Jack continued to advance on her. “Like that.”

Cameron put her hand on the stone ledge and slowly climbed up the stairs. “You’re imagining things.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“I must’ve gotten worked up from my first motorcycle ride,” she lied. And possibly from thinking about riding something else, too.

Shameless.

Jack clenched his jaw. “Christ, Cameron.” As he backed her toward the door, his expression was part angry, part . . . wow—something else entirely. “What the hell am I supposed to do when you look at me like that?”

“Ignore it. Stay focused on the fact that you hate me.”

“I’m trying. I’m really trying here.”

He had her trapped against the door. Cameron wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart, it was beating so fast.

Jack put his hand on her hip. Such a simple touch, but Cameron’s breath caught nevertheless. With her back pressed against the door, the only movement of her body came from her chest, her breathing short and quick in anticipation.

Jack’s gaze fell on her parted lips. He slid his other hand to her nape and tilted her head, pinning her with dark eyes so hot she felt the burn in her stomach.

She knew she could push him away if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to.

His gaze softened. “Cameron,” he said huskily, and she felt as though she melted right there. Knowing what he was about to do, she closed her eyes and felt his lips brush lightly against hers right before he—

Stopped.

Blinking in confusion, Cameron watched as Jack pulled back.

“We’ve got company,” he said in a thick voice.

She looked over his shoulder and saw a familiar unmarked car parked on the street in front of her house. Phelps and Kamin.

“When did they get here?” she asked.

“Just now. I heard the car pull up.” Jack gestured to her door. “Do you have your keys?”

She nodded, trying to clear her head. “In my purse.” She pulled the keys out and unlocked the door.

Jack moved past her and stepped inside. “Stay in the doorway, where Kamin and Phelps can see you.” Then he went to search her house.

Cameron stood there and waited, trying to process what had happened between her and Jack. Her mind was quickly coming to terms with the fact that she’d almost just made a very big mistake, although her body seemed not as willing to accept this as fact.

Get a grip, she told herself as Jack came down the stairs from the second floor.

“All clear,” he said as he approached.

Cameron stepped out of the doorway, knowing that physical distance was her best defense against him right then.

Jack noticed her quick retreat. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me,” he said tersely.

He walked out the door.


JACK HURRIED DOWN the steps, trying to figure out when, exactly, he had become such an idiot.

He’d almost kissed her. And if Phelps and Kamin hadn’t pulled up when they had, he would have.

Clearly, a bad idea. On this, at least, they seemed to agree.

He’d been momentarily caught off guard by that look she’d given him when she’d gotten off the bike—whatever the hell that had been—but now he was focused once again. She was his witness. More important, she was Cameron Lynde, and that meant hands off. The last time he’d gotten too close to her, he’d gotten burned. Big time. Not something he wanted to go through again.

He liked being back in Chicago. Being a solitary person, he didn’t have a ton of friends, but his younger sister and two-year-old nephew lived close to the city. He planned to stay in Chicago for good this time, and that meant no screw ups, particularly in cases where Cameron was involved.

Jack walked the perimeter of the house and confirmed that all the windows and doors were secure. When he finished, he closed the front gate and headed over to the unmarked car parked at the curb. He had no idea how much Kamin and Phelps had seen, but they weren’t smirking or gawking as he walked up, so he took that as a good sign.

The window of the passenger side unrolled as he walked up. Jack knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the older cop’s expression.

Kamin grinned approvingly. “So that’s why you wanted to drive her home from the restaurant.”

Phelps leaned across the seat. “Does this mean she’s not going to the wedding with Max-the-investment-banker?”

So much for hoping they hadn’t seen anything.

Twelve

ON THE WEST side of the city, Grant put on his game face as he approached the bar with the red neon side that blinked “Club Rio.” He felt naked without his gun and shoulder harness, but only a man with a death wish would attempt to bring a piece into this kind of place.

