docs and paperwork. But they left the small diamond ring in my jewelry box.”
“Any prescription drugs?”
She shook her head. “I don’t take them, but they only went into two places. My office and my bedroom. Nothing else was touched. For drugged up kids, they were neat.”
“No electronics? Laptop? TV?”
“Nope.”
“And it happened Friday night?”
“Yes. Why all the questions, officer?”
“Can’t help it. My FBI background comes out.”
She barely covered the tiny intake of breath and managed not to sound shocked. “FBI?”
He nodded slowly, watching her reaction carefully. Too carefully.
“I didn’t know you were with the FBI.”
“That’s what I did before I joined the Bullet Catchers, the firm I work for now. I was an FBI agent.”
She sipped her wine, but it stuck in her throat and swallowing felt impossible. “Well, you’re welcome to look around for clues, but I’m pretty sure it was just a random robbery.”
Could any FBI agent—or former one—find her name in the old files from the Jimenez drug bust? Could they know her history? She’d never been contacted after she ran away from that life, but it always hovered in the back of her mind.
An FBI agent would hate how she’d lived. She hated how she’d lived. Or maybe he already knew.
She sat a little straighter. “So, how long were you with the FBI?” She forced her voice to be casually interested, not riddled with shame.
He nailed her with that green gaze again, direct and meaningful. “A long time.”
Oh God. He knew exactly who she was. And if he didn’t, he would. He’d run a check, and her name would pop right up in some federal computer.
But not Smith. It would say Varcek. Didn’t matter; it was only a matter of time. This party had officially ended.
She stood up. “You know, it’s getting late and I have to work late tomorrow night so I better get some sleep.”
He didn’t move. “Why?”
Why? Why did she live with a drug dealing son of a money launderer when she was eighteen, and screw around with an undercover federal agent? Why did she run away and never look back, pregnant with that bastard’s kid? Why did she change her name, her life, and her world? “Why what?” Her voice cracked.
“Why do you want me to leave?”
She blew out a breath, and offered a shaky smile. “Because, as you may recall, I have absolutely zero ability to resist you, and my son may or may not be asleep at this moment, and if you spend even one more second here, I will surely jump your bones and take a ride. So, good-bye. And thanks for dinner. I had a blast.”
He reached up his hand and tried to tug her back down. “We can just talk.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, that was some sparkling conversation on the beach.”
“No, I’m serious. I have . . . something I want to tell you, Maggie.”
I bet you do. “My name’s Lena. I haven’t been Maggie for a long time. That girl is . . . dead. Got it?” She underscored that with a look that said she would not talk, she would not confess, and she would not let some former FBI agent dredge up her past and smash it into the face of her unsuspecting son.
His expression grew darker and even more intense, but he didn’t say a word.
“So, please. Up and out, Irish.” She worked to keep her voice easy. “Night’s over.”
Very slowly, without taking his eyes from her, he stood. Then he put his thumb on her chin and rubbed it, the gesture pulling at something elemental in her.
“All right, Lena,” he said softly. “We’ll talk . . . later.” He lowered his face and kissed her so softly she barely felt it. “Good night.”
She didn’t move as he walked away. She listened to his footsteps on the tile floor, heard the front door open and close. Following him, she twisted the dead bolt.
His car started up with a loud rumble, then disappeared into the night. She dropped her head against the door and closed her eyes.
The first tear that slipped out surprised her. She never cried. She hadn’t cried since Smitty died. And before that, not since she’d been a teenager in trouble.
She wiped her face hard—but that didn’t get rid of the hollow pain in her heart.
CHAPTER FIVE
ALONSO JIMENEZ KEPT his head low, his right hand on a pistol in one pocket, his left hand on the riveted handle of his dagger. Nighttime in the warehouse barrio of Las Marías, Venezuela,