"Kara," he murmured. "You shouldn't look at me like that."

  "Like what?" she whispered, knowing she was playing with fire.

  His gaze darkened, but before he could reply, the valet pulled up with Max's car, breaking the spell between them. The valet opened the door for her, and she slid inside as Max moved behind the wheel. Neither of them spoke as he pulled away from the curb, and the silence continued, growing tenser with each passing block.

  She'd started something…something she couldn't finish. And she didn't know what to do about that. Max didn't seem to know either.

  When he finally stopped in front of her building, she let out a sigh of relief and jumped out of the car so he wouldn't have to park. Unfortunately, she realized she still had his jacket on her shoulders when she reached the sidewalk. She turned around, and Max was right there.

  "Your coat," she murmured, putting up her hands to slide it off her shoulders. But she wasn't fast enough.

  His hands covered hers, stopping the movement. Then he lowered his head and kissed her. It wasn't gentle or sweet; it was hot, deliberate, a little possessive, and she loved every second. But she had to end it soon…now. Finally, she forced herself to pull away.

  She gave him a breathless look, fighting the urge to go right back into another kiss. "We can't do this. You know we can't."

  "I know."

  She stepped back, slipped off his coat, and handed it to him. "Thanks."

  "Kara—"

  "Goodnight, Max," she said, cutting him off. She ran up the steps to her building without looking back. But she could feel his gaze on her the entire way. And when she finally reached her door and glanced back, he was still there, still watching.

  She went inside before she could do something stupid, like go back down those steps.

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday morning started with frustration. After a sleepless night tossing and turning, her mind racing with clues that seemed to lead nowhere and an increasingly long list of suspects, not to mention a hot memory of a kiss that had shaken her to her core, Kara had dragged herself out of bed and down to the office. But the morning briefing had only added to her feeling of restlessness.

  Sitting in the Strike Team conference room, listening to updates that felt more like a list of dead ends than progress, she couldn't believe that it had been three days since the bombing and they still had no idea who the perpetrator was or the motive behind the attack.

  Samantha Barkley remained in critical condition. Jonas Cray's phone had yielded nothing useful. Tracking down the elusive "Cal" who might have murdered Jonas had also led nowhere. Cray's building had no security cameras, and so far, Cal had not been spotted walking around the area.

  "Tyler, what about the Novik brothers?" Jason asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  "I went to the Crimson Club last night," Tyler said. "Neither Alex nor Sergei Novik was there. The manager said Alex was out of town, and Sergei is rarely at the club. I left my number. I haven't heard back."

  "What about Sergei Novik's construction company?" Jason asked.

  "Offices are in Midtown, but Novik is traveling. His assistant said I'd need to go through his attorney for any meetings." Tyler's frustration was clear. "His attorney has also not returned my calls."

  "What about Elias Costa at Forge Fitness?" she asked.

  "The gym said Costa is on vacation. Won't say when he'll be back."

  "So everyone is disappearing," she muttered.

  Jason turned to Alina. "Any progress on the bomb components?"

  "ATF traced the materials to three different suppliers across two states. All purchased with cash over the past six months. No security footage, no leads."

  "And Samantha's case files?" Jason continued.

  "The DA's office is still deciding how many files to send over, but we have some information on the current case," Alina replied. "It involves an accounting firm accused of fraud on behalf of their clients. The biggest name on the client list belongs to Armen Petroysan, as Kara mentioned the other day. But there's no sign Samantha had any personal contact with him."

  "What about her phone?" Kara asked. "Are we into it yet?"

  "Unlocked it this morning," Wes said. "Going through it now, but preliminary review shows normal texts and calls. Work stuff, personal messages with Dominic and her sister. The one text to Max Malone about meeting at the café. But they had no further contact."

  "All right, let's keep digging," Jason said. "Someone wanted Samantha Barkley dead, and they're still out there. Jonas Cray's murder proves they're willing to kill to cover their tracks."

  The team dispersed, and Kara returned to her desk, feeling the weight of too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Max: Need to meet. May have a potential lead.

  She stared at the message, then typed: What is it?

  Not sure. Meeting at one thirty with one of Samantha's friends, if you want to join.

  I'm in, she typed.

  Max texted her the address for a diner in Chelsea. As she jumped to her feet, Tyler looked up from the computer next to her. "Did you get something?"

  "I'm not sure. Max says he's meeting with one of Samantha's friends and invited me to join him, so I'm going. I'll text you when I know more."

  Lou's Place was a classic New York diner—vinyl booths, laminate tables, and a menu that probably hadn't changed in a couple of decades. Max was already there when Kara arrived, sitting in a back booth with a cup of coffee in front of him. He was gazing down at his phone, which gave her a moment to see him without him seeing her, to quickly relive last night's unexpectedly passionate kiss, one that should never be repeated.

  He lifted his head, as if sensing her stare, and she gave him a brief smile and then slid into the booth across from him. "Hi."

  "Hello," he said, his sexy mouth curving into a smile that made her heart thump against her chest.

