The smell of something delicious finally pulled Savannah from Ian’s bed.

They’d made love twice more before their growling stomachs sent Ian over to Savannah’s side of the duplex to raid her fridge. Now, at midnight, he was in the kitchen cooking something to eat.

Savannah stood, picked up one of Ian’s T-shirts from a folded pile of laundry and slipped it over her head. She wandered through the living room, noting the blankets and pillows on his couch, and smiled. Neither one of them would be using those tonight, but she appreciated his offer to sleep on the couch early on.

Now, he stood at the stove in his thermal shirt and jeans. His shoulders were wide, their corded muscle stretching the fabric. A sigh slipped out of her as she thought back over the last few hours, a wild whirlwind of lust, sweetness, passion, intensity, and release. More than she’d ever imagined and something she was fully aware might never happen again. Even if she hated the thought of this being a one-time event, she had to admit it made a lot of sense in her situation.

She might as well get as much of him as he’d give while she was here.

Savannah came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist, flattening her hands on his taut abs.

“Hey there.” He slid a hand over her forearm and smiled over his shoulder. “I thought I was going to have to wake you up to eat.”

“It smells heavenly. What are you making?”

“French toast.”

“Mmmm, one of Jamison’s favorites.”

“I hope it’s one of yours too.”

She released his waist and stepped up beside him at the stove. “It is.”

He set down the spatula and turned, pulling her toward him by the waist. His smile still made tingles of excitement skitter over her skin. “With butter and syrup, I hope. I stole those too.”

She laughed. “Did you leave me anything?”

He lowered his head and skimmed the tip of his nose down the length of hers, murmuring, “Maybe,” before he kissed her. A slow, sweet press of his lips that lingered until Savannah thought they might be putting food on hold again.

But the sizzle of the pan broke the trance, and Ian quickly saved the French toast. “Whoa, that was close.”

He pulled a plate warming in the oven and added the toast to a ridiculous pile of eight slices.

“Who in the heck are you cooking for?”

“Me, mostly,” he admitted with a grin. “I figured you for about two pieces.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “You helped me work up an appetite.”

When he said things like that, she got all giddy inside. Being with him created a constant inner battle between hope and reality.

After buttering the toast, he picked up the plate and the syrup and set them on the table in the kitchen. He’d already moved the file folder to the windowsill and put out forks, knives, and—

“Is that my orange juice?” she asked.

He gave her an um-yeah look. “I promise to make a store run tomorrow and replace everything.”

She laughed and waved his offer away. “Don’t worry about it.” She moved toward a chair with “It’s the least I could contribute to the best night of my life.”

She’d meant the comment to come out flippant and sarcastic, but as she approached the table, Ian grabbed her arm and yanked. Savannah fell off-balance with a squeak and dropped into his lap sideways.

“Really?” he murmured. Something soft flashed in his eyes. “I keep wondering if my head’s in the clouds, thinking it’s been a-freaking-mazing.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Yes. Really. Hands-down best ever.”

He lowered his head and kissed her. Then kissed her again. He pulled back and tilted his head to kiss her deeper…and his stomach rolled with a thundering growl, stopping him cold.

“First things first,” she said with a laugh.

When she patted his chest and leaned forward to stand, Ian held her back. “Where do you think you’re going?” He picked up a fork with his free hand. “This is a full-service joint.” He drizzled syrup over the French toast, cut a piece of the bread with the side of the fork, and held it dripping over the plate. “Open up.”

“Ian—”

The toast was in her mouth, syrup dripping down her chin before she could say any more. She was laughing when he licked the syrup off her chin, then kissed her.

Savannah chewed and was surprised by a burst of flavor. The exterior of the bread was crisp, the inside warm and soft, and a mixture of sweet syrup, rich vanilla, and spicy cinnamon coated her mouth.

She made a sound of surprise, then relished the bite by chewing slowly. While she took her time, Ian dug in, eating an entire piece in the time it took Savannah to finish one bite.

“That,” she said, eyes wide, “is amazing.” She licked her lips. “I thought the café had the best French toast, but Karen’s obviously got some competition. What did you do?”

He gave her a comically stern look and pointed at her with the fork. “Never leaves this kitchen?”

“Deal.”

“Pinky swear?”

