Morgan strapped her vest over her chest and grabbed her gun in her left hand. They were working with SWAT on this one since Nicolas had priors and there was a strong suspicion he was making bombs. Morgan’s heart raced. Once glance to Fiona told her they were both feeling the adrenaline kick in, and they needed to relax.

  The grin on Wexford’s lips was almost too much for Morgan to bear. They were both going to enjoy this take down. The danger of it, the planning of it, the thrill of catching someone who may be preparing to do something really bad, of getting them before it could get to that point. SWAT went in first like planned.

  Morgan and Fiona stayed back, waiting for the go ahead. They were the second wave. They were the ones who would actually bring in the suspect and interview him. As much as Morgan wanted to be in the first wave, as much as she wanted to be on the front line and had trained for it in some regard, working with SWAT meant they took control of the situation and she got to sit back and watch.

  In some ways, it was nice. She made sure to observe the excitement in Fiona’s face, the lines etched near her eyes and lips that showed her enjoyment of the situation. Fiona never smiled, or barely did, because it wasn’t that she was happy to be arresting someone, but she was enjoying the moment, the thrill, the adrenaline, the punch that would take them to the next level of excitement for the day. Morgan understood that viscerally.

  When they got the wave from the commanding officer, Morgan barreled out toward the front door to the house. SWAT had already been through everything and cleared it, but she kept her weapon in both hands in case they missed something, not that she didn’t trust them, but because it was what she trained for.

  She was the only FBI agent there. They had simply provided the information for the local police to do their thing and take over. They would give more information and more resources through Morgan herself should CPD need it, but outside of that, the case was in the hands of CPD and no one else.

  Morgan’s heart pumped as she walked through the house. It looked like any other house in suburbia. Nice on the inside, well-maintained. There was a bit of mess here and there, clutter where something obviously hadn’t gotten cleaned. One officer held a puppy to their chest, a pup that couldn’t have been older than four or five months, plastered to this man who looked like he could break its neck with the snap of his fingers.

  Nodding at him, Morgan continued through the house. She was ushered into the basement, and then into a bedroom along the back wall. When she opened the room, nothing looked too out of the ordinary except there was a bunch of shit thrown onto the bed where clearly the SWAT team thought they found something.

  Morgan shoved her gun into its holster at her side after she’d done another sweep of the room to make sure she was alone and nothing was going to pop out and get her. Wexford came in a few seconds later and also put her gun away. Slipping a glove onto her left hand, Morgan rifled through the bags on the bed. Inside were the materials Nicolas had bought that had been flagged by BMAP. They were all still neatly wrapped up and unopened.

  She shoved it toward Fiona and walked around the room. The kid was put into the back of a vehicle and taken down to the station where Morgan and Fiona would interview him. They spent an hour at the house before trekking back to the station. They had discussed repeatedly their strategy for interviewing, but as soon as they entered the room, it all went out the window.

  Nicolas sat at the small table, fear written all over his body. He was hunched over, his light blond hair covering his eyes, his broad shoulders pulled together. He didn’t even dare to look up at them. Morgan slid Wexford a glance as she sat in the farthest chair from him, letting Wexford take point on this one.

  “Nicolas, I’m Detective Fiona Wexford.”

  He nodded at her, but that was it. Fiona slid a glance to Morgan who nodded in Nicolas’ direction, trying to encourage Fiona to get on with the interview. Fiona wanted to learn, and this was a prime time to do it.

  “Do you know why we were at your house today?”

  Nicolas said nothing.

  Wexford bided her time, giving him ample opportunity to speak up, but he just sat there, hands pressed together as he leaned over and stared directly at the floor. Wexford clenched her jaw, the little muscles on the side of her face tensing. Morgan waited.

  “Do you remember going into the Hometown Hardware on the corner of twenty-sixth and Apricot?”

  Again silence.

