as he was putting the skillet under the broiler, the doorbell rang again. Twice.
Collin shut the oven. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. He cut through the dining and living rooms and headed to the front door. It was when he reached to unlock the deadbolt that he realized he was still wearing the oven mitts. He took one off and opened the door. He found two guys on the doorstep, staring at him in surprise.
Collin’s eyes passed over the man in the tailored suit and rested on the taller guy, the one wearing jeans and a blazer.
Well, well, well . . . if it wasn’t Special Agent Jack Pallas in the flesh.
Collin straightened up. It may have been three years, but no introduction was necessary. He knew exactly who the guy was from all the media coverage surrounding the Martino investigation and the subsequent fallout with Cameron. Not to mention, Jack Pallas was not a man who was easily forgotten. Definitely not his type—meaning straight—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize that he was looking at one damn good-looking individual. With a lean, muscular build and a face that was just barely saved from being almost too handsome by that five o’clock shadow that probably started somewhere around 9:00 A.M., Jack Pallas was one of those men that made other men wish they weren’t standing on a doorstep wearing red-checkered oven mitts.
But just as he was starting to feel a bit territorial and defensive, Collin noticed that Pallas was similarly studying him. And maybe the scrutinizing once-over was simply the instinctive reaction of the FBI agent, but a man could usually sense when he was being sized up.
Feeling good about having the upper hand, Collin smiled. “Gentlemen. Can I help you?”
Jack’s eyes lingered on the oven mitts. What he made of them was tough to say.
He pulled a badge out of his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Jack Pallas with the FBI, this is Agent Wilkins. We’d like to speak with Cameron Lynde.”
“She’s in the shower. Been in there for a while, so I don’t think it’ll be much longer.” Collin gestured inside the house. “I’ve got something in the oven. You guys want to come in?”
Leaving the door open, Collin turned and headed back to the kitchen to check on the frittata. As he took the skillet out of the oven and set it on the counter, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the two agents stepped into the living room and shut the front door behind them. He could see Jack doing a quick survey of the house, taking in the relative lack of furniture in the front two rooms. Due to budgetary constraints, Collin knew, Cameron was furnishing the house in a piecemeal fashion. The living and dining rooms were low on her totem pole given, as she had once said, that she didn’t do a lot of formal entertaining.
Being there as often as he was, Collin had gotten used to the sparseness of the decor, the simple leather armchair and reading lamp opposite the fireplace that were the sole furnishings in the living room, and the modest four-person table and chairs that looked practically Lilliputian in the spacious tray-ceiling dining room. He’d hazard a guess that Jack, however, was speculating right then about the circumstances under which a person would own such a big house and leave half of it sitting empty.
Collin pulled the oven mitts off. “You guys are making me nervous by hovering there. Why don’t you come in—I’ll go check on Cam and let her know you’re here.”
He felt Jack’s eyes on him as he made his way up the wide, open staircase that led to the upper floors. On the second floor, he entered the first room on the right, the master suite. The shower was still running, so he knocked and opened the door a crack.
“You’ve got visitors, babe,” Collin said, trying not to let his voice carry. “FBI wants to talk to you.” He shut the door and went back downstairs, where he found the two agents waiting in the kitchen. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. . . .” Jack cocked his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Collin.”
He saw that this registered with Jack. A look of recognition crossed Wilkins’s face.
“That’s it! You’re Collin McCann,” Wilkins said.
Collin grinned. Ah . . . fans. He never got tired of meeting them. “Guilty