“Where are you?” Kyle asked. Her voice sounded a little breathless.

“Outside the courthouse, trying to catch a cab. I’ve got a meeting at the FBI building in twenty minutes.”

He could picture her in her trench coat and heels, trusty briefcase at her side, all fired up and ready to throw around a few subpoena threats.

The image was strangely hot.

“Thursday, two o’clock,” he confirmed. “Where do I go?”

“Room 511. For confidentiality purposes, there’s nothing but a room number outside the door. You should wait in the witness room closest to the door until I come get you,” she said. “Although you’ve refrained from retaining counsel on this matter, I’m obligated to say that you can still choose to bring a lawyer, but he or she would have to wait out in the hall. No one is allowed inside except for the witnesses, the jurors, the court reporter, and me. Think of it like Vegas—what happens in the grand jury room stays in the grand jury room.”

Unable to resist, Kyle lowered his voice, teasing her. “I didn’t think good-girl prosecutors knew about the types of things that happen in Vegas.”

“There are probably a lot of things bad-boy ex-cons don’t know about good-girl prosecutors.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. That actually sounded flirtatious.

But then her tone changed, back to all business. “I’ll see you Thursday, then. Two o’clock.”

“It’s a date.”

“No, it’s a grand jury proceeding,” she said firmly.

“You say tomato, I say—”

“Good-bye, Kyle.” She hung up on him before he could finish.

Chuckling, Kyle tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans and walked back into the VIP room.

Dex looked him over. “Whoever that was, she sure put a smile on your face.”

Kyle waved this off. “Just this project I’m working on.”

“Does this ‘project’ have a name?”

Sure. Rylann Pierce, aka Burr Up My Ass. “It’s not what you think. That was someone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m sort of…helping them in an investigation.”

Understandably, that took Dex by surprise. “Wow. She must be smoking hot to have talked you into that.” Then he cocked his head. “Hold on…is it that assistant U.S. attorney you were in court with the other day? The dark-haired one whose rack you’re checking out in that photograph?”

Kyle stood against the onyx bar, waving this off. “We were in the middle of a courtroom—I wasn’t checking out her rack. My eyes were on hers the entire time.”

“Must be some eyes.”

Kyle opened his mouth to protest, then stopped.

Well, actually, yes.

“I HAVE NO further questions, Agent Wilkins.”

Rylann looked over her shoulder at the twenty-one people sitting behind her in three-tiered rows. Everyone was still awake, which was always a good sign. “Does the grand jury have any questions for this witness?”

There was a pause. Up front, next to the witness stand, sat the jury foreman and the recording secretary. The foreman shook his head no.

Rylann nodded at Sam. “You may step down, Agent Wilkins. Thank you.” She turned and watched him leave the room, stealing another peek at the jurors. She could tell from their expressions that they’d liked him, and they had every reason to. He’d been engaging, professional, and prepared, not once needing to look at his investigative reports while testifying. If the case against Quinn went to trial—which, in reality, was unlikely—she had no doubt that Sam would make an excellent witness.

Her job today, simply, was to tell a story. Granted, because this was a grand jury proceeding and not a trial, she could eliminate many of the details of that story, but through her witnesses she needed to convey the who, what, where, when, why, and how of the crime. This particular story had three acts: Agent Wilkins, Kyle Rhodes, and Manuel Gutierrez. At the conclusion of the witnesses’ testimony, she would hand the jury a proposed indictment that laid out the charges against Quinn. Then the rest was in their hands.

Today she would be asking them to indict Quinn on two counts: second-degree murder and conspiracy to violate the civil rights of a federal prisoner. Since she had no direct proof that Quinn had instigated Watts’s attack on Brown, she was asking the grand jury to infer that connection based on circumstantial evidence. It was not a perfect case, but it was one she believed in regardless. And all she needed was sixteen of the twenty-three men and women sitting in that room to believe in it, too.

When the door shut behind Agent Wilkins, Rylann looked over at the jury members. Since there was no judge in the room, the assistant U.S. attorney ran the show. “Why don’t we take a ten-minute break before our next witness?”

She waited until the jurors and court reporter left, then she made her way to the witness room across the hall. She paused momentarily at the door, then pushed it open and found Kyle looking out the window at the view of the building most Chicagoans still refused to call anything but the Sears Tower.

“It’s showtime,” she said.

He turned around, looking strikingly handsome—and conservative—in his dark gray pin-striped suit, blue banker shirt, and gray and blue striped tie. He wore his hair neatly brushed back, the first time she’d ever seen it styled like that, and the color of his shirt brought out the blue of his eyes from across the room.

Rylann felt a little fluttering in her stomach, then quickly brushed it aside. Just a few butterflies of anticipation.

Kyle tucked his hands into his pockets, looking ready and raring to go. “Let’s do this.”

KYLE FOLLOWED RYLANN through the doorway, his curiosity piqued. He knew virtually nothing about grand jury proceedings, but the confidential nature of the process shrouded it in an aura of mystery. He walked into the room and saw that it was smaller than he’d expected, probably only half the size of a regular courtroom. To his right was a witness stand and a bench, the same kind a judge would normally sit behind. On the opposite side of the room was the table from which, presumably, Rylann would question him, and behind that, three rows of chairs for the jurors, stacked like a movie theater.

Chairs that were noticeably empty.

“Counselor, at some point do you plan to have any actual jurors at this grand jury proceeding?” he drawled.

“Ha, ha. I sent them out for a break. I want the jurors’ first image of the infamous Kyle Rhodes to be of you sitting in that stand. I don’t care what they’ve previously heard or read about you—today, you’re simply a witness.” She gestured to the stand. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Kyle stepped up and took a seat in a well-used swivel chair, banging his knees against a sturdy metal bar bolted to the underside of the podium. “Whoever designed these clearly didn’t have tall men in mind,” he grumbled.

“Sorry. It’s for handcuffs,” she said, referring to the bar.

Of course it was. Kyle looked out at the small courtroom. “So this is what I missed out on by pleading guilty.”

Rylann approached the witness stand with a reassuring smile. “This is nothing. No cross-examination, no objections—just think of it as you and me having a conversation. The jurors can ask you questions when I’m done, although it’s unlikely they’ll do so. Assuming I’ve done my job right, they shouldn’t have any questions.”

She was awfully cute when she did her lawyer thing. “I like the pep talk, counselor,” Kyle said, appreciating the fact that she was trying to make him feel comfortable.

“Thanks. Do you have any questions before we get started?” she asked.

“Just one.” His eyes coyly skimmed over today’s skirt suit varietal, which was beige. “Do you actually own any pants?”

“Any other questions?” she asked without batting an eye.

They were interrupted when the court reporter walked in, followed by two jurors. Immediately, things got serious again. The trio spotted him in the witness stand, and two of them, including the court reporter, did a double take. Ignoring their looks, Rylann returned to her table and nonchalantly studied her notepad, as if she put notorious billionaire heir ex-con hackers on the stand every day.