Another soft caress. “I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think it’s about liking anything. I think it’s just about you needing to win.” She let go of his hand. “You’re working undercover right now.”
The fuck?
“Did I tell you that I studied art in college? Well, it was my minor.”
What in the hell did that have to do with anything? Had he asked what she’d studied in college?
Agnes waved toward him. “Sometimes, you get really quiet and this super intense look comes on your face. I guess you always have to be careful with what you say and do, huh? Makes sense that you’d slip into silence so you didn’t trip yourself up with the wrong person.” She bit her lower lip.
He could totally bite that lip for her.
A sigh eased from her as Agnes let her lip go. “But I’m not the wrong person. I’m the person you need. I can help you.”
No one could help him. No, scratch that. He didn’t need help. “Sweetheart…” He used the endearment deliberately and made it mocking. “I’m the leader of the most feared MC on the East Coast.” Maybe in the entire US. “I don’t need help. Not from you. Not from anyone.”
“Sweetheart…” Agnes returned without even a single hesitation. “You need my help. You’re walking a tightrope, and you will fall soon.”
The hell he would. But he needed to get the woman to back up and focus on something she’d said a few moments before. “What does you taking art have to do with any damn thing?” Why the hell was he so curious about her? He needed to stop asking her questions. “And how in the world did an artist become an FBI agent?” Shit. Another question. No more. Dammit.
He needed to figure out a way to get her sweet ass out of there and permanently away from him.
Why did I even bring her here?
Oh, but he knew. Deep down, he knew exactly why he’d brought Agnes to his home.
Her words from the bar replayed n his head… “What do I have to do in order to fuck…”
“Being an artist means I notice things that others might miss,” Agnes informed him.
He waited.
She smiled at him. No dimples. Just a wide, slow smile that made her eyes even brighter.
She looked cute, harmless, sexy.
How in the world was this woman an FBI agent? Why did she want to track down killers when it looked like she should be playing with puppies somewhere? Baking cookies or some shit like that?
His gaze dropped to the short skirt.
Okay, fine, not like she looked sweet. Definitely sexy, and instead of puppies, she could play with him all night if she wanted.
“Grayson Stone is my supervisor at the FBI.”
Ah, finally, she’d added more info that was actually relevant. Though she’d just said something he already knew. Grayson—or Gray to his friends and his enemies—Stone was hard as nails. A real bastard who never stopped. A whiz when it came to mind games and general mind fuckery. The man lived to profile, and he was one of those annoying do-gooder types who wanted to make the world a better, safer place.
Cass enjoyed watching the world burn. Or, starting the fires.
“You worked with Agent Stone not too long ago,” Agnes added.
He shook his head. “I used Agent Stone not too long ago. He had connections that I wanted.” Because I needed to catch a killer.
“Uh, huh. Right. You used him, and he used you. Sure. But you did all of that because you’re family.”
The beating of Cass’s heart suddenly echoed in his ears. She needs to watch what the hell she says.
Agnes tapped one high heel. “Like I said, I notice small details that others might miss. Like bone structure. You and Gray have the same cheekbones.”
He suddenly wanted to yank a hand over one cheekbone.
