He gazed at Maisy and thought, Now it’s my turn.

  With a light tug on Maisy’s hand, he urged her from their work area, and they walked out of the offices, to the elevator and down to his apartment.

  As soon as they were through the door, he released her hand and they stepped apart, gazing at each other, obviously uncomfortable. He broke the tension with a flip of his hand in the direction of the Murphy bed.

  “I’m going to be working and you’re probably sore. Maybe you should take the bed tonight so you’re more comfortable.”

  She opened her mouth, as if to object, but then just nodded. Clasping her hands before her, she said, “Thanks. But there’s room for you as well.”

  And there was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room again, and he might as well address it. Walking up to her, he cradled her cheek and stroked his thumb across her creamy skin. So smooth. So soft. His gut tightened at the thought of all that skin against his and she was more than he could resist.

  Bending closer, he brought his lips to hers until only the space of a breath was between them. “This,” he said, whispered his lips across hers and shifted back barely an inch. “This is why that’s not a good idea.”

  In answer, Maisy reached up and cupped the back of his head, keeping him close. “This,” she said, repeating his earlier action, her lips a butterfly kiss against his. “This is why we have to share that bed. Whatever happens, I don’t want to say that I ran from this. From us.”

  A low groan escaped him, and he couldn’t fight it anymore. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close, her softness crushed to his hardness. Every inch of her fitting to him as if they were two pieces of a puzzle.

  Over and over they kissed, until their breaths became one and almost ceased to exist as they strained toward each other.

  But then something registered. Sound. Vibration.

  “Damn,” he said and fumbled with the phone in his jacket pocket, dropping it with a thud.

  That sound killed the desire as effectively as a cold bucket of water.

  “SSA Peters,” he said, and mouthed an apology to her.

  “We’ve broken through one of the shell companies and like you thought, it’s part of Rothwell Industries,” Dashiell advised.

  “That’s great, Dash. We’re one step closer to Rothwell. I’m sure he’s the mastermind behind this,” Miguel said.

  “I agree, Miguel. We’ll keep on working to break past the other shell. Hopefully it’ll lead to Rothwell also.”

  “I don’t doubt that it will and if we can get Adams into custody, maybe he will flip on Rothwell. As for the licensed blaster, I think there’s one on our list that’s at Rothwell’s current construction site. If you can get an address for him, I’ll go with Madeline to interview him.”

  “We’ll try to get it ASAP,” Dashiell said and ended the call.

  Miguel tossed the phone onto a nearby tabletop and it clattered noisily, making Maisy jump and take a step away from him.

  “You need to get to work,” she said and smoothed her hand across his chest.

  “I do. Why don’t you—”

  The phone rang and vibrated noisily on the tabletop.

  “Again?” Miguel muttered in frustration, swept up the phone and answered, “SSA Peters.”

  “We’ve got the address for the blaster from his license application and his photo from his driver’s license,” Madeline said.

  “Great. Meet me in the lobby. We’ll speak to him and see what he has to say,” Miguel directed.

  Facing Maisy, he said, “I have to go.”

  “I understand. I’ll be waiting up for you.”

  The last bit of emptiness inside him disappeared at the thought of Maisy waiting for him at home. A home and not just a place to lay his head between investigations.

  “That’ll be nice. I’ll make sure an agent is at the door while I’m gone,” he stated and rushed to the door, Maisy following.

  At the door he faced her, bent and kissed her, a long, slow kiss filled with promise.

  After they broke apart, Maisy smiled, cupped his cheek and swiped her thumb across his lips. “¡Cuídate!”

  “You take care as well. Do not open this door for anyone.”

  “I won’t,” she said and when he stepped out, he heard the snap of the locks falling into place.

  He immediately called up to the offices and arranged for an agent to come down. He didn’t leave until he saw the agent come off the elevator and only then did he hurry to meet Madeline in the lobby.

  She was scrolling through her phone, a happy smile on her face when he met her.

  “How’s Jackson?” he said, certain that was who had put the smile on Madeline’s face.

  Madeline laughed and flipped her phone so he could see the photo of Jackson and his six-year-old daughter, Emmy, happy faces streaked with flour as they showed off the batch of cookies they had apparently just baked. Just a month earlier, Madeline had been the lead agent when Emmy had been kidnapped during a Take Your Child to Work Day event at Jackson’s office.

  “Looks like things are back to normal after the kidnapping,” he said and they walked together to Miguel’s car, chatting.

  “As normal as anyone can be after something like that,” she said, some of her earlier happiness gone.

  “I know it was a rough case for you, being so similar to when your sister was taken,” he said, well aware that Madeline’s case had not had such a happy ending.

  “It was, but there was a silver lining. Meeting Jackson and his daughter...it’s changed my life. I have a life,” she said with a rough laugh, and then peered at him intently as they paused by his car.

  “I think things are also changing for you. Or am I wrong to think that?” Madeline asked.

