Which was why a trip to Whole Foods had been in short order that morning, if Collin had any intention of keeping his promise to make breakfast. Luckily the grocery store was only two blocks away. Even more convenient, it happened to be right across the street from an independent coffee shop, The Fixx, whose six-shot specialty latte, the “Smith and Wesson,” packed enough punch to knock the hangover out of even the sorriest of late-night drinkers. In truth, Collin knew he’d only get through about five sips of the stuff before throwing the rest out in disgust. But what could he say—he got a kick out of ordering a drink named after a gun. Another guy thing, perhaps.

He located a twelve-inch skillet in the cabinet above the stove—actually it wasn’t at all hard to find; it was in exactly the same spot he’d left it the last time he’d slept over. He coated the pan with some oil and added zucchini and mushrooms to sauté while he fired up the broiler. He’d decided to make frittatas instead of the omelet Cameron had requested as they’d parted ways at the top of the stairs last night. With frittatas, he figured, she could always reheat the leftovers and might actually have two whole meals in one day that didn’t come out of a box.

Collin was feeling very protective of Cameron, more so than usual. For her sake, he was trying not to show it, but he still felt uneasy about her near brush with a killer two nights ago. Of course she’d played the role of the nerves-of-steel prosecutor to the hilt—part of the wall she had put up after her father’s death—but he suspected she was more freaked out than she let on. And it certainly didn’t help that the FBI had assigned Jack Pallas to the investigation. Given their history, his involvement in the case undoubtedly had sent Cameron’s insecurities about showing “weakness” into maximum overdrive.

The sudden reappearance of Jack Pallas in Chicago was indeed an interesting development. Collin remembered how furious Cameron had been, rightfully so, over the infamous “head up her ass” comment. But he also remembered, despite her anger—and he was only one of a handful of people who knew this juicy tidbit—how hard she had tried to dissuade the DOJ from transferring Pallas out of Chicago.

He had always found that particular contradiction quite curious.

Collin was sprinkling cheese on top of the frittatas when the doorbell rang. Considering that it wasn’t his house, and also considering that Cameron hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting anybody, he ignored it. Just as he was putting the skillet under the broiler, the doorbell rang again. Twice.

Collin shut the oven. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. He cut through the dining and living rooms and headed to the front door. It was when he reached to unlock the deadbolt that he realized he was still wearing the oven mitts. He took one off and opened the door. He found two guys on the doorstep, staring at him in surprise.

Collin’s eyes passed over the man in the tailored suit and rested on the taller guy, the one wearing jeans and a blazer.

Well, well, well . . . if it wasn’t Special Agent Jack Pallas in the flesh.

Collin straightened up. It may have been three years, but no introduction was necessary. He knew exactly who the guy was from all the media coverage surrounding the Martino investigation and the subsequent fallout with Cameron. Not to mention, Jack Pallas was not a man who was easily forgotten. Definitely not his type—meaning straight—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize that he was looking at one damn good-looking individual. With a lean, muscular build and a face that was just barely saved from being almost too handsome by that five o’clock shadow that probably started somewhere around 9:00 A.M., Jack Pallas was one of those men that made other men wish they weren’t standing on a doorstep wearing red-checkered oven mitts.

But just as he was starting to feel a bit territorial and defensive, Collin noticed that Pallas was similarly studying him. And maybe the scrutinizing once-over was simply the instinctive reaction of the FBI agent, but a man could usually sense when he was being sized up.

Feeling good about having the upper hand, Collin smiled. “Gentlemen. Can I help you?”

Jack’s eyes lingered on the oven mitts. What he made of them was tough to say.

He pulled a badge out of his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Jack Pallas with the FBI, this is Agent Wilkins. We’d like to speak with Cameron Lynde.”

“She’s in the shower. Been in there for a while, so I don’t think it’ll be much longer.” Collin gestured inside the house. “I’ve got something in the oven. You guys want to come in?”