  “Nicolas,” Wexford started, “We can sit here all day if you’d like, but if you’re not going to answer any of my questions, it’d be helpful to know that.”

  He didn’t move, not even an inch other than his steady breathing. Morgan wondered if he’d fallen asleep and thought about slapping the top of the desk to see if it’d get a reaction out of him, but Wexford was the one in charge of the interview, not herself.

  “Nicolas, do you remember going into the hardware store?”

  A very slight, almost imperceptible nod. Morgan couldn’t hold back the smirk that lit her lips or the light that was in her eyes as she turned to Wexford to encourage her silently.

  “Good, because the owner of that store, Mr. Gary Burnateli remembers seeing you there, too. We just wanted to talk to you today because we were a bit concerned about what you purchased.”

  “It’s not for me.” Nicolas’ voice was so quiet, Morgan wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

  Wexford, however, didn’t miss a beat. “What do you mean it wasn’t for you?”

  Nicolas’ tongue dashed out against his lips, his fingers clenched tightly. “It wasn’t for me. My friend needed it and asked me to get it.”

  “And which friend is this?” Wexford had a pen to paper, ready to write down exactly who Nicolas said. They would have another interview to do that day and perhaps maybe it would lead them down the road they wanted to go.

  Nicolas tensed. “He’s…he’s not really a friend.”

  “Okay. What is he then?”

  “M-more like a boyfriend.”

  Morgan’s heart clenched. This was very unlikely the person they were looking for. Savviness in terms of sexual coercion was not something that would fit the profile of their killer, especially with someone of the same sex.

  “Okay, so this guy is your boyfriend?” Wexford asked, her pen still ready to no-doubt write a name down.

  “No.” Nicolas’ head shook, his light blond hair flinging out to the sides.

  “You want him to be?”

  Nicolas barely nodded.

  Wexford let out a breath. “Okay, Nicolas. What is this guy’s name?”

  “Y-you’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

  “We’re going to have to.”

  “D-don’t mention I said he was my boyfriend.”

  The tension in Morgan’s neck and shoulder increased at the fear in Nicolas’ voice, in the fear in his eyes as he stared directly at Wexford. She wanted to speak, but Wexford beat her to it.

  “Why would you ask us that?”

  “He—he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Okay, but the two of you are in some sort of relationship?”

  Nicolas nodded.

  “Okay. That’s very helpful for us to know, thank you, Nicolas. Can you perhaps tell us his name now?”

  “It’s Luca Rossi.”

  Morgan had to clench her jaw to keep from drawing in a hiss of breath. Fiona barely managed to write the name down before she sent Morgan a curious look. Apparently, Morgan’s tension hadn’t gone unseen.

  As soon as they finished the interview, Morgan was on her phone and walking down the hall. She had Taylor on the line. “Hey, boss.”

  Fiona grabbed Morgan’s arm and spun her around. “What the hell is going on?”

  Morgan held up a finger. “This isn’t related to my case.”

  Fiona moved in even closer, her body pressing against Morgan’s side, and the thrill that went through Morgan’s nerves was not because she was about to make a break in another case. Fiona’s lips were near her ear without the phone. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Morgan ignored her. “This kid said he got the stuff for Luca Rossi.”

  “Bring him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Morgan hung up and shoved her phone into the pocket of her gray slacks and turned to Wexford. “I’m taking Nicolas down to the FBI.”

  “What?” Shock registered in Wexford’s case. “You can’t…you can’t just take another case from me.”

  “This is…I’m taking Nicolas, Fiona. I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “What the fuck, Morgan?”

  The anger lanced straight to Morgan’s heart. This was why any relationship between the two of them would be an awful idea. Any time Morgan ended up with information pertaining to a case they were working on, she’d have to come upon this anger, this betrayal, and she wasn’t sure she could do it.

  “I can’t talk about it.” Morgan stalked into the interview room. “Nicolas, I need you to stand up.”

  “What?”

