Nick she didn’t even look at.

“Thank you for telling me, Harry. I’m going to go get ready for my next number.” Without another word to either of them, Izzie walked out and went back to work.

And Nick didn’t come anywhere near her for the rest of the night.

WHEN BRIDGET WENT back to the dealership on Monday morning, she looked for Ted, wondering if he’d have the nerve to show up.

He didn’t. That was good.

Neither did Dean. That wasn’t good.

Hopefully Ted had been scared off, either by Dean, or by the ramifications of his own stupid actions.

Hopefully Dean had not been scared off and was just stuck in traffic.

Bridget had spent all Sunday night wondering what on earth she was going to say to him-how she was going to climb that wall he’d erected between them after he’d kissed her so passionately in the office. But for nothing. He wasn’t there.

She trudged through her day, going through the same song and dance with Marty about the books. She found problems. He waved them off as unimportant. A typical day in the life.

“I am so gonna quit this job,” she muttered that afternoon.

Soon. Maybe she’d even give her notice today. After all, she’d only stayed to see if something was going to happen between her and Dean Willis. Judging by yesterday, it seemed pretty clear nothing was.

She went so far as to open up a document on her computer to type her resignation letter. She’d give two weeks notice, even though she had no other job lined up. She had enough of a cushion to be unemployed for a while. And if she didn’t come up with another bookkeeping job quickly, she’d lay money that Izzie would hire her on at the bakery, just to pay the rent.

But before she’d typed so much as the date, Bridget heard a commotion-shouts, coming from the sales floor. Her first thought was that Ted had come back and was making a scene. But there were several voices, all yelling at once.

She grabbed her purse and threw it under her desk, then wondered if she should crawl under after it…this could be a robbery. But when the door to the office flew open and she saw a uniformed police officer, she didn’t.

“Is anyone in here with you?” the officer barked.

“N-no. Just me.”

“You need to come with me, ma’am.”

Dazed, Bridget followed the officer, seeing all the other employees being herded together by other policemen. All of them were gathered just inside the front door, and Marty was shouting loud enough to break the glass in the windows.

Everyone was talking-demanding answers. Everyone but Bridget. She didn’t have to. Because the second she saw Dean Willis-dressed in a perfectly fitted dark blue suit-talking to other dark-suited men right outside the front door, she knew what was going on.

He was no car salesman.

“Sir, you’ll have an opportunity to call your attorney soon,” one of the officers said, trying to calm Marty down.

It worked for a brief second, until Dean walked through the door. When Marty saw him with the rest of the investigators, he started ranting and struggling against the officer trying to handcuff him. Another one jumped in to help and between them they got the livid man into custody.

Dean looked her way once. His nice blue eyes were frigid. His smile absent. His tousled blond hair was slicked down and parted on the side-conservative, professional. And his clothes were immaculate, right down to his shiny black wing-tip shoes.

He could have been a picture from an FBI agent’s handbook come to life.

The rest of the day went by in a whirl. She was questioned endlessly-never by Dean, who stayed away from her-but by his fellow agents. Apparently there had been a reason Marty hadn’t wanted Bridget to do a good job with the books. They were never supposed to balance out. Because, if the agents were to be believed, Honest Marty’s Used Cars had been bringing in and cleaning up a whole lot of dirty money for some pretty bad guys.

And she’d fallen right in the middle of it.

By the end of the day, Bridget was utterly exhausted. Ready to collapse, her throat sore from answering so many questions. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer-had cooperated fully, believing that’s what an innocent person should do. And she’d spent the last four hours in the conference room, going over months’ worth of seized bank statements and ledgers with some FBI accountant, watching step by step as they built a case against her boss.

At first, she felt a little sorry for Marty. But not too sorry. Especially when she caught snips of conversation about where the dirty money had come from. In her opinion, anybody who cleaned cash that had been earned off the sale of filthy drugs to kids deserved what he got. She was just sorry the creep had dragged her into the sordidness.

She’d seen Dean only briefly, when she’d been brought to tears by the relentless questions of the accountant. Dean had appeared out of nowhere, appearing behind the other officer’s back, barking, “She’s not a suspect, she’s a witness. Treat her like one.” Then, with one long, even look at Bridget, he’d left again to go back to work with the other investigators.

Finally, when it was nearly dark out, Bridget was told she could go home. She’d be called in to help again-and, likely, to testify-but for now, she was free.

Free. Great. She was free to go home, look back on this horrible day-on these past few horrible weeks-and think about what a damned fool she’d been.

Dean had used her. He’d feigned an interest in her so he could build his money laundering case against Marty. He’d played her like an instrument, obviously seeing the quiet, sweet-faced bookkeeper as an easy mark.

She hated the son of a bitch with a passion she’d never had toward anyone in her life.

That rage carried her down the block as she strode away from the dealership, heading toward her nearby apartment. Usually when she made the walk home, she kept her purse clutched tightly to her side, and constantly scanned for any possible danger. This wasn’t a bad part of town-but as a young woman walking alone, she didn’t take chances. Tonight, however, she practically dared anyone to mess with her. She felt capable of doing real violence.

“Bridget, wait, please!” a voice called.

Though she kept walking, she peered over her shoulder to see who’d called her. She almost tripped over her own feet when she realized it was Dean. “Stay away from me,” she snapped, picking up her pace.

He picked up his, too, chasing her down until he reached her. “Would you stop? I’ve been calling you for two blocks.”

“Not real quick on the uptake, are you?” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You have to let me explain.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she said, though she did finally stop and face him. “And you don’t have to explain, I got it, okay? You were working undercover. I was the easy mark. Of course you’d come after me by any means at your disposal.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Like hell.”

“Just…calm down and let me explain. I did not mean to hurt you, and I definitely never meant to get personally involved with you.”

“You mean that wasn’t in the manual?”

“No, it wasn’t. But I was worried, I felt sure early on that you were caught in something you didn’t know about.” He put a hand on her arm. “I was worried about you.”

She shrugged his hand of. “Sure you were. I’m sure your concern was the reason you asked me out. And your fears that I was being used by my boss to help hide money was the only reason you kissed the lips off my face yesterday.”

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply-as if for control-and tried again. “I lost my detachment where you were concerned.”

Those were the first words he’d said that actually made her pause. Because he’d whispered them hoarsely, as if against his will. Like he didn’t want to admit to the weakness.