Seduced by the Sniper. Elizabeth Heiter
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one-date kind of guy.
One-night stands had never been her style. But that night, she simply hadn’t been able to resist him. She’d been on such an incredible high when she walked into Shields. She’d finally become an FBI negotiator and she’d wanted to celebrate. None of her usual friends at the office had been available, so she’d gone by herself. She’d expected to grab a beer and toast her accomplishment, then go home.
Then Scott had sat down next to her and bought her that beer. Out of all the women in there, Scott had turned the full force of his charm on her. The sexy, lopsided grin; the intensity of his gaze focused solely on her; the feel of his fingers brushing over hers—it had hit her with a longing she’d never felt. They’d stayed until closing time, long past when all the other agents had left.
When he’d invited her home, she’d planned to say no. But somehow, she’d stared into his deep brown eyes and found herself nodding, her heart beating faster as she’d told him to lead the way. She’d followed him out of that bar before she could change her mind.
Until this moment she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him.
She tried to forced back the emotion, tried to ignore the little voice in her head telling her it could have worked, if only she’d given him a chance. Scott might have chased after her, but he’d just wanted a repeat of that incredible night, a simple fling. It would have ended quickly, but inevitably someone would have found out. That wouldn’t have made a dent in his career, but it sure would have hurt hers.
She didn’t date other agents. As a woman, that was a quick way to make everyone around her question how she’d succeeded in the Bureau. She didn’t need that.
Especially since it had happened once before. She hadn’t gone out on a single date with her supervisor back in LA, but he’d shown interest, and that fast, the rumors had started. It had taken a transfer to Washington, DC to stop them. That romance would have been forbidden. One with Scott wasn’t—they didn’t work on the same squad. But she didn’t want to risk it—her career or her heart. Not for someone who wasn’t searching for anything remotely serious.
She’d known serious wasn’t Scott’s style the second she’d met him, years ago, when she’d been out at a pub with Maggie and Ella and a few other agents. He’d swung by their table, said hello, his gaze lingering longer on the female agents, then he’d been off. He hadn’t paid her any special attention then, but she’d definitely noticed him. She’d realized right away that it was probably better he hadn’t homed in on her, because she didn’t do casual. And it had been immediately obvious that casual was the only way he worked.
It didn’t matter how her pulse picked up at the thought of him, even a year after their one incredible, spontaneous night together. It didn’t matter how completely in tune his sense of humor had been with hers, how strangely comfortable she’d felt with him, how right his body had felt pressed against hers. It didn’t matter how much she’d wished things had turned out differently. Because the truth was, he reminded her too much of a day she wanted desperately to forget, reminded her too much of her failure.
She tried to keep her face impassive, wishing she had her own shades to cover eyes that were probably showing too much as she stared up at him. Had he decided to try again? Was she crazy to keep resisting him?
His biceps flexed as he reached up and removed his sunglasses, and that fast, Chelsie’s shoulders dropped. There was no heat in his eyes, just cool professionalism. If there was a hint of something more intimate lurking in those chocolate-colored depths, he hid it well.
“Chelsie.” Scott’s deep voice was flat and even, nothing like the way he’d growled her name as he’d lowered himself on top of her. His mouth had caressed hers exactly right, with a familiarity he shouldn’t have known. His hands had slid over her body with a similar confidence, making her writhe beneath him desperately.
She swallowed hard, trying to banish the memory, and saw recognition flicker in his eyes, and couldn’t hold his stare.
If Scott Delacorte had known exactly how to touch her, it wasn’t because they were somehow magically in tune. It was because he had a lot of practice. Chances were he’d long since moved on. If she couldn’t seem to do the same, she at least needed to do a better job of pretending.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to hide her reaction and looked back into his eyes.
His blank expression had cracked, letting a hint of what she’d seen in his eyes a year ago peek through. But his voice was hard and urgent as he demanded, “I need you to get in the SUV and come with me.”
“What? Why—”
“Connors escaped from jail this morning. We’re putting you in protective custody.”
* * *
AS SCOTT SPED out of the WFO’s parking structure, he sensed Andre’s gaze on him from the passenger seat. They’d been partners since Scott joined HRT. When you’ve put your life in someone else’s hands enough times, spent enough missions scouting out targets for days on end, you got to know the person. Andre definitely knew something was up.
Scott had never told him about Chelsie. He wasn’t the type to kiss and tell in general, but he wasn’t completely secretive, either. Still he’d never spoken to anyone about what he’d shared with Chelsie. Somehow, it felt too intimate, and he wanted to lock the memory away, keep it only for himself.
From the backseat, Chelsie finally spoke up. “How’d he get out?”
“Faked a medical emergency,” Scott said. “The ambulance was in a car crash. Connors overpowered his guard and then tackled the driver. He was gone before the police arrived.”
Andre turned in his seat, stretched his hand toward Chelsie. “Special Agent Andre Diaz. Scott and I are partners at HRT.”
“Chelsie Russell. So, Andre, why the protective custody?”
Tension vibrated in her voice. As an agent, she was well aware they wouldn’t put her into protective custody simply because a criminal from one of her cases had escaped.
“There was a break-in at your apartment this afternoon, about an hour after Connors got out,” Andre said in his typical straightforward way.
“What? Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“There’s probably a message on your phone,” Scott said. “You were in a meeting.”
Scott sensed Chelsie lean forward in the backseat, and he couldn’t help but notice the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. He wanted to reach his hand back and clasp it around hers, but he swallowed the urge and tightened his grip on the steering wheel instead. She might still have been attracted to him on some level—he’d seen that in her wide blue eyes the second she’d stepped close to him in the WFO parking lot—but Chelsie had made her feelings about him clear.
“Did he take anything? And how did he find me?” Chelsie asked.
“Well, the place wasn’t ransacked,” Scott answered. “We don’t know how he tracked you down.” Her information was unlisted, but apparently Connors’s skills extended beyond his rifle.
“Are you sure it was Connors?”
“No. But prison officials went through Connors’s cell after he got out and it seems like the guy was fixated on you.” Scott gritted his teeth, remembering the briefing the team had gotten from Froggy an hour ago. The Bureau wanted Chelsie Russell in protective custody, and since Connors had gotten his marksman training from the military, they wanted a pair of snipers watching her.
HRT did protective details all the time. Protecting another agent was an unusual assignment, but Scott had volunteered. Every time he thought about Connors, he remembered how the man had shot the tactical mirror out of his hand from two hundred yards away. There were top-notch snipers in HRT, but this was Chelsie’s life they were talking about. Regardless of her feelings for him, he had to be the one protecting her. And Andre, good friend that he was, had