  She'd spent most of the night trying to tell herself he was really not that good-looking, the kisses they'd shared had not been that great, that it had just been too much expensive champagne…but all those excuses seemed completely stupid now that she was sitting across from him again and feeling that same surge of desire that had made her act so recklessly the night before.

  His gaze darkened, and she realized too late that she was staring at him. Judging by the expression in his stunning green eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Clearing her throat, she said, "So, I'm here."

  "I can see that."

  She felt like a fool for suddenly feeling so tongue-tied. For God's sake, she was a federal agent, and she was meeting him because he had a lead on a case. She needed to get a grip. "Who are we meeting?"

  "Claire Donnelly," he said. "You should probably sit on this side with me, so we can both see her face, assess what she has to say."

  The last thing she wanted to do was slip onto that bench seat next to him. "I'll move when she gets here."

  A knowing gleam entered her eyes. "Afraid you might kiss me again?"

  "You kissed me."

  "I think you made the first move."

  "I did not. And I don't want to talk about it. It was a mistake."

  "It was good," he countered. "Memorable."

  The word only made her feel more unsettled. "Let's keep this professional. Last night was last night. It's business from here on out."

  "You've never mixed business and pleasure?" he teased.

  "No," she said flatly. "I don't mix the two. And I'm not starting now."

  "Maybe later."

  She sighed and forced a change in subject. "Tell me more about Claire Donnelly and why she wants to talk to you."

  He sat back in his seat, gave her a thoughtful look, and then, thankfully, answered her question.

  "She said she might have information about someone who was threatening Samantha. She apparently knew Samantha had wanted to meet with me that day, so she wanted to talk to me and not to the FBI. She may try to bolt once she realizes who you are."

  "I'll make sure that doesn't happen. What's her relationship to Samantha?"

  "Former college roommate. She moved to New York last year, and they reconnected. They had lunch together last week."

  "And she knew you were meeting with Samantha. It's interesting that Samantha would tell her that. Hopefully, she told her more." The server came over to the table, pausing their conversation.

  "What can I get you?" the woman asked.

  "An iced tea," she said.

  "You can get lunch if you want," Max put in.

  "Let's see what Claire has to say first."

  "I'll take a refill," Max said as the waitress refilled his mug. "You can leave the menus."

  The diner's bell chimed, and she turned to see a blonde woman enter the diner wearing casual slacks and a black sweater. She didn't seem nearly as sharp or professional as Samantha.

  As the woman looked around the diner, Max got up and went to greet her. She seemed a bit startled when she saw Kara, but Max firmly ushered her to the table, waving her to the bench he'd just been sitting on and then sliding in next to her.

  "Claire, this is Kara Reid with the FBI. She very much wants to help find out who hurt Samantha."

  "Okay," Claire said. "I really wanted to talk to you on your own, though. I'm not sure…"

  "You don't have to worry," Kara cut in, giving Claire a reassuring smile. "We all want the same thing—to find out who hurt Samantha."

  "I've been going crazy," Claire said. "I'm not sure that what I saw means anything, and Samantha is so private. She'd be furious with me for sharing her business with the FBI. Plus, I kept thinking that a bomb going off like that couldn't possibly be about her."

  "You're here now. Just tell us what you saw," she encouraged.

  "Samantha and I were college roommates. We're both really busy, but we try to have lunch every couple of months. Last week we met at Bistro Verde in Tribeca. We'd been there maybe twenty minutes when this man walked up to our table and told Samantha, 'You need to stop.' Samantha stiffened and told him to leave, and she immediately waved to the waiter to come over. The man said, 'You'll regret it if you don't', and then he walked out."

  "Can you describe him?" Kara asked.

  "He had dark hair with an olive complexion. He was wearing gray pants and a black leather jacket. He was probably in his forties, looked a little overweight with a beer belly. His eyes were cold and mean. I was immediately intimidated, but Samantha didn't seem concerned. She said if she stopped working every time someone told her she'd be sorry, she wouldn't have closed any cases. Despite her words, I thought she was rattled."

  "And she didn't tell you what the man was threatening her about?" Max asked.

  Claire shook her head. "No. She said she wasn't sure, that her current boyfriend had had some trouble lately, and it might be tied to him. Or it could be one of her cases. I suggested she talk to the police, and she said she was going to meet with a private security guy who worked for her boyfriend about something else, but she'd bring it up with him. After what happened, I thought I'd try to find you."

  "Julia, Samantha's sister, gave me your number. I didn't tell her what happened because she was already upset." Claire paused, her gaze searching. "I want to know if what happened in the restaurant is tied to the bombing. I keep thinking it isn't possible because other people were also injured. My husband told me I should stay out of it. If it was about that guy, maybe I could be in danger, and that danger would come to him, to our kids…" Claire gave them a look pleading for understanding, absolution. "I didn't know what to do. But I haven't had a good night's sleep since that bomb went off." Claire blew out a breath. "Anyway, that's what I wanted to say."

  "Is there anything else?" Kara asked.