Leaving the door open, Collin turned and headed back to the kitchen to check on the frittata. As he took the skillet out of the oven and set it on the counter, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the two agents stepped into the living room and shut the front door behind them. He could see Jack doing a quick survey of the house, taking in the relative lack of furniture in the front two rooms. Due to budgetary constraints, Collin knew, Cameron was furnishing the house in a piecemeal fashion. The living and dining rooms were low on her totem pole given, as she had once said, that she didn’t do a lot of formal entertaining.

Being there as often as he was, Collin had gotten used to the sparseness of the decor, the simple leather armchair and reading lamp opposite the fireplace that were the sole furnishings in the living room, and the modest four-person table and chairs that looked practically Lilliputian in the spacious tray-ceiling dining room. He’d hazard a guess that Jack, however, was speculating right then about the circumstances under which a person would own such a big house and leave half of it sitting empty.

Collin pulled the oven mitts off. “You guys are making me nervous by hovering there. Why don’t you come in—I’ll go check on Cam and let her know you’re here.”

He felt Jack’s eyes on him as he made his way up the wide, open staircase that led to the upper floors. On the second floor, he entered the first room on the right, the master suite. The shower was still running, so he knocked and opened the door a crack.

“You’ve got visitors, babe,” Collin said, trying not to let his voice carry. “FBI wants to talk to you.” He shut the door and went back downstairs, where he found the two agents waiting in the kitchen. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Can I get either of you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. . . .” Jack cocked his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Collin.”

He saw that this registered with Jack. A look of recognition crossed Wilkins’s face.

“That’s it! You’re Collin McCann,” Wilkins said.

Collin grinned. Ah . . . fans. He never got tired of meeting them. “Guilty as charged.”

Wilkins rocked back on his heels excitedly. “I thought you looked familiar when you opened the door, but it took me a moment. Something’s different from the picture they’ve got in the paper.”

“It’s the goatee. An unfortunate choice in my late twenties. I’ve been trying to get them to change the photo, but apparently it tests well with the eighteen to thirty-four demographic.”

Jack’s eyes darted between them. “I’m missing something here.”

“He’s Collin McCann,” Wilkins emphasized. “You know, the sportswriter.”

Jack shook his head. No clue. Collin tried to decide how offended he was by this.

Wilkins explained. “He does a weekly column for the Sun-Times where he writes directly to the teams—you know, ‘Dear Manager,’ ‘Dear Coach So-And-So’—and he makes recommendations on trades, what players to start, how to improve the team, those kinds of things.” He turned back to Collin. “That was one hell of a letter you addressed to Piniella last week.”

Collin chuckled. He’d pissed off a lot of Cubs fans with that one. “Needed to be said. When people stop dropping thousands of dollars in season tickets for a team that hasn’t won a World Series since 1908, maybe the owners and management will finally be motivated to put together a ball club that’s worthy of its fans.”

Wilkins glanced over, embarrassed for his partner. “Seriously, Jack, I think you might be the only guy in this city who hasn’t read his stuff. Collin McCann is like the Carrie Bradshaw of Chicago men.”

“You mean Terry Bradshaw,” Jack corrected.

“No, Carrie,” Wilkins repeated. “You know, Sarah Jessica Parker. Sex and the City.”

A silence fell over the room as Collin and Jack stared at Wilkins, seriously fearing for the fate of men.

Wilkins shifted nervously. “My ex-girlfriend made me watch the show while we were dating.”

“Sure, you keep sticking with that story.” Jack turned to Collin. “Sorry I didn’t recognize the name. I’ve been out of touch for a while.”

“Oh? The Sun-Times doesn’t deliver to Nebraska?” Collin quipped without thinking.

Oops.

He saw the flicker in Jack’s eyes and could read the agent’s thoughts as clearly as if there was a cartoon bubble above his head. So . . . he knows where I’ve been the last three years. She’s talked about me to this joker, then. Who is he, and how much does he know? Except on the issue of sports, a subject on which he clearly is all-knowing.

“Actually, I meant that I’d been working undercover the last time I lived in this city and didn’t have much time to read the paper.” Jack eased back against the counter and took in the kitchen, a room much higher on Cameron’s totem pole that recently had been remodeled. His gaze fell to the hardwood at his feet. “The floors turned out great. You have a very nice place here.”