She laughed. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Jamison.”

The walls around her heart were taking a serious beating right now. “Pinky swear.”

“Vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, and cream in with the eggs.”

“Decadent,” she said. “Sugar, huh? Never would have thought of that.”

“It caramelizes and creates the crunchy coating,” he said, feeding her another bite.

“Mmm. So good.”

They continued to eat in comfortable silence, Ian feeding her another bite as soon as she’d finished the one before, until she held up a hand. “I can’t eat any more.”

“Good,” he teased with a sparkle in his eye. “More for me.”

She let him finish off the toast in peace while she ran her fingers through his hair and caressed the planes of his forehead, nose, jaw.

With one piece of toast left on the plate, he put his fork down and looked at her with a furrow between his brows. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her stomach fluttered. “I don’t know if I should be excited or terrified.”

He laughed, his grin primed to superstun. He squeezed her waist. “Funny.” He took a sip of juice, and when he looked at her again, he’d grown serious. “This thing with your ex.”

“No, no, no,” she whined, closing her eyes to shut out reality. “I don’t want him anywhere near this night.”

“That idea went down the drain when he pointed his service weapon at me.”

A chill vibrated down Savannah’s spine. That very image played against her closed eyelids. She forced them open and exhaled heavily. “Okay, what were you thinking?”

“He’s into some bad stuff.” His voice was light, as if this bad stuff wasn’t all that big a deal. He stabbed another bite of French toast and said, “Counterfeiting passports, selling or distributing counterfeit passports, that’s serious stuff. With evidence, he’ll go away until Jamison is well into adulthood.”

Savannah’s stomach jumped again. And again, she wasn’t sure what emotion lay behind the buzz. “Evidence is the key word there. I don’t see how I could get any.”

“You already did.”

“Those pictures don’t prove anything.”

“They prove those three men were given fake passports.”

“But it doesn’t prove where they came from,” she argued. “And nobody would believe where I found them either. Around here, nothing I say is valid.”

“I’d back you up.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

He went quiet, twirling a square of French toast in the syrup. “You’re a savvy woman,” he said, looking up at her again. “You consistently document your conversations with him, knowing his ego will get the best of him and he’ll spill damning stuff.”

She shrugged, unsure where he was going with this. “Live and learn.”

He nodded, then angled the empty fork toward her. “What if you already had incriminating evidence against him and didn’t even know it?” He lifted his brows. “Hell, you might be able to send him to jail tomorrow. What would it feel like to have the weight of him off your back?”

Her eyes slid closed. “Heaven.” She looked at Ian again. “Unfortunately, I don’t have enough. If I did, he’d already be gone.”

“How do you know? You didn’t think you had anything with the photos of the passports either, but they could turn out to be very powerful. Just because you don’t know how one thing connects to another doesn’t mean you don’t have enough evidence to nail him.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

He put the fork down and lifted a strand of hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “Why don’t you let me take a look at everything you’ve got—pictures, audio, video, personal notes?” He slid the tip of his index finger along her jawline. “I bet you’ve got way more than you think you have.”

A persistent sparkle of hope gleamed somewhere deep inside. She’d been collecting every little detail for this very reason—to get enough to amount to something. But she’d learned over and over again that hope was a fickle bitch.

“I’ve given everything I have to Audrey. She doesn’t seem to think any of it is enough to sway a judge in a criminal court. She also said a lot of it wouldn’t be allowed as evidence.”

“Audrey is focused on making sure Jamison stays with you. I’m focused on putting your ex away and giving you total freedom. Audrey is looking for evidence that would stand up in court. I’m looking for evidence that could be used as leverage to make him surrender. Audrey is a small fish in a big pond—the same pond where Hank swims. My contacts are the sharks that swim anywhere they smell blood.”

“Who are these contacts?”

“Buddies from the military who have retired and moved on to bigger and better things—FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Secret Service.”

“What kind of work did you do to have such high-caliber buddies?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought only special forces, like Navy SEALs, became Secret Service.”

He grinned. “You’ve been watching too much television. The SEALs may get the glory, but we all do our part.”

She shook her head. “If Hank finds out I’ve been collecting dirt…”

“That won’t happen.” He cupped her face and lifted her eyes to his. “He won’t lay a finger on you or Jamison as long as I’m around.”

