Page 2 of Big Bad Wolfe

No answer. Obviously, the music drowned him out. But shehadbegged him to come. In spite of appearances to the contrary, had something happened? Was she in some kind of trouble? “Ms. Ramsay, this is Special Agent Zane Wolfe. Are you okay in there?”

No response.

He eased inside and scoped out the first floor. The interior, decorated in restful nature colors of green, blue and tan, was as cheerful and neat as the outside. His right hand on the Beretta tucked into his shoulder holster beneath his jacket, senses on red alert, he followed Donna Summer’s disco din and the sharp smell of paint fumes down the hall. Both grew stronger as he loped to the second floor.

He paused in the hallway outside an open doorway. Jillian had her back to him. Enthusiastically dabbing brown blotches onto the light blue wall, she sang off-key at the top of her lungs in a throaty contralto and wiggled that fabulous ass to the pulsing disco beat.

A bullet of lust streaked down his spine and ricocheted to his dick. Zane dropped his hand from his weapon and sucked in a sharp breath.

Holy shit.

He cleared the sudden thickness from his throat. “Excuse me,” he shouted. “Ms. Ramsay?”

Jillian whirled, jerked backward, then overcorrected and stumbled forward.

He lunged, barely catching her. Her brush slapped his cheek, trailed a wet streak across his nose. Holding her securely against him, he swiped at his face. His fingers came away brown and sticky. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said into her ear. “I knocked, but...”

Smelling enticingly of patchouli, she froze in his arms. Beneath his palm splayed across her ribs, her heartbeat fluttered wildly.

“Ms. Ramsay? You all right? You didn’t hurt yourself?”

“No.” A slight shiver wracked her before she twisted out of his hold. She strode to the vintage boom box in the corner and hit the button. Blessed silence descended. Her eyes widened as she studied him.

“Ms. Ramsay, I’m—”

“You can’t be anyone other than Zane Wolfe. What are you doing inside my house?”

How did the woman know who he was? They’d never met. He wouldn’t have forgotten her. Caught, he stared into her eyes. Lavender-blue irises conjured a startling memory of fragrant violets hidden in sun-dappled hollows beside the creek where he and his youngest brother had played as boys. A secret retreat where he and Trevor had escaped their father’s merciless campaign to mold them into “men.”

The wooded hideaway discovery had come too late for Zane’s oldest brother Brent. By then, Brent had already caught the fast track to destruction.

Jillian waved the paintbrush at him. “Hello?”

Zane jerked back to the present. He hadn’t revisited that nightmare for years. And Jesus, he’d stood there gawking at her like a geek getting an eyeful of his first triple-X website. “Yes, I’m FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe.” On auto-pilot, he slid out his I.D. and flipped open the wallet. “I knocked, but with the concert at ninety decibels, I guess you didn’t hear me.”

Her cheeks flushed as scarlet as the roses outside. “I latched my screen. How did you get in?”

“The door was open.”

“No, I’m positive …” She shook her head. “Aragorn the escape artist strikes again. Well … You and I have something important to discuss.” She glanced at his face and her flush deepened. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room.

Zane stashed his wallet and perused the mural. Some sort of wildlife scene? Ms. Ramsay obviously had more ambition than talent.

His fingers itched to pick up the brush and add the strokes that would bring the picture to life. But he couldn’t draw or paint anymore. Not since Trevor had died.

He turned his back to the wall, shutting down his feelings with long-practiced expertise. The past was gone. Dead and buried.

Like his little brother.

Jillian returned and handed him a damp washcloth. “Sorry about your face.” As he scrubbed away the paint, she gestured at the mural. “What do you think?”

“Uh ... that’s a tall ... groundhog. Very lifelike,” he lied.

Her expressive mouth drooped. “He’s supposed to be a Wookie.”

It looked like a mutant squirrel on steroids. He bit his tongue against the urge to smile. “A Wookie?”

“Chewbacca. FromStar Wars.”

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