a rough day and needed some space. She’d been quiet on the ride home, then made herself scarce as soon as they’d reached the cabin. He was lousy company tonight. And she was still upset about Mickey’s death.

“When do you want to pick up today’s reports?” Gene said, when Brent failed to respond to his comment about Claire.

Even though Brent needed to stay abreast of the team’s efforts to locate Forrester, he couldn’t face driving back into the city today. Not for the first time, he cursed the cabin’s lack of Internet access.

As he tried to summon up the energy to get back in the car, an idea came to him. “How about faxing them to me at the marina near here?”

“The reports are confidential.”

“I know the owner. I can be waiting at the fax machine when they come through.”

There was a brief pause, then, “I’ll have Lisa call when she’s ready to send them.”

It was a major concession, but Gene didn’t give him a chance to thank him. “Read the reports, then get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

As soon as the call ended, Brent felt his eyelids droop. At first, he was drifting, but then an image flashed in his mind. Sanderson, writhing in a pool of blood while Forrester stood over him, cold-bloodedly counting a wad of cash.

He jerked his eyes open, rubbed hands slick with sweat on the thighs of his jeans.

When Forrester was arrested, he was going to learn that money didn’t buy cars in prison.

CLAIRE STUDIED BRENT’S blank face and slumped body. The professionalism he’d used as a shield seemed to have deserted him. He looked worn-out and depressed. She should leave before he noticed her. But over the past few days, her feelings for him had expanded beyond mere physical attraction to include something unexpected.

Friendship.

She must be a glutton for punishment to even consider talking to him. The last time she’d broached the subject of grief, he’d hit her with that “no trespassers allowed” stare of his and several biting comments. She turned to go, then hesitated as her mother’s advice echoed in her head.

A true friend doesn’t wait for an invitation to help. A true friend makes the offer and accepts the risk of being told to mind her own business.

With a sigh, she turned back.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

It took Brent a full twenty seconds to switch his gaze from the lake to her. “No.”

“Do you want a drink?”

He grimaced. “No more coffee.”

“I wasn’t thinking coffee. I was thinking beer or whiskey. If I hunt through the cupboards, will I find some left over from last year?”

“I doubt it.”

“We should have stocked up before we left the city.”

“Why? So I could get drunk?”

“You’ve had a rough day,” she said, settling into the leather chair opposite him.

“I must be a sorry sight for you to be offering me that.” His gaze slid from her face to her breasts and stayed there. “What else are you offering?”

Her breath caught as awareness shot through her. But despite his provocative words, she saw no lust in his eyes. Only despair.

“Not sex,” she said quietly. “Friendship.”

His gaze backtracked to her face. “Not a good idea to be my friend. Look what happened to Pete.”

When she frowned, he waved a hand dismissively. “Forget I said that. I’m just being morbid.”

“You can’t hang tough all the time.”

“Why not?” He shifted restlessly. “Hanging tough sure as hell feels better than hanging by a thread.”

“Is that how you feel? Like you’re just barely holding on?”

“I can’t talk about this,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, you can,” she said gently.

She was treading on sensitive ground so it wasn’t surprising that he remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he looked at her, his eyes dark with anguish. “Pete died because Forrester’s a greedy bastard.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “I want a rewind button on life. But that’s stupid. Pete’s gone. End of story.”

“It’s perfectly natural to feel anger and frustration and grief.”

His mouth tightened and his eyes flashed. “You think you know what I’m feeling?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why? Because you’ve read some psych textbook?”

She had a sense of déjà vu, of coming full circle to where they’d started, and the thought upset her more than she cared to admit. “I thought you were done with cheap shots against my profession.”

“That wasn’t a cheap shot,” he said. “I’m trying to make a point.”

“Which is?”

“You can’t possibly know what I’m feeling because you’ve never experienced the violent death of someone close to you.”

His bitter words stung like a slap in the face. “I understand more about tears and pain than you could ever imagine.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly unconvinced.

Should she tell him? She took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “When I was eighteen, my father put his gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger. His note said it was the only way he could make the nightmares stop. Ten months earlier, he’d been involved in an investigation where innocent bystanders were killed, including a six-year-old girl. He couldn’t stop thinking about her and second-guessing his actions. Had he reacted fast enough? Had there been a chance to save her that he’d missed?”

Brent’s angry expression was long gone, but a dam had burst inside her and she couldn’t stop. “The Bureau sent him to a counselor who was clueless about the complexity of the job, clueless about the kind of split-second decisions agents have to make and live with for the rest of their lives. My father went to a few appointments, then refused to go again. He blamed himself for that death. Six months later, he took his life.”

Goose bumps rose on her arms at the memory. “You asked me why I changed my mind about becoming a vet. I did it because of my dad. I promised myself at his graveside that I’d learn enough so that one day I might be able to spare another agent’s family the tragedy my mom and I had to endure.”

“Claire—”

“Let me finish.” She lifted her chin. “With the exception of Mickey, none of the agents I’ve treated has appreciated my concern and support. And tonight, you’ve shown me that you’re also too closed-minded and cynical for me to help.”

She swallowed. “It’s hard for me to admit this, but I’ve been wasting my time. Not anymore. I’m leaving the Bureau.”

For a moment, his poker face slipped, and shock took its place. But she didn’t feel satisfaction, only sadness that it had taken her so long to see what should have been obvious all along.

