Page 43 of End Game

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, indicating the chair. “I hope you don’t mind such informality. I don’t normally entertain business associates in here.”

“Hence your lack of guest chairs around your desk,” Ash said, running his fingers over the soft beige fabric before sitting down. “I would’ve thought you were one of those twenty-four-seven corporate types.”

“I suspect there’s much about me that you have wrong, Special Agent Blackwell.”

He ignored her obvious taunt. “It’s good to know you’re at least part human.”

“Only twenty-five percent, I assure you.” She made her way to a well-stocked sideboard. “Can I interest you in coffee or tea?

“Coffee would be appreciated. Black, please.”

“Of course.”

He didn’t miss the smile that shimmered across her face. His gaze lingered on her full bottom lip and noted a light gloss across the surface. Lip balm? Or had her tongue moistened?—

Ash ripped his attention away, as desire flamed through his veins. He forced himself to study her personal workspace, to take in every detail until his blood cooled.

A mix of business books weighed down the shelves behind her desk. A clock with a black stone base sat on the mantel with an engraving of a large X and some lettering he couldn’t quite make out. Enough windows lined one wall to provide hours of procrastination. An escape door led to a backyard patio, complete with a pool, Jacuzzi, and colorful lounge chairs. Giant boulders rose up from one end of the pool to create a two-story waterfall.

It looked like something you’d stumble across in a tropical rainforest. A hidden grotto with a natural spring pool. Ash had the sudden urge to shed his clothes and dive in to see if it felt as warm and inviting as it looked.

Continuing his visual sweep of her office, he noted the predominant color was more of an off-white than beige, highlighted by mauve, olive, and hints of a light blue.

Soft, feminine, timeless.

Comfortable.

“One black coffee.” She handed him a large mug, handle side toward him.

Was she being polite? Or avoiding potential contact with their fingers?

Ash gave himself a hard shake, irritated by his questioning of her style of mug handoff. This woman, this master manipulator, was going to drive him to the brink of insanity and kick him over the edge.

Unable to help himself, he checked the illustration on the ceramic mug. A kangaroo peered over its shoulder at the viewer, while shoving jewels from a safe into its bulging pouch.

Nothing to see here.

He raised a brow.

She grinned. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

Bold, irrepressible, hot-as-hell woman.

“Not even a little.”

Curling up on one end of the sofa, she tucked her stockinged toes in between the two seat cushions. “Now, Special Agent Blackwell, tell me what transgression of mine has brought you to my back door.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“What?”

“Using my title.”

“You’re here on official FBI business.”

“Stop, okay? Just . . . I’m Ash. Just Ash.” A wave of self-consciousness barreled through him. “Or Cameron. Anything but the title.”

She regarded him for a moment, then one of her freaking smiles appeared.

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