“None other than those custom motorcycle builders over on Goose Island. Small world, huh?”
She didn’t bother answering as she stopped in front of the bank of elevators because, one, it was a rhetorical question. Two, she hadn’t exactly heard it since the moment Dillan had alluded to Black Knights Inc., her mind had tuned out what he was saying so it could fill itself with images of one particular man.
Army Ranger turned motorcycle mechanic, Britt Rollins had become…well…a bit of an obsession. She’d spent many an hour after work—and usually after a glass or two of wine—remembering how absolutely delicious he’d looked in his jeans, biceps-hugging T-shirts, and biker boots.
He wasn’t as drop-dead gorgeous as his coworker Fisher Wakefield, or as big and built as the Black Knight who’d introduced himself to her as Hewitt Birch. But there was just…somethingabout Sergeant Rollins.
Maybe it was the way the jagged scar across his temple turned his otherwise comfortably handsome face into a visage that was as compelling as it was intimidating. Maybe it was the unique sound of his accent. It wasn’t the slow drawl so many associated with the South, but something softer. Something rounder. He avoided the final and middle R sounds in words so that the English language hit the ear the same way tupelo honey hit the tongue.
She’d done some digging on him.
Yes, I used my position within the FBI to pull his records. So sue me.
There had been frustratingly little to discover, however. She’d found out he’d been born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, which explained the accent since the city's language had been affected by the local African-American Gullah dialect as well as different European influences.
Yes, I looked that up too.
She’d discovered he’d lost both of his parents when he’d been too young to experience such tragedy. And she’d unearthed that his brother was a bit of a ne’er-do-well.
But when it came to his military service? When it came to figuring out what had put that hard glint in his crystal-blue eyes or that tough cant to his jaw?
Nada. Zero. Zilch.
His file had been redacted six ways from Sunday. Which actually told her all she needed to know.
He’d seen action. The hard kind. The bloody kind.
For whatever reason, that just made him evenmorefantasy-worthy.
And boy-oh-boy, had she fantasized. In fact, she should go ahead and name her vibrator Sergeant Rollins since he’d been the sole inspiration behind the tool’s use for the past few months.
“Are you still there?”
Dillan’s voice pulled her from her reverie. She realized she’d missed the elevator and had to re-push the button.
“Still here. Headed up. See you in sixty seconds.” She hung up without signing off and then took three slow breaths to calm her racing heart before stepping into the elevator.
Her reaction to the idea of seeing Britt Rollins again was silly. He was just a man. She’d grown up in a house full of men. She worked in a field that was predominantly populated by men.
They’re not all that.
Except…something told her the sergeant was different.
“Yo!” Dillan said as soon as the silver door slid open onto their floor. He had his tablet in hand. The screen shined into his face and highlighted the eager glint in his eye. “This is a good one. A real Harrison Ford-type deal.”
She blinked, wondering what Han Solo had to do with the Black Knights and their new case.
When Dillan saw her confusion, he rolled his eyes. “As inThe Fugitive.”
“Oh.” She nodded, reminding herself that Harrison Ford was famous for roles outside theStar Warsuniverse.
With a practiced ease, she made her way through the maze of cubicles to the corner cubby she shared with Dillan. The movies made it look like FBI agents had private offices and wide wooden desks. But the reality was that America was a big business and treated its federal police force like most corporations treated their employees. They were packed in like sardines to optimize the workspace and minimize the overhead.
Sinking into her rolling chair, she absently tossed her fanny pack into the side drawer of her plain, metal desk—she’d never understood the appeal of a purse—and looked expectantly at Dillan as he took his place at the opposite desk.
Most days, she wasn’t hyped about the idea of staring at his too-handsome face for eight to ten hours straight. But today, his excitement was contagious. She found herself leaning toward him eagerly. “Okay. Give it to me. What are we dealing with?”
2