She stood up. “Please don’t mention my plans to Gene. He has enough on his mind.”

“He’ll want to know.”

“I’ll give him sufficient notice.” She headed for the hallway, pausing only when she’d reached it. “The day Forrester is in custody, I’m starting a new life far from here.”

WHEN BRENT AWOKE the next morning, he had a major hangover—without the enjoyment of having partied hard. Pete’s death weighed heavily on him, and he was still reeling from Claire’s revelations about her father and her future plans.

Claire had always seemed overly enthusiastic in her desire to help, but now that he knew her underlying motivation, he wished he hadn’t given her such a rough time. His foul mood last night was no justification for the scathing remarks he’d made to her. But how could he have known she’d endured her own devastating loss?

It took a lot of courage to counsel others on grief and trauma, especially when doing so must dredge up painful memories of her own. However, Claire seemed to be someone who did what needed to be done, no matter how difficult. There were people who would say the same about him.

Much as he hated to admit it, he owed her an apology.

He took his time, washing, shaving and brushing his teeth. He didn’t mind admitting that he was wrong so much as he hated being wrong. In a job like his, mistakes could cost lives.

When he could delay no longer, he left the washroom in search of Claire. Her bedroom door was open when he passed by, but she was nowhere in sight. He checked the main room first, then headed into the kitchen. Both places were empty. His heart rate picked up, but he could see his Mustang from the kitchen window so he knew she hadn’t snagged his keys and taken off.

Before he could check outside, Claire came through the front door, a turquoise beach towel wrapped like a sarong around her. Obviously, she’d been swimming, and her wet hair dripped onto her exposed left shoulder, leaving the bare skin glistening with moisture. He wondered what kind of bathing suit she was wearing—daring bikini? modest one-piece?—but the oversize towel was excellent camouflage.

Of course, he had no business thinking those thoughts after haranguing her last night.

“How was the water?” he asked.

“Refreshing,” was her response.

Well, at least she was speaking to him. Although a one-word answer could hardly be construed as conversation. He decided to see if he could get a full sentence out of her. “Does that mean chilly?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Yes, but I decided I needed the exercise even if my lips turned blue.”

The word “lips” drew his gaze to her mouth like a magnet. Her smile faltered for a moment, and he realized he ran the risk of doing something utterly asinine—like kissing her—if he didn’t focus on a different part of her anatomy quickly. He chose her left eyebrow.

“About last night…” He hesitated, unsure whether she’d accept what he had to say.

Her eyebrow rose toward her hairline as she waited for him to continue.

“I know you meant well, and I was being a jerk, but the thing is—”

“You’re a very independent person who isn’t used to confiding in anyone.”

“Am I wrong to want some privacy?”

She took a moment to answer. “I believe it’s a lonely way to live. However, that strategy appears to have worked for you.”

Had it worked? Or was he just too hardheaded to try another way? Maybe he was ready for a change. The only problem was the person he felt most comfortable talking to was no longer alive. And Claire…Claire was the woman he wanted to share his bed with, not his problems.

She tugged at her towel, which had begun to slip. “I need to get dressed. I don’t want to make you late for your meeting with Gene.”

He’d assumed some serious groveling would be necessary to clear the air between them, but Claire apparently didn’t believe in holding a grudge.

As she turned to go, he touched her arm. “I didn’t get a chance to say it last night, but I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thanks.” She lowered her gaze. “I wanted you to understand why I can empathize about Pete’s death, but I was wrong to hit you over the head the way I did.”

He grimaced. “That’s usually the fastest way to get my attention.”

A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He knew he should quit while he was ahead, but he needed to know something. “Are you really planning to leave the Bureau?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I’ve been offered a position in Minneapolis.”

He thought she’d spoken rashly last night, but evidently the idea of resigning had been on her mind.

“I’ve been undecided,” she added. “It took this situation to make me see things clearly.”

Unfortunately, the situation she referred to was one involving him. Gene was going to string him up by his thumbs.

“Look, I know I’ve been…difficult. And last night, I was way out of line—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Gene knows my decision has nothing to do with you.”

Was he so transparent?

Only to her.

He pushed the unsettling notion away. His concern about Gene’s response had been a knee-jerk reaction. What really bothered him was the thought of Claire leaving town. He’d been telling himself that physical attraction was all he felt for her, but he knew now that was a lie. When Forrester was apprehended and the danger was over, he wanted to spend time with her. Watch movies. Go for walks. Make love with her. Show her with his hands and mouth and body the feelings he had so much trouble expressing in words. But none of that could happen if she moved to another state.

“With all the stress of the past few days, are you sure switching careers is the right decision?”

“I won’t know if it’s a mistake until I do it.”

“By then, it may be too late to change things back the way they were.”

“I have to take that chance.” She captured his gaze, her expression more earnest than he’d ever seen it. “I need to know that my work has a positive impact on my patients’ lives. That isn’t happening at the Bureau.”

He wanted to argue with her, but he didn’t know enough about her experience with her FBI patients to be convincing.

Before he could think of anything to say, the ring of his cell phone intruded.

He expected the call to be from Gene, but it was Jim Sharratt.

“The blackmailer called to tell me the location,” the older man said, anxiety evident in every word.

“His days of making demands are coming to an end,” Brent reassured him.

As he gathered up his notes for the meeting with Gene, he felt the quick thrill of anticipation. Wherever Forrester arranged to pick up his blackmail money, the FBI would be waiting for him.