He opened the door and the loud rhythmic beat of salsa music spilled out. Almost immediately upon stepping inside, a bouncer dressed in black and wearing an ear wire frisked him. He asked the bouncer where he could find Mr. Black—that was all his contact had told him, to ask for a Mr. Black. The bouncer nodded in the direction of the few empty booths in the back of the club.

Grant chose the booth in the corner and took a seat. It was doubtful that anyone would hear him and “Mr. Black” over the music, but given the stakes and the purpose of his visit, he didn’t want to risk having any eaves-droppers. A waitress came for his order, and he asked for a whiskey neat. He didn’t plan to drink it, but appearance was everything in situations such as these and he didn’t want to look overly nervous or suspicious.

After the waitress came back with his drink, he sat back in the booth and feigned interest in watching the dancers out on the floor in the center of the club. In the middle of the second song, a tall, thin man in his forties showed up at his table. He wore an open-neck white cotton shirt that hung loosely over dark jeans and had shortly cropped bleached-blond hair. His arms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, were covered with tattoos. Not exactly the image he’d had in mind.

“Are you Mr. Black?” Grant asked.

“Good guess,” the man said in a slightly raspy voice. He took a seat across the table. “I hear you’re looking for information about an FBI investigation, Mr. Lombard.”

Grant decided against asking how he knew his name. “I heard that Roberto Martino might be able to assist me.”

Mr. Black lit up a cigarette and exhaled smoke across the table. “Mr. Martino doesn’t assist people, Mr. Lombard. People assist him. Tell me something—does Senator Hodges know you’re here?”

Grant also decided against asking how they knew who he worked for. “He doesn’t need to know. His chief of staff sent me,” he said, playing up the charade that he was there only on Driscoll’s orders. Not that anyone was likely to find out about this meeting. Club Rio was not a bar that told its secrets.

“Why should I care about Senator Hodges’s chief of staff?” Mr. Black asked.

“He has the ear of a very influential man. Having a connection to Senator Hodges could be useful to your boss one day.”

Mr. Black considered this as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Perhaps you’d be more interested to learn that Senator Hodges and Mr. Martino share a common enemy.”

“Martino has many enemies. You’ll have to be a lot more specific.”

“Jack Pallas.”

Grant caught the quick flash of recognition in Mr. Black’s eyes. “So you know him.”

Mr. Black nodded. “Yes . . . I know Jack Pallas. Although he had a different name when I knew him.” He appeared far more interested now. “What do you know about Pallas?”

“I know that he got inside your organization,” Grant said. “That he betrayed Martino and took out several of your men in the process.”

Mr. Black paused for a moment. “What is it you want, Lombard?”

“Pallas is the lead agent in a murder investigation that implicates Hodges. The FBI is hiding something from us. The senator’s chief of staff has asked me to find out what that something is. He would, of course, be very grateful for your help with this matter. As the senator’s primary advisor, he would hope to be able to return the favor some day.” Sure, he’d embellished on Driscoll’s orders, but the way Grant figured it, if Roberto Martino ever came to collect on the favor, that would be Driscoll’s problem, not his.

As if silently beckoned, a waitress appeared out of nowhere and set an ashtray before Mr. Black. He flicked the ash off his cigarette then rolled it against the ashtray, rounding off the cherry. He took another drag, and Grant could tell he was considering his offer.

“Look at it this way—by helping us out, you get to fuck with Pallas’s investigation,” Grant added. “Whatever it is he’s hiding, it’s important enough that he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

Mr. Black eased back in the booth with a humorless grin. “You seem pretty confident that we’ll give you this information just for the hell of it. I think you’ve overestimated Martino’s dislike of Pallas.”

“Have I?”

Mr. Black said nothing at first. After another drag of his cigarette, he stood up. “Wait here.”

Grant slowly exhaled. Assuming he didn’t return with a couple of goons and a car with a plastic-lined trunk, it looked like he might be on his way to getting some answers.

Mr. Black returned a few minutes later. He tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “This man will help you. Meet him at this address at ten o’clock on Saturday night. You now owe us, Lombard. Not some chief of staff or anyone else—you. So I hope whatever information this man has, it’s worth it.”