Page 8 of Bad Situation

When she sees me, her eyes get big, silently communicating her freak out. It doesn’t take much to push Callie over the edge, so I can’t imagine how she’s feeling right now. “Don’t worry. It’s all stuff—nothing we can’t replicate. Patrick will get this all straightened out.”

She nods as she hugs her middle. When I walk into my office, there he is.

He’s sitting behind my desk digging through my drawers. As upsetting as it is having a warrant issued with my name on it, when I saw the man whom I only know as Eli—the man I danced with, the first man I’ve let touch me in well over a year since I’m too busy to socialize, and the man who did nothing but toy with my emotions during four long, sexy minutes—I swear my stomach dropped. Did he know who I was the other night?

And the last thing I want to do is explain my time with Eli to Patrick. If his name is even Eli.

Eli slams one of my drawers shut at the same time he looks up. There’s a trace of something in his expression right before he squares his shoulders and stands. If I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—I thought I saw a hint of regret in his mysterious, dark features.

But just like the other night before we hit the dance floor, he turns into an emotionless wax figure, just a shell of a hot guy, who today is donning fashion wear by none other than the damn FBI.

Not exactly couture. Here in my office, with perfect lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows, his facial features are on full display. He’s no less beautiful than he was in the shadowed lights of the club.

“I think we have everything.” My head jerks and I look to the female agent who introduced herself in the lobby conference room. “We’ll return whatever doesn’t become evidence.”

My stomach turns at the word evidence, but I don’t have a chance to say anything, not that I’d dare, because Patrick takes over. “Here is my card. If you’d like to speak with anyone connected with Montgomery Industries, you’ll do it through me. I look forward to learning what this is about.”

The female takes his card and the remaining army of agents load up a shit-ton of boxes I can only assume are filled with my files. My desk is bare, power cords lying everywhere, my laptop and iMac are gone. They took my iPad and my cell is nowhere to be seen.

Dammit, they might as well have cut off my right hand. I cannot function without my phone.

As they file out of my office, leaving a smug aura in their wake, Eli brings up the end of the line. The thought of looking at him hurts, but as he nears, like a shot to my own gut, I can’t help myself.

Catching his dark eyes, they lock with mine and hold tight. Not uttering a word, it’s like his gaze is trying to communicate with me. If I only spoke dark, sexy eye-language.

Damn the erotic, misleading FBI agent.

He skirts me, juggling two large boxes, but I get nothing but a small lift of his strong, stubbled jaw before he disappears from my office. Patrick moves behind him and slams my door, shutting us in the semi-ransacked space.

I move straight to my desk and sit, opening drawers to see what was taken, way more anxious about what they could be looking for.

“Let’s start with the last few weeks,” Patrick says. “I want to know everything. Every detail, every step, every person you’ve come into contact with.”

I nod, slamming my empty file drawer. “It would help if I had my schedule to look back on.”

Patrick picks up my office phone. “Callie, I need Jen’s schedule on something. Laptop, tablet, a fucking scroll. I don’t give a shit.” He pauses and rolls his eyes. “Then call IT and get it off the servers. I need it now.”

Feeling my adrenaline crash for the second time in the matter of forty-eight hours, I mutter, “Don’t cuss at Callie. It stresses her out.”

As I listen to Patrick bark orders at my assistant, knowing I won’t be able to stop him, I pull out the center pencil drawer. What I see makes my breath catch.

Next to my Mont Blanc mechanical pencil sits a lonesome business card. One that wasn’t there before, embossed with a gold emblem with a name scribed next to it.

Elijah Pettit, Special Agent, New York City Field Division.

In slow motion, I move my hand to touch it. Running my fingers over the gold, I wonder what his game is, what he’s trying to do. First his play at me Saturday night—and now this? I want to believe our time at the bar was a freak coincidental meeting but, by the way he acted before I drove off, I have my doubts. I think he knew exactly who I was. Maybe he even knew he’d be blazing into my life this morning.

Maybe that’s why he did what he did. The thought of that hurts and I’d love to shove it into the drawer with his damn business card.

Listening to Patrick ramble on, I pick up the card and flip it over so Patrick can’t see.

I freeze.

A phone number is scribbled in pencil—no doubt written with my favorite Mont Blanc.

“Jen. Are you listening to me?”

I look up at my angry lead counsel who normally specializes in acquisitions and mergers, and who, to my knowledge, has never dealt with the FBI. I push the business card farther into my drawer and slam it. “Sorry, yes. Let’s get started. I need to know what the hell’s going on.”

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