Unfortunately, that was the moment the entirety of the NYPD stormed the store.

I sighed. Better get some rash cream while I was here.

I was sitting at the back of an ambulance flipping through a pamphlet they’d slapped into my hand for a trauma support group, when the feds arrived. I didn’t look up from my brochure as one approached me. If I had to go through the whole question spiel again, I was quitting life.

“Ames Clinical Center,” a deep voice read from the leaflet. “Why do I feel like you’d be right at home there?”

My heart hitched, stopping my breath. The sun was heavy and hot, but it wasn’t why my skin suddenly ignited from the inside. He had my full attention, but I didn’t look at him yet. Simply because I didn’t think I could handle the shock of hearing him and seeing him at the same time.

I flipped a page. “I’m not sure, Officer. Have you been there before?” I drew my gaze up to him, my eyes light with the knowledge of his OCD, his blood-stained hands, and trigger-happy finger.

Broad shoulders.

Straight lines.

Blue.

“They haven’t tamed you yet, I see.” The drawl wrapped around my throat, making it pulse with a maddening tempo.

The sight of him was a punch of fire to the stomach. Some kind of visceral, animal reaction to the mere attractiveness of the man. The memory of the last night I’d seen him rushed back, of his hands on me, and warmth hummed between my legs. He’d been the last man to touch me, and my body hadn’t forgotten. In truth, I’d thought about him too much late at night—the rough glide of his palm against my cheek, the press of his lips against mine, the heat of his body. He was easily my favorite fantasy, while I was sure he’d been working his way through every blonde socialite wherever he’d been for the last three years.

Frustration ripped through me. And then an even worse feeling bloomed in my chest—a thorny stem minus the rose; a feeling I’d pushed down every time I thought of him: rejection.

“I’m untamable.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

I stared at him. He wanted to bring up that night . . . now? As far as I was concerned, it had never happened. The thought of it in daylight made me feel vulnerable and exposed.

Setting the pamphlet aside, I crossed my legs, leaned back on my hands. “Let me guess, you took a three-year stint from the Bureau to pursue your dream of modeling men’s underwear.”

He twisted the watch on his wrist, once, twice, three times. Slipping his hands in his pockets, his stare caressed my skin so heavily I could hardly breathe. He looked pensive, but there was something beneath it . . . like the budding spark of a fire.

I quelled a strange uprising of nerves.

“No?” I probed. “You blackmailed some unfortunate girl to marry you, bought a house in the suburbs, and had two kids.”

That was an obvious negative. The next guess escaped me before he could respond.

“You visited Antarctica and realized it was home.” I was so pleased with myself for that one, and it showed.

“You done?”

I pursed my lips. “Yes.”

“Good. Sheets over there will be heading this way to question you about your relationship with Ace any minute. You can come with me, or deal with him for the next few hours.”

I glanced at the special agent in question. He was an attractive man, but my attention couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than the fact he wore Asics with his navy suit.

“The lesser of two evils, is it?” I murmured, slipping to the ground and standing in front of him. “Lead the way, Officer.”

“Not a very good judge of character,” he said, a dark edge in his voice.

I shivered. “Yes, well, we all have our faults.”

“Some more than others.”

Annoyance flickered through me. I brought my gaze up to his, pity pulling on my lips. “You are so right. A lot of men struggle with impotence. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” I patted his chest and began to walk toward his car while ignoring the burning sensation in my hand.

“Still thinking about why I didn’t fuck you, huh?”

I paused, closed my eyes as anger tore through me. “The only thing I think about you is how refreshing New York is with you not in it.” I continued making my way to his car.

“How you’ve survived this long with such a terrible sense of direction, I’ll never understand.”

I stopped, sighed, and then spun around to follow him down the sidewalk. “Don’t you know? I have a man hold my hand wherever I go.”

“I know—Vincent Monroe. One could debate your use of man, however.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know nothing about him.”

“I know he’s only waiting for the day your husband dies to put a ring on your finger.”

“The only thing you know is whatever Ace or Luca have told you. That’s hearsay in my book, and frankly, none of your business.”

Allister had been back for five minutes and already believed he had my story all figured out. I hated how he made my life seem so transparent . . . so trivial.

I struggled to keep up with his long strides while simultaneously dodging every New York City pothole in my thigh-high boots. I ended up walking a step behind him, fully immersed in his shadow. How apt it seemed regarding our relationship.

“You changed your hair,” he said softly.

I absently touched the dark locks that were my natural color. He always noticed when I did something with my hair. I hated that it made me feel special.

“Yes. I tried to get over you with a makeover. Three years is just too long to wait for a phone call.”

“Ah, I wondered how you were faring.”

“I won’t dye it back for you either. Being blonde is exhausting. I had way too much fun.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I tensed. I had a feeling he was talking about the last time I’d been arrested shortly after he’d disappeared three years ago. There was nothing I could say to explain myself, and then I remembered I didn’t have to care about what he thought of me.

“You seem to have heard a lot about me,” I mused.

“I’m informed about all the disasters in the New York City area.”

“Good to know I’m up there with hurricanes and terrorist attacks.” I stepped over a banana peel. “So, what unfortunate circumstance brought you back from . . .?”

“Seattle.”

“Seattle, then?”

“Business.”

“A man of few answers,” I murmured.

“Few words,” he corrected.

His eyes found mine as we reached his car, and just the look sent my heart flipping in my chest. It had been a long time since I’d seen him. But a prickling feeling on the back of my neck made me believe this wasn’t the first time he’d seen me in three years. Though, if he’d been in New York—anywhere in my vicinity—I couldn’t have missed him. Not with this web of electricity between us that always strummed when he was near. What concerned me was, on the other end of a web often lay a spider in wait to devour its prey.

I swallowed and slid into my seat.

A tense air filled the space, shortening my breath. A feeling that he was going to touch me . . . or hurt me. I trusted the man about as far as I could throw him—a negative number of inches—and a nervous energy coursed through my veins.