She waffled another few seconds, then forced herself to jump. “Okay. If you want to rummage in the junk pile I’ve collected on Hank, be my guest.”

His smile was confident and pleased. “That a girl.” He kissed her, set her on her feet, and took her hand on the way to the bedroom. “Let’s go burn off that midnight snack.”

She couldn’t think of a better way to keep reality at bay for at least a few more hours.

* * *

Roman sat in his rental with the engine running, the heat on high, his cell pressed to his ear.

“We’re making solid progress,” he told Gianna, summing up the brief he’d just given her in detail while he’d been watching Lyle Bishop’s SUV outside Sugar Daddy’s, waiting for the man to finish up with his favorite prostitute, Brandy. “Ian’s a great addition to the team.”

“Well, he’s got a great team leader to emulate.”

A smile teased his lips. “Thanks.”

If Roman hadn’t been sure Lyle would exit the brothel any moment, he would have closed his eyes and soaked in the sound of her voice in his ear. Somehow, the intimacy of speaking to her privately, sitting in the dark, felt wildly intimate. “You sound tired.”

She sighed, and the sound shot tingles down his neck.

“Long days,” she murmured. “Stress.”

He hummed in understanding and fought to clear his mind of the intense desire he shouldn’t be harboring for her. Yet kept searching for something else to talk about just to keep her on the phone. “You should have seen that basement, G.”

“I wish I’d been there when you found it,” she said, her voice a little dreamy. “God, your face. Your expression would have been priceless.”

He smiled, enjoying connecting with her like this. They were both intensely dedicated to their jobs. Lived for the successes; suffered through failures. She got him—really got him—like no one else. “It was the coolest setup I’ve ever seen.”

“I hope to be there when you seize it.”

He liked that idea way too much. “It would be worth the trip to see it in person.”

“All my trips to see you are worth it.”

Her voice was soft, and the response surprised him. He was puzzling out her comment and whether or not he wanted to pick up the thread of interest she’d let slip through the well-woven professional fabric of their relationship when a snowplow barreled past.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Outside the brothel, waiting for Lyle to free up his favorite girl.”

“Going to get a little skin with your information?” The slightest edge entered her voice.

“I guess I should take it where I can get it, right?”

She huffed a laugh. “As if you have any trouble getting it.”

Another thread slipped through the tapestry. Before Roman could even toy with the idea of opening up dialogue about her interest in his sex life, Lyle appeared on the porch of the brothel. He said a few words to the security guards there and pulled on gloves, then dragged on a knit cap before starting down the steps with the fluid movements of a man who’d recently been sexually satisfied.

“I can’t figure out if I’m more surprised they’re bold enough to run a brothel with trafficked women,” she said, “or that everyone in town can know about it and no law enforcement agency has shut it down.”

“Intimidation, power, and kickbacks,” he told her. “A trifecta for sure.”

“You’ve done great work on this case, Roman. You’re really close to taking down one hell of a dangerous terrorist ring.”

The sincerity in her voice warmed him. “Thanks, but Heller deserves most of the credit. He’s got a way of uncovering the nuances of a situation that cracks otherwise unbreachable barriers.”

“And you have a way of understanding and placing your team where they work best.”

He smiled. “I think my head’s going to be too big to get out of the car.”

Outside, Lyle turned over the engine of his SUV. Roman closed the door on the compartment of his psyche aching for more of Gianna and switched into work mode.

“He’s on the move,” he told her. “I’d better get in there before Brandy grabs another customer.”

“Keep me posted,” she said, her voice businesslike and clipped.

He disconnected, his mind wandering to the edge in Gianna’s voice. Since their one steamy night together, Gianna certainly had never shown a flicker of interest in an encore.

When Lyle pulled away from the curb, Roman turned off his engine. He waited for Lyle’s taillights to disappear down the highway before making his way across the street to the renovated Victorian.

One of the brawny security guards edged into his path. “I don’t know you.”

Roman pulled his hand from the warmth of his jacket and offered it to the man. “Tom. I’m new at the mines.”

Instead of shaking his hand, the guard smacked his chest. “Arms out.”

Roman complied while the other guard patted him down.