  “Stand up.” Morgan reached behind her back for her handcuffs and pulled them out.

  “Where am I going?”

  “I’m Special Agent Morgan Stone with the FBI, and I’m going to take you to a more secure location.”

  Fiona stood at the door with her arms crossed and a glare on her face. “This isn’t right, Morgan.”

  “It’s the only right way to do this. Trust me. You don’t know even the surface of it.” Morgan took Nicolas by the shoulder and led him toward the elevator. It wasn’t long until she had him back at the FBI in a new interview room and the agents on the case proper were preparing to question him.

  When Morgan finally made her way to her desk, she had radio silence from Wexford. Her heart raced as she flipped through missed calls from her mom and a few missed texts from her sisters. She’d get back to them all that night—she made a vow to do it. She really needed to focus more on them than whatever was between her and Wexford, because Morgan knew without a doubt it would be a disaster if they were to get involved.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Morgan was ready to go home. It was late. She'd stayed late on purpose, catching up on the conference call notes that she had missed and finalizing what she could of the report from the arrest she'd made, though that report would never be finished until the other agents figured out what they could for it.

  It was nearing eight, and as much as she had promised herself she was going to call her mother back, the energy she'd had to put in to that phone call had diminished to absolutely nothing. Morgan gathered her stuff up and slid her bag over her shoulder. It took her the standard twenty-two minutes it always did for her to get home at that late hour.

  When she pulled into the parking garage, she stopped short at the sight of the black SUV sitting in the guest parking near the elevator. Sighing, Morgan debated whether or not to even get out of her vehicle because she was more than sure what was about to happen. Deciding she couldn't wait any longer, she shoved the door open to her car and stepped into the dim light of the underground parking garage.

  Wexford was out of her SUV before Morgan had even managed to finger the fob and lock her own vehicle. The exhaustion that she'd felt at the office was very much still present, but she ignored it as she stepped closer to Fiona, knowing where the argument was going before it even started.

  “You can't keep taking my cases.” Fiona's words cut like a knife.

  Morgan sighed. “Can we do this upstairs? I want a whiskey and to sit.”

  “No.”

  Morgan clenched her jaw. “Fine. I did not take your case as you so think I did. That boy we arrested today was completely unrelated to our case, and you know it. Was he going to attempt to make a bomb? Perhaps, but that is for my agents to discover, not your detectives.”

  “It was my case, Stone.”

  “Oh, so we're here using last names, then. This is just a jurisdiction-pissing match, is it?” Morgan rolled her eyes and started toward the elevator. She really did not want to have the conversation out in the open for the rest of the world to hear. She had done her best to not let her neighbors know she worked for the FBI, and she really wanted to maintain that cover.

  Dutifully, Fiona followed her. Morgan refused to talk until they got up to her floor and she unlocked her door. Shutting it behind Fiona, Morgan dropped her keys onto the small kitchen table she kept and dropped her bag onto the chair. Without pretenses, she started to pull off the gear she wore every day. Her jacket slid onto the back of the chair where her bag was, her gun settled onto the table, the holster to follow.

  Fiona watched everything she did in silence but with a firm look of anger in her eyes. It wasn't until Morgan slid her shoes off and walked into the kitchen that she finally spoke. “I can't tell you about the case.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Morgan turned on her then, raising one thin eyebrow and shaking her head slowly before she pointed a finger. “You're talking to a federal agent with the FBI. Like you, we don't talk about cases. Unlike you, there are a fuck ton more consequences if I do leak confidential information.”

  Fiona drew in a sharp breath. “Fine. I do get it, even if I don't like it. But you cannot keep taking my cases. First Lollie, then this.”

  At the mention of Lollie's name, Morgan's shoulders tensed. Her fingers wrapping around the neck of the whiskey bottle tightened and her molars ground together. Setting the whiskey back on the table, knowing she really probably shouldn't be drinking anyway, Morgan slowly turned back to Fiona. “I can't help it if you keep stumbling onto cases that are too big for your britches.”

