He made quite an impression on her the first time he and his partner walked into her office. Cameron suspected nearly everyone who met Jack Pallas had the same reaction: with predatory brown eyes, nearly black hair, and dark facial scruff, he looked like the kind of guy that women—and men—should avoid in dark alleys. He had a cast on his right forearm, presumably an injury inflicted by Martino’s men, and he wore a navy T-shirt and jeans instead of the standard-issue suit and tie most agents were expected to wear. From the look of him, she was not at all surprised the FBI had chosen him for undercover work.

And three years later—as he stood across from her in that hotel room that suddenly seemed far too small, with his eyes glittering with a low-simmering anger, and, yes, even despite the standard-issue suit and tie he wore this time—he looked not one bit less dangerous.

“I want to talk to a lawyer,” Cameron said.

“You are a lawyer,” he said. “And you’re not considered a suspect, so you’re not entitled to one, anyway.”

“What am I considered, then?”

“A person of interest.”

This was bullshit. “Here’s the deal: I’m tired and not in the mood to play games. So if you don’t start telling me what’s going on, I’m walking,” Cameron said.

Jack eyed her yoga sweats and Michigan T-shirt, looking unconcerned with her threats. Thank God she wasn’t still hanging out in her underpants.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He pulled the chair out and gestured. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll just stick with the plan where I walk out.” Before he could call her bluff, Cameron grabbed her purse and headed for the door. The hell with her stuff, she’d get it later. “It was nice catching up with you, Agent Pallas. I’m glad to see those three years in Nebraska didn’t make you any less of an asshole.”

She threw open the door and nearly ran into a man standing in the doorway. He wore a well-cut gray suit and tie, appeared younger than Jack, and was African American.

He flashed Cameron a knock-out smile while precariously balancing three Starbucks cups in his hands. “Thanks for getting the door. What’d I miss?”

“I’m storming out. And I just called Agent Pallas an asshole.”

“Sounds like good times. Coffee?” He held the Starbucks out to her. “I’m Agent Wilkins.”

Cameron threw a knowing glance over her shoulder. “Good cop, bad cop? Is that the best you’re capable of, Jack?”

He stalked across the room and stopped in the doorway, towering over her. “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he said darkly.

As he reached over and took one of the coffee cups from Wilkins, Cameron made a mental note to be careful when taunting a man who carried a gun, blamed her for nearly wrecking his career, and who was over a head taller than she was. She internally said a few profanities for her earlier decision to put on gym shoes; she needed at least three-inch heels to face off against Jack Pallas. Although that still would have only put her at his chin level. Not to mention that she would’ve looked like a major jackass wearing Manolos and yoga pants.

Wilkins gestured with the coffee cups. “Do you two know each other?”

“Ms. Lynde and I almost had the pleasure of working on a case together,” Jack said.

“Almost? What does that mean?” Wilkins turned to Cameron with a look of realization. “Wait a second—Cameron Lynde? I knew that name sounded familiar. Of course, from the U.S. attorney’s office.” His light brown eyes lit up as he laughed. “You’re the one that Jack said had—”

“I think we all recall just fine what Agent Pallas said,” Cameron interrupted. Three years ago, his words infamously had been broadcast all over the national news for nearly a week. She didn’t need to hear them again, particularly not with him standing right beside her. The experience had been embarrassing enough the first time around.

Wilkins nodded. “Sure, no problem.” He looked between her and Jack. “So . . . this is awkward.”

Changing the subject, Cameron pointed to the coffee. “Is that regular or decaf?”

“Regular. I heard you had a long night.”

She took one of the cups from him. She’d been up for twenty-three hours and adrenaline wasn’t cutting it anymore. She took a sip, sighing gratefully. “Thank you.”

Wilkins took a sip of his coffee. “See, that’s all we are, just three people having coffee and talking. So what do you say—think you might want to stay and chat with us about what happened last night?”

That almost got a smile out of Cameron. Wilkins, at least, appeared to be a pleasant, reasonable man. Too bad he’d drawn the short stick in his partner assignment.

“That’s not half-bad,” she told him.

Wilkins grinned. “The coffee or the good-cop routine?”

“Both. If you would like to ask me some questions, Agent Wilkins, I’d be happy to cooperate.” Cameron brushed past Jack as she turned and headed back into the room. He and Wilkins followed her as she took a seat in front of the desk. She crossed her legs and faced the two FBI agents head-on.

“All right. Let’s talk.”

IF IT HAD been anyone other than Cameron Lynde, Jack probably would’ve found her attitude amusing.

But since it was Cameron Lynde, he wasn’t laughing. In fact, there wasn’t anything about the situation that he found even remotely funny.

He decided to let Wilkins take the lead in questioning her about the events of the night before. Not because she very clearly wanted nothing to do with him—he could care less about Cameron Lynde’s wishes—but rather because, not surprising given their history, she responded better to his partner than to him. The investigation was his focus, and he was not about to let personal issues get in the way.

When he and Wilkins had first arrived at the Peninsula and Detective Slonsky told them the name of the witness in room 1307, for a split second Jack had thought the whole thing was a setup, some sort of welcome-back prank for his return to Chicago. And he still had considered this a possibility when they entered the crime scene. There was no body, after all—Slonsky said the paramedics had taken the victim to Northwestern Memorial in an attempt to revive her.

Then he saw the videotape.

After that, it was pretty clear to Jack that the call he had received at 5:00 A.M. from his boss, asking him to check out CPD’s claims of what they thought they might have stumbled into, was indeed not part of some elaborate joke. And his first priority at this point was to determine whether the FBI had jurisdiction over the matter.

Cameron Lynde was the key to answering that question. If Jack believed her story, the FBI would have no choice but to conduct its own investigation. For that reason, as much as he might’ve wanted nothing more than to pawn her off onto Wilkins, as the senior agent on the scene he knew that wasn’t an option.

From his post in the corner of the room, Jack studied her. Not surprisingly, she looked exhausted. And for some reason, she seemed shorter than he remembered. Probably because all the times he’d seen her three years ago had been during work hours and she’d been wearing heels.

Yes, he remembered Cameron Lynde and her high heels . . . In fact, despite the fact that it had been three years since he’d last seen her, Jack was surprised at how accurate—and detailed—his memory of her had been: the long chestnut hair, the crystalline blue-green eyes, the attitude that he’d once—very briefly—found admirable.

Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised he’d remembered those things. After all, he was an FBI agent and it was his job to remember details.

And, he supposed, it didn’t hurt that Cameron Lynde was—some men other than him might say—fucking gorgeous.

Which, to Jack, only made it that much more annoying that she also happened to be a total bitch.