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What she did, however, was stop at Mercer’s desk, upending the contents of a brown envelope in front of him. Photos spilled across the surface — glossy, unmistakable. Just a little something she had collected a while ago. Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “You make trouble for Ronan Murphy … and I make sure your wife sees these.”

She straightened, watching the color drain from his face as he took in what lay scattered across his desk. The woman in the photos wasn’t his wife. And young enough to raise eyebrows.

And yeah — the dagger stares that followed put an extra spring in her step.

*

After work, she grabbed a quick bite of Chinese before settling into her cramped office. Loading the footage from Fitzpatrick’s, she isolated the unknown man’s face until she had the cleanest frame possible, tagged it, then fed it into the recognition software.

The program began scrubbing through the previous night’s footage across town — official and otherwise. Traffic cams. Storefront security. A few private angles she wasn’t supposed to have. It would take time.

She let it run and stepped away, heading for the shower.

The hot water poured over her skin, steam curling thick around her.

And her mind went straight to Ronan.

Since that night two years ago, he was the only man whose touch she wanted. Tolerated. She had tried, really tried, to erase his memory with others, but the moment they got too close, everything in her revolted, and she had ended things.

But this morning … he’d been standing right here. In her shower. Naked. It had been torture — the awareness of him, so close, yet out of reach.

Heat slid through her, slow and insistent.

Felicity braced a hand against the tile, closing her eyes.

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. A seasoned cop. She dealt with far worse than a man in her shower.

And yet … Ronan.

Her breath hitched as the sensation lingered, refusing to be dismissed. This morning, she’d buried it. Kept moving. Kept busy. Pretended it wasn’t there.

Now there was no distraction. No reason to pretend.

Her breasts felt heavier, nipples hard and aching.

She gave in, running her hands over her body. Over her breasts, thumbs brushing those sensitive peaks, sending sharp jolts of awareness through her.

One hand slid lower. Over her stomach. Down.

She groaned as her fingers found her clit, already swollen, already demanding. “Damn you, Marine,” she muttered.

It didn’t take long. Her orgasm coiled tight and snapped, her body bowing under the force of it.

Not as powerful as when he was inside her. Never as powerful.

But it would have to do.

Her mood was foul when she returned to the computer.

But the programs had done their job, flagging frames where the man appeared.

Climbing into a truck. Heading east out of town.

She printed. She pinned.

A quick check of the DMV database for the license turned up nothing.

She tightened her security protocols before slipping past firewalls, combing through various law enforcement databases. Nada. “You’re a ghost,” she murmured. “What are you up to, Iron Horse?”