  Fiona's eyes went wide, and Morgan knew she'd touched a nerve. “I don't even know what to say to that, but you know as well as I do, that either of these cases I could handle on my own.”

  “Really?” Morgan's eyes narrowed. “This is your first time leading a task force, and a joint one at that. You told me as much yourself. Do you have any idea what you're doing? Because standing here in a pissing match with me is really not the way to get the job done.” Grabbing a glass from her cabinet, Morgan filled it with cold water in her fridge and took a long sip. She would be remiss if she offered Fiona anything. She wanted her out of the apartment so Morgan could have the night to herself to sit and mope and wonder and think—but most importantly, sleep.

  “Don't talk to me like I don't know what I'm doing.” Pain flashed across Fiona's gaze.

  Sighing, Morgan set her glass down and stepped in closer. She put a hand on the side of her arm and squeezed. “I’m sorry. You're right. That was mean. Neither of those cases were ones I wanted to take, trust me, I have my own. I don't really want to be working this bombing case either. I want to focus on my trafficking case, and I want to be there when we take the bastard down, but I've been assigned this case. That's coloring my attitude.”

  Fiona gave the slightest nod. Morgan sighed again.

  “Really, I'm sorry.”

  “Thank you. I'm not some young, green detective, Morgan. I know what I'm doing.”

  “Yes and no.” Morgan bit her lip, trying to look into Fiona's dark eyes that were cast in doubt. “You have experience, but you are still so young. Take it from someone who has been in this world for decades, Fiona. You have years to go still before you become jaded.”

  “You're not jaded.”

  Snorting, Morgan rolled her eyes. “Sure, you can think that if you want.”

  “You're not.” Fiona looked up then, their gazes locking.

  Morgan knew what was going to happen. Fiona was going to kiss her. Morgan's tongue dashed against her lips, her chest tightening in anticipation. A kiss like they had shared the other week but without alcohol might be too much for her own sensibilities, but God, she wanted it. She'd desperately wanted it for over a year, and now—now Fiona was finally unencumbered with whatever relationship she'd been in.

  Fiona stepped in, fingers sliding against Morgan's cheek and cupping the side of her face. Morgan tilted her head into the move, desperately loving the warmth from Fiona's hand against her skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as she waited to see what would happen next.

  “I want to kiss you,” Fiona whispered, the breath from her mouth brushing against Morgan's nose and lips.

  Morgan let out a groan. “We need to talk first.”

  “We can talk later.”

  God, she wanted to. She wanted to dive right into whatever the hell had been building and run with it, but Morgan knew Fiona was still angry with her, knew they hadn't cleared the air, knew they had to set up some rules. They couldn’t—they shouldn’t—do this while still working on a case together.

  “No, no, we can't talk later.” Opening her eyes, Morgan stared directly into Fiona's. She was so close. She was right there in front of her. Surely one kiss wouldn't hurt anything. They would still be able to work together, figure out whatever. They'd done it before and didn't have a problem working the case. Yet it wasn't the kiss Morgan was afraid of, it was what the kiss might lead to. She moved her hand from Fiona's arm to her shoulder and then down, skimming her breast before settling her fingers against the dip in Fiona's waist. She wanted so desperately to say fuck it and bring their mouths together. It was a struggle just to tear her gaze from Fiona's and step away—something she had yet to manage to accomplish.

  “Morgan…”

  “Don't. Just...just give me a second here.”

  “I want this.”

  “I know,” Morgan whispered. “God, I know. But there's still this case.”

  “We don't work together,” Fiona answered.

  “Yet, we do. Isn't that why you're here? Because you're mad I interfered in your work with mine?” Morgan pulled her lip between her teeth and shook her head, trying so desperately to force herself to step away. “We work together, Fiona. Right now we work together a lot. We have to set some boundaries.”