  Miguel shrugged. “It’s complicated and I know you can understand that,” he said and slipped into the car.

  Madeline joined him, in the passenger seat, and provided an address for the blaster’s home in the Central District, an area which was one of the oldest residential neighborhoods in the city and which had seen quite a number of changes over the years. The neighborhood had a mix of homes and small businesses and had at one time been a predominantly African American neighborhood. Gentrification had changed that and led to a number of new construction sites as well as many resident-driven projects to improve the area’s parks and schools.

  “I understand that you’re attracted to Maisy and I get it. She’s a beautiful woman, but more importantly, she’s brave and kind and caring,” Madeline said as if she was arguing the case for Maisy.

  “She is and I am. Attracted. But you more than most understand just how hard a job we have. The long and erratic hours. The cases that take their toll on your soul,” he admitted.

  “The cases can break you. The pain and suffering of the victims. The frustration that you can’t solve the case fast enough to keep someone else from suffering,” she said, totally in sync with him. But before he could say anything else, she continued, “Being with Jackson and Emmy...it’s lightened that load. It’s made it easier to deal with all that pain and suffering because I’m not alone anymore.”

  Just like I don’t feel alone anymore, Miguel thought, but kept it to himself since they were nearing the edges of Central District and he had to focus on finding the address for the licensed blaster they were going to interview.

  After a few turns, he pulled up in front of a small brick house on a block of mixed homes. Some had been renovated and sparkled brightly beside others that needed care, just like this home. One of the steps had cracked and fallen off to the side and the paint on the white trim around the windows was peeling. The downspout had pulled loose from the gutter, allowing water to pour down and stain the brick along that side of the home. A white wrought iron fence surrounded the property, rusting in spots and with a front gate that was slightly askew.

  There was a light on, but curtains hid their view past the older jalousie windows across the front of the house.

  Miguel parked in front and killed the engine. They exited the car, but as they pushed the gate open, it squeaked loudly. Someone drew the curtain aside, as if to see who had come onto the property, and then let it fall back in place again. He shared a look with Madeline, who peeled off from him to walk to the edge of the fenced-in property so she could keep an eye on the backyard.

  He walked up to the door and knocked. The muffled sound of voices came from behind the wooden door and then it opened just a crack. A woman stood on the other side. Mid-thirties and very pregnant from what little he could see past the small sliver of the opening.

  Holding up his ID, he said, “FBI. Supervisory Special Agent Miguel Peters. I’d like to speak to Randy Davis. Is he available?”

  “He’s not home,” she said, but at the same time, the thud of booted feet carried from behind her, followed by the slam of another door.

  “He’s running,” Miguel shouted at Madeline, who rushed across one side of the yard while he raced down the stairs and to the other side.

  He caught sight of a man sprinting across the yard in his direction and ran to cut him off. Before he could reach him, the man vaulted over the low wrought iron fence and raced across the neighboring yard. Miguel followed, grabbing hold of the fence to hurdle over it, but as he landed, his leg buckled a bit, still weak after the shooting. It sent him sprawling to the ground in a heap, but he pushed back onto his feet, giving chase in an awkward run, every other step filled with pain.

  But Davis, their unsub, was fast and quickly disappeared from view.

  He stopped, fists on his hips in frustration as Madeline caught up to him.

  “I lost him. I couldn’t keep up,” he said with a rough breath.

  “We’ll get him,” Madeline said and patted him on the back. The gesture was meant to console, but it only frustrated him even more.

  “We will,” he said and jerked out his phone to call Seattle PD. In no time he had arranged for a BOLO to be put out on Davis and police surveillance of the premises. Then he reached out to fill in Mack at ABS and the ATF special agent. With another call back to the BAU offices, he had Dashiell working on getting a search warrant so they could see what evidence would turn up at the blaster’s home.

  “Let’s head back. Hopefully we’ll have the warrant shortly and see if Rothwell is more than just Davis’s employer,” Miguel said and brushed some dirt off his suit as they returned to his sedan.

  Once they were inside and heading back to the BAU offices, Madeline said, “I have to admit I thought you were a little off base when you pegged Rothwell as being involved, but there are just too many connections to him.”

  Miguel took a quick look at her as he drove. “So now you agree that he’s part of this?”

  With a shrug that barely shifted the fine wool of her suit jacket, she said, “I think it’s way more probable than not.”

  Miguel quickly ran down what they had so far, intending to convince her that it was more than just probable. “Two shell companies owned by him, since I have no doubt the second one will be a Rothwell property. The licensed blaster works at one of his construction sites. Adams worked barely a block or so from Rothwell’s business office.”

  “All circumstantial,” Madeline reminded him.

  “For now. In time we’ll get what we need to nail him,” Miguel said, more convinced than ever that Rothwell was the mastermind behind the Seattle Crusader.

  With another shrug, Madeline said, “I hope you’re right and that we’ll be able to get him before another bombing hurts someone.”

