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“I know what a Wookie is.” Cheeks aching from corralling his grin, he tilted his head. “Ah … sure, I can see it now.”
“Here, you missed a spot.” She took the washcloth from him and gently dabbed his temple. As the warmth of her fingers penetrated the damp terrycloth, another stampede of desire charged through him, and he flinched.
Accustomed to being in total command of his body and emotions, the loss of control threw him. Zane needed to be in control. Couldn’t function any other way. “You a Jedi groupie?”
She wrinkled her nose and mischief danced across her face. “If this weremyroom, Champ, I’d be painting up a life-sized yummy blond elf with a great big … bow and arrow. Planet Endor wasn’t my idea.” Humor fled and her irises clouded with pain, and something that looked like fear. “Let’s go downstairs.”
Uh oh.His pulse kicked.Show time.
The subtle feminine sway of her hips as she led him downstairs revved his pulse up another hundred BPMs, and he inhaled sharply. He’d just wrapped up a tense, bloody, five-month overseas op. Since he never allowed any distractions—including women—on the job, he was suffering from self-imposed drought. His dick obviously thought he was way overdue for R&R. “You should keep your front door shut and locked. A latched screen won’t keep anybody out.”
“I usually do, but the paint fumes were making me dizzy.” She gave him a nervous smile and gestured at the living room sofa. “Sit, please.”
Instead, he chose an overstuffed chair opposite the sofa, where he had his back to the wall and a clear view of the staircase and front door. “So what’s the emergency summons?”
“Um … just give me a minute.” Jillian retreated into the kitchen.
For a woman who’d relentlessly harassed the D.C. field office to contact him, Jillian suddenly didn’t seem in a big hurry to chat. He examined the bookcases flanking the fireplace. Fairytales, legends, and fantasy romance novels lined the shelves, some collectors’ editions. Added to theStar Warstribute upstairs and the Legolas worship, the evidence was clear. The lady lived in la-la land.
He groaned. What wild fantasy had she cooked up? In his years with the Bureau, he’d heard them all, from insane conspiracy theories to lurid “the aliens probed me” abductions.
Yup, Jillian Ramsay was looking like one beautiful, sexy package of crazy.
Muscles taut, senses buzzing, Zane catalogued the comfortable, welcoming room. The warm sunny atmosphere was so different from his somber black and chrome high-rise, it might ordinarily have appealed to him. But his instincts were screaming.
Zane never ignored his instincts.
The big white cat strutted into the room, tail twitching. He stopped in front of Zane’s chair, slanted green eyes suspicious.
“Hey, Aragorn. How’re the nuts?”
The beast swelled to twice his normal size. His fur spiked, and a rumbling growl erupted from his throat. Hissing, he swiped at Zane’s calf.
“Whoa!” Zane jerked his leg back, only his lightning reflexes thwarting a trip to the ER. “Sorry I asked.”
Jillian reentered, carrying a tray that held two mugs brimming with steaming coffee and a matching plate piled with cookies. She handed Zane a warm cup. “I see you two are getting acquainted. Isn’t Aragorn a darling?”
“Oh yeah.” The feline from hell blinked at him with exaggerated innocence and bared his fangs. Zane moved his leg farther out of reach. “A real prince.”
She set the tray on the coffee table and fidgeted with the cookie platter. “A king, actually. I named him after Aragorn, because he’s so noble and regal.”
She should have named the psycho Jack, as in,The Ripper.“Look, lady, I didn’t fly three thousand miles for a tea party. Whatever you have to say, just spit it out.”
“You must be tired and hungry after your long trip. At least have a cookie to fortify you before we talk.”
He stared at the offering. Cookies, just like mom never made. Freshly baked chunky oatmeal raisin, dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Not dainty morsels that teased a guy’s taste buds and left him wanting more, these were fist-sized, to satisfy a man’s appetite. His mouth watered. But he wasn’t here for refreshments. He strictly separated his work and his private life, rejecting anything that blurred the boundaries.
“Whatever you have to say isn’t going to be shoved down my throat any sweeter with a cookie. Cut to the chase, Ms. Ramsay. What do you want from me?”
“Call me Jillian.” She perched on the edge of the sofa opposite him, clutching her coffee cup in trembling hands. “All right. First, I need to make absolutely certain I have the correct man. You are FBI Special Agent Zane Kintan Wolfe? You grew up in a suburb of Wichita, Kansas, and attended the University of Texas at Arlington where you played both football and baseball, and pitched the Mavericks to four straight championships?”
He scowled. How the fuck did she know all that? “Yes.”
“Your middle name means ‘royal’ in Cherokee according to the online baby name book where I looked it up. Your mom was half Native American, and you go by her last name, right?”
He went rigid. For a woman he’d never met before, she was way too interested in his personal life. What game was she running? “What does my heritage have to do with this?”
Her cup wobbled in her grasp, and her fingers whitened. “I— Agent Wolfe, do you remember a woman named Deb Stuart?”
