Page 6 of Bad Situation

“He’s not used to this shit,” Dean drawls before throwing me a glance. “This is what happens after being made on a huge case—you get sent to white-collar crime. Not that you should be surprised. I’ve heard about you—you were hired for it in the beginning before you went under.”

He’s not wrong. The Bureau hired me right out of Harvard Business School. I went straight to the Academy after graduating with a major in accounting and a minor in criminal justice. After two years of working every type of case from fraud to embezzlement to money laundering, I went under to investigate the money trail in an organized crime case. That one went well and I went under again on a much bigger case—the MacLachlan family. And Dean’s right—the way that ended up, I was made. My name and face were plastered all over the national news for helping dismantle one of the largest organized crime syndicates in more than a decade.

I gave the color gray a new definition while I was in deep with the MacLachlans. Walking the line of right and wrong became my way of life. Hell, it was my way of surviving.

The FBI shipped my ass halfway across the country and put me back on white-collar crimes because of the publicity. At the age of thirty-four, I’m pretty sure I won’t see any action for the rest of my career, which sucks.

I’ve only been in Texas for a few days and am just getting up to speed on the Montgomery case.

But Bree is wrong. After working undercover, I might’ve perfected the look of boredom but right now my blood is pumping faster than a Lone Star State oil rig as I stand here and wait for the subject of our current investigation. The same subject I lost control with two nights ago while on surveillance at a club.

I’m fucking furious with myself.

I’m Elijah Pettit. I don’t lose control.

Jensen Omera Montgomery has been the main subject of this investigation for months and under constant surveillance for nearly four weeks. I read up on her when I joined the case late last week but Saturday night she did something no other target has ever done—she fucking drew me into a conversation.

Jensen, aka Jen to those close to her, is the middle child of Kippling “Kipp” and Harriet “Hattie” Montgomery. Kipp Montgomery is a third-generation rancher and, after reading his background, it’s not the kind of ranching anyone gets into because they like to kick shit around in dirty boots. The Montgomerys aren’t only rich in land, but cattle, horse racing, and even breeding. At a young age, Kipp struck oil on his land and has turned that into one of the most productive and fastest-growing private refining corporations in North America.

If the Montgomerys thought they were wealthy as ranchers, it’s nothing compared to their few decades in the oil business.

I spent my Sunday researching Jensen and the company further after what I did Saturday night. I couldn’t help it. I had to know everything about her. It looks like Kipp’s oldest son, Campbell, was a college football great back in his day, but has settled for the quiet life in Nebraska as a teacher and coach, and is soon to be married for the second time. The youngest Montgomery, Ellie—whose given name is Twichell—studied at Julliard and is now a stay-at-home mom.

It doesn’t take a trained investigator to see that Jensen Montgomery was molded to follow in her father’s footsteps. She worked for her dad all through high school, starting in the mailroom. She stayed close to home for college and went on to Southern Methodist, so she could work and intern. Kipp Montgomery has made it clear who’ll take over someday and he’s keeping it all in the family. His middle child just turned thirty and she’s currently the Chief Financial Officer. There’s not much room to move up until her father steps aside completely.

From looking over the surveillance records, she puts in her time. She doesn’t do much besides work. Saturday night was the first time in the last month she’s done something besides attend a business dinner or make trips to the family ranch outside of town where her parents live.

All the woman does is work.

By hitting Deep Ellum with her friends, the agents got into a frenzy thinking this was the time they’d see her doing something of interest. Oh, she was interesting all right. So much so, I think I lost my fucking mind.

I haven’t investigated many women, so it’s not a stretch to say she’s by far the most beautiful of my targets, but seeing her in person was another thing altogether. After watching her for hours and learning nothing, I gave into my instincts and allowed myself to get close even though this isn’t an undercover assignment.

The problem is that the instincts I let take over had nothing to do with being a special agent for the FBI and everything to do with my cock. All it took was one guy touching her and the next thing I knew, we were on the dance floor and she was moving under my touch in all the right ways. It took everything I had to not touch her more than I did.

And I touched a lot of her that night.

I fucked up.

Since then, I haven’t gotten her out of my damned head. I’ve jacked off like a middle schooler in heat to memories of her moving against me more times than I care to admit in the last thirty-six hours. I thought that would help, but I’m pretty sure it just made things worse. The last time I felt like this was when Weston MacLachlan almost blew my head off right after I watched him murder his own man in cold blood, though that was a different kind of high that didn’t give me a raging hard-on.

So, yeah, I’m a little on edge.

I lost control and now I’ve got to see how Jensen Montgomery reacts when she finds out the man she met at the bar—who fucking enjoyed his hands on her—is also the new assistant investigator in a federal case being made against her. In my ten years and all the situations I’ve been in at the Bureau, I’ve never put myself in this position. Bree and Dean know I spoke to her that night—we were taking turns getting close to her. But they didn’t mention the dance floor. As far as I know, that’s a secret I share only with our target.

For now, anyway.

Until she sees me.

If she outs me—and why the hell wouldn’t she—it’s grounds for disciplinary action. Because, unlike me, the FBI doesn’t see gray. I’ll have some talking to do.

“I’m not bored.” I shrug and put them off. “Just wondering what we’ll get on her today. She doesn’t come across stupid or careless. Hard to believe she’d keep anything incriminating here.”

They don’t have a chance to answer because the door to the conference room off the lobby where we were told to wait opens.

A man, probably in his fifties wearing an expensive suit, enters first. Then, she appears.

She looks different.

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