  “I know we will.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Maisy couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even get comfortable knowing that Miguel was out there, possibly in danger. That his team was out there, likewise risking their lives to keep others safe.

  It made her wonder how the wives and husbands of the police, FBI and other first responders did this every day.

  Could I do this every day? she wondered, but then forced her thoughts away from that.

  Miguel and she had been thrown together by this investigation and it was unlikely that their relationship would become more after this terrorist had been caught.

  So she had to grab whatever joy she could with both hands.

  When Miguel walked in, limping slightly as he entered, she shot to her feet and hurried to his side. Seeing that his suit and shirt were smudged with dirt and grass stains, she ran her hands across his arms and chest, as if searching for any injuries.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He cupped her cheek and strummed his thumb there. “I am. The licensed blaster ran off when we tried to question him, and I fell going over a fence to chase him.”

  “Your leg,” she said, glancing down to see if he’d ripped his stitches again.

  He mimicked her action, peering down at his leg, but there was no sign of any damage.

  “It’s fine and you’re up late.” He slipped his hand into hers and with a playful tug, drew her toward the bed.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Had too much on my mind. I was worried,” she admitted and faced him as they stood by the edge of the bed.

  “I wasn’t in any danger, unlike you. It kills me that you were hurt today. That I failed you,” he said and tenderly ran his hand along the bandage on her arm.

  She smiled and cradled his jaw. “You didn’t fail me or anyone else. I see how hard you and your team are working to catch the Crusader.”

  “And yet they are still free, because with the blaster running away, I’m totally sure that it’s someone higher up directing Adams and the blaster.”

  “Rothwell?” she said.

  He nodded, but then shook his head. “It’s late. You should try and get some sleep.”

  “I don’t know if I could, but what about you? Aren’t you tired?” she said and urged him to sit on the edge of the bed with her.

  “A little,” he admitted, and she sensed his reluctance with the admission.

  “Why don’t you take a moment and rest?”

  * * *

  MIGUEL WAS BONE-TIRED and his leg was throbbing from the earlier pressure he had placed on it. But more than anything, he was tired in his soul at the prospect of coming home to an empty house. A house without Maisy.

  He’d never felt that way before. The thought of being alone like that had never bothered him. Until now.

  So even a few minutes of respite beside her would be an unexpected blessing before she was gone.

  “Just a short break,” he said, eased off his suit jacket and holster and laid them beside the bed. Then he removed his soiled shirt and toed off his shoes.

  Maisy was resting against some pillows in the center of the bed and he scooted over and joined her there. Tucking her against his side, he leaned back and closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

  She swept her hand across his T-shirt, her touch soothing, but he needed more than her comfort. He needed her in every way a man could need a woman.

  “Maisy,” he said and half turned toward her, meeting her gaze. Her blue eyes had darkened to almost violet and he had no doubt of her desire. It was there in her gaze and the trembling of her body beside him.

  But he wouldn’t push her if she wasn’t ready. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” she said, and as if to prove it, she pressed him down into the pillows and rose over him. Grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and drew it slowly up and over his head to bare him to her gaze.

  “You are so handsome,” she said and ran her hand across his chest again.

  “And you’re stunning.” He cradled her breast and beneath his palm and the thin fabric of her pajama top, her nipple beaded into an even tighter nub.

  He caressed her and she ran her hand across the length of him, yanking a needy moan from him. That sound shattered the last of their restraint.

  She jerked at his pants, wanting him free of them as much as he needed to see her bare and beneath him.

  He got his wish a second later as she lay back and took him with her, inviting him to join her. To be one with her.

  But he didn’t want to rush. Didn’t want to miss a second of being with her, this precious gift that he’d been given by fate.

  He took his time, showing her with his hands and lips how much he treasured her, kissing and caressing her body until she was quivering beneath him. Clutching at him as her body rose ever higher toward a release.

  When he eased his hand between her body to find her center, pleasure her, her climax ripped through her.

  She called out his name and gripped his shoulders. Shifted her hips along his erection and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He fumbled for only a moment to slip on a condom, and then he drove into her, pausing to savor the feel of her warmth and tightness. So tight.

  “Maisy, mi amor—” he began, but she covered his mouth with her hand and murmured, “Love me, Miguel. Love me.”

  He did, driving into her. Kissing her as he moved, drawing her higher and higher. Climbing with her until it was impossible to hold back and he fell over, losing himself in her. Accepting her loving cry of satisfaction as she joined him.

  Falling down onto her, he eased to her side slightly and at her protest, he said, “I’m too heavy.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and smiled. “You’re just right.”

  And for the first time since his mother’s murder, he felt right. Felt at peace with her beside him.

  But then the muffled sound of his phone came from his suit jacket and he knew.

  This moment of peace was over.

  * * *

  NICHOLAS AND DAVID kept their distance as they spotted someone who matched Chris Adams’s description slipping out of a tent and heading away from the highway.