  "No. That's all of it. Maybe the manager at the restaurant or one of the waiters could verify what happened. I know people were watching."

  "Bistro Verde, you said?" Max asked.

  She nodded. "It was last Friday, just three days before everything happened."

  The day and time helped, Kara thought. Hopefully, there were some cameras near the bistro that could help identify that person.

  "I have to go," Claire said, sliding out of the booth.

  Max got up, barring her from leaving immediately. "One second, Claire. Kara may need you to look at footage we can find from the restaurant to help us identify that man."

  "I don't really want to be more involved."

  "It will be completely private. No one will know you helped us," she said, a little surprised that Max had taken the initiative, but glad that he had.

  "Okay. You have my number," she said as she hurried away.

  Max moved around the table and sat down across from her. "What do you think?"

  "We need to find that man," she said, already texting the information to her team so that they could start looking for him. "This could be the break we've been looking for." She finished texting, then lifted her gaze to his. "Thank you for including me. You didn't have to."

  "I thought it might help. I'm not your enemy."

  "You have been more helpful than I expected, but I still don't completely trust you."

  "Well, I don't completely trust you either," he returned.

  His comment surprised her. "Why not? I've been completely transparent with you."

  "I doubt that." He paused. "I have a friend in the NYPD. He said you weren't a very popular cop."

  "You looked me up?"

  "I asked a few questions. It's not like you haven't been trying to find out about my past."

  "But your past is redacted. And mine is not. I'm sure you know exactly why I wasn't popular."

  "I'd like to hear about it from you."

  She paused as the server returned to ask if they wanted to order anything else. "I'll take a chicken Caesar salad," she said. If she were going to talk about her past, she might as well have lunch while she was doing it.

  "I'll take the French dip." As the server left, he said, "Since we'll be waiting for our lunch, this seems like a good time to talk."

  "I'll tell you what happened. And then you're going to answer one of my questions."

  He shrugged. "Let's see how it goes."

  "After almost eight years in the NYPD, I made detective after closing a big case, which was very exciting. Unfortunately, the seasoned and cynical detective I was assigned to work with did not share my enthusiasm."

  "Because you're a woman?"

  "It was more because I wasn't someone who was going to look the other way. Three months into our assigned partnership, which was almost two years ago now, we started working on a joint interagency case with the FBI and the DEA that involved drugs and money laundering. During the investigation, I realized that my partner had stolen money and drugs from a stash house. I turned him in, and he and his friends turned on me. I'd broken the code. Not only because I'd reported him to Internal Affairs, but because I'd also talked to the FBI and the DEA."

  "You had no choice. If you hadn't turned him in, you could have been charged as a co-conspirator."

  "If anyone had ever found out, which they might not have," she said candidly. "And to be completely honest, there were other, far more dangerous, far more violent people to take down, which was repeatedly stated to me after the fact. That I had ruined the career of a man who had been on the force for over a decade, who had been overworked and underpaid, was unforgivable. And he had been overworked and underpaid, but that's the job we all signed up for. I couldn't let him walk away because he would have kept committing crimes, and that's not why I became a cop."

  Max nodded, a gleam of respect in his eyes. "That was brave."

  "And a career killer. No one wanted to work with me after that. Even the people who knew me well, who privately said I was right, felt tainted by any connection to me. My fellow officers said I was too self-righteous, too ambitious, that I just wanted to get him out of the way so I could rise in the ranks. The smear campaign was superb," she said, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice. "I started to feel like I had done the wrong thing."

  "But you hadn't. Surely, there were some people on your side."

  "More than came forward publicly. It was a tough time for me, and when one of the FBI agents I had worked with on the case suggested I join the bureau, I said yes."

  "Sounds like you ended up in a better place."

  "In some ways." She frowned. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea. There are more good people than bad in the police department, and some incredibly smart and brave unsung heroes. I just ran into one bad cop and some of his unforgiving friends. But I have a lot of respect for the NYPD, and I loved working there for a long time, but that time was over."

  "And what do you think about working for the bureau? Although you're working for some special team, aren't you?"

  She was surprised at how much he actually knew about her. She'd been so focused on finding out about him she hadn't really thought about him wanting to know more about her. "Yes, I recently joined a special unit that moves more quickly and with less red tape."

  "How did you manage that?"

  "I guess I impressed a few people."

  "Well, that doesn't surprise me."

  "I don't know why you'd say that. I don't feel like I've done anything impressive on this case. It's been three days, and I'm still trying to find a lead that will help us find the bomber."

  "You found Jonas Cray."

  "Too late," she said.

  "But we were close." He paused, his gaze shifting. "It is odd how close we were."

  "As in you think someone realized we'd found Jonas?" She wiped her mouth with her napkin as she considered that. "We went to the gym. We talked to Elias and Spencer. And then we hit the Crimson Club."

  "And Ava told us where to find him," Max finished. "But I don't think there was enough time between our appearance there and someone silencing Jonas before we could talk to him."

  "It had to have been someone from the gym. And Elias Costa has basically disappeared, so that makes him look guilty."