The Perfect Victim

Still, he knew he had to go back to D.C. And even as the thought sent a quiver of fear through his gut, he felt the pull of its seductive draw and knew it was something he had to do no matter what the cost to him personally. He'd been successful in D.C. A good investigator. Aggressive. Thorough. Tough. A man with integrity who commanded respect. He knew the wide-body jets inside and out. He knew the hydraulic systems, the Pratt and Whitney engines, the Rolls Royces. A pilot himself, he knew firsthand the stringent training programs commercial pilots went through.

 

But with all the invaluable knowledge and experience came the terrible, intimate knowledge of death that had pushed him so close to the edge. Death that knew no bounds and struck by the hundreds without regard to age or gender or status. He'd been arrogant enough to believe he was immune. But he'd only managed to fool himself. Death had left a permanent imprint on his heart and darkened his soul so that for months he'd felt its power pressing down on him, isolating him until he'd felt so alone he thought he would die. The nightmares had eased since he cut back on his drinking, but sometimes when he smelled smoke or heard an ambulance, the death and devastation came rushing back.

 

Refusing to think of the past or the shaky state of his future, Randall forced his attention back to the present—and to the young woman beside him. She looked fresh and wholesome and untainted, reminding him of everything he was not—and the countless reasons he ought to stay away from her. He let his eyes skim over her unfettered. Navy blue leggings hugged long, shapely legs. Her oversized sweatshirt sported a University of Colorado logo. The thick wool socks and lace-up hiking boots looked huge on her slender legs. He drank in the subtle outline of her breasts, her graceful neck, the delicate line of her jaw. Even in profile, she looked beautiful. But it was the sight of her full, wet mouth that turned him inside out every time he looked at her.

 

Lord have mercy, he'd forgotten what it was like to look at a woman and want to lose himself inside her.

 

He'd tried to talk her into spending the day at his office with Jack, but she refused. No surprise there; she wasn't the most agreeable creature he'd ever dealt with. He'd tried to convince her to meet with Van-Dyne then hole up the rest of the afternoon at Jack's cabin in Golden, but his efforts to sway her had failed. The woman could be downright exasperating when she put her mind to it.

 

But if he was honest with himself, he would be forced to admit he was glad for her company today. With his thoughts drifting back to D.C. with increasing frequency, he needed the diversion. He supposed she had no way of knowing she turned him into a walking hard-on.

 

Randall sighed, not happy about the situation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been with a woman. Not since he'd been in Colorado. Maybe that was the problem; maybe he just needed some good old-fashioned mindless sex. A man's needs could only be shoved aside for so long. A bottle of Chivas Regal only went so far to stanch them. Maybe what he needed was a one-night stand, a moment of unfettered warmth and the release that went with it.

 

He wasn't buying it.

 

The last thing he needed in his screwed-up life was an attractive, complicated female in trouble up to her eyebrows. The problem was, he wanted her anyway.

 

It had taken every bit of self-discipline he could muster not to take her into his arms last night and get a taste of that heart-shaped mouth. Of course, she probably wouldn't have thought that was such a good idea. But he wasn't going to be able to keep his hands off her much longer, even though he knew where that would lead. The moment he touched her, he would not only lose the advantage of distance, but probably end up hurting her as well.

 

She didn't know about his diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. Randall didn't plan on telling her. He didn't want her to know his life had been turned upside down. That he'd lost his integrity. His self-respect. Or that he'd been flirting with alcoholism for the better part of a year.

 

The smartest thing to do was to turn the case over to Jack, then haul ass back to Washington before he got tangled up with her. Before she found out what kind of man she was dealing with. When this was all over, she could go back to her coffee shop and find the kind of man she deserved.

 

Someone who didn't have blackouts or spend most of his time thinking about the dead.

 

"Good thing I came along, Talbot. The way you're daydreaming, you probably wouldn't have been able to find the place without me."

 

Her voice jerked Randall from his thoughts. "I wasn't daydreaming," he growled.

 

"Were, too."

 

He glared at her, annoyed that she looked so damn good and that he couldn't seem to stop noticing. "I was thinking about the case—"

 

"Bull—"

 

"And what a pain in the ass you are."

 

Flipping on the radio, she tuned it to an alternative rock station and gave him a cool look. "Cranky this morning?"

 

He thought about telling her the real reason why he was feeling so surly, but decided the less she knew about his hormones the better off he'd be. "You'll know it when I feel cranky."

 

"I'll take that as a warning."

 

Studying her, he noticed the strain in her smile and realized the banter was a front. Damn. He should have realized this wasn't going to be easy for her. "You didn't have to put yourself through coming up here.”

 

"Careful, Talbot, or you're going to say something nice."

 

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