“No violence,” he told Roman. “If you leave a mark on any girl, I’ll hunt you down and break your teeth. Cash only. Leave as soon as you’re done.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said, congenial.

The guard stepped out of the way, and Roman continued inside. The moment he stepped inside, warmth and the sultry scent of perfume wrapped around him. The dim lighting and deep red décor added to the lush atmosphere, as did the women lounging on the velvet settees flanking a large desk. To Roman’s surprise, the women were young and fresh. He’d been expecting the gaunt, strung-out drug addicts he’d seen in other trafficking situations. But the women were sharp and alert.

Two brunettes and a blonde welcomed him with seductive smiles. The lighter-haired brunette eased from one of the lounges and approached Roman.

“Welcome, handsome.” Her voice was soft and edged with an unmistakable Russian accent. She pressed her hands to his chest and moved close enough to kiss him. She probably would have if Roman hadn’t eased his head back.

“You’re new in town.” The blonde sounded Bosnian. She crossed her long bare legs and swung one spiked heel. “I would have noticed a silver fox like you if you’d been in before.”

At thirty-eight, Roman was the oldest member of the Manhunters, but still too young to be considered a silver fox. At least in his opinion. But he’d grayed early, and women had told him that the mixture of black and white in his hair made it look silvery. He usually kept it cropped too close for the color to matter, but he’d been lazy about getting to the barber, so it was longer than usual.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Aren’t you just delicious?” The brunette circled him in a languid stroll, her hand trailing across his chest, then his shoulders before she came to a stop in front of him again. Her big hazel eyes dripped invitation. “Will you do me the pleasure of letting me do you tonight?”

The heaviness in the pit of his gut told Roman just how badly he needed to be done, and anonymous hookups were all he had the interest or time for. But he preferred sex arising from mutual attraction, not payment, and with Gianna so fresh in his mind, it was a nonstarter.

“I’m hoping Brandy’s free,” he said.

The blonde stood and strolled over. She leaned against his side and stroked a hand down his abdomen. A combination of floral and spice floated on the air. A feminine, sultry scent that made Roman think of rolling in the sheets, skin to skin.

“What’s that young thing doing to pull in all the sexy older men?” The darker of the two brunettes was Hispanic, and her inquiry purred with challenge. “Brandy doesn’t have what we have. And we’re available right now.”

She sauntered over and wrapped her arm around the blonde’s waist. “Why don’t you let me and Tara give you a double dose of love?”

Good question. Why didn’t he? Had his one night with Gianna really spoiled him for all other women?

Business, Roman. Head in the game. “Thanks, but I’ve got my heart set on Brandy.”

“Did I hear my name?” Another luscious brunette wandered in from the hallway. She was tall and curvy. And, damn, she was young. As in Lyle-could-have-been-her-grandfather young. “Hey, there. You’re new.”

Roman smiled at her. “And I have similar tastes as Lyle.”

Her smile flickered, and her eyes went flat. But she swayed over to him, nudged the other women aside, and slipped her arm around his. “Then come on up to my room. I’ve got a brand-new set of cuffs with your name on them.”

She pulled him into step beside her, continuing through the hallway, then took his hand as she turned to climb a narrow set of stairs. Leading him by the hand, she spoke as if she were giving him a historical tour, not leading him to a bedroom for paid sex.

“This house was built in 1888 by Harold Putman, the town’s mayor at the time,” she told him in a soft Chechen accent. “He had six children. He and his wife lived a very happy life here.”

“That sounds like a little fantasy you tell yourself to feel better.”

“A few fantasies never hurt anyone.” They passed a guard at the top of the stairs, and Brandy turned down the hallway, leading Roman to the third room on the right. After Roman entered, she closed the door and asked, “What fantasies would you like to play out tonight?”

He wandered through the space until Brandy had moved away from the door. The room had recently been cleaned. The air held a floral, slightly antiseptic scent. When he passed the bed, sliding his fingertips across the comforter. The sheets were warm and smelled freshly laundered.

Roman put himself between Brandy and the exit before he faced her again. “My only fantasy is putting Lyle Bishop in prison.”

Her smile slid from her face. All the heat in her eyes turned cold. “You need to leave.”

She surged toward the door, reaching for the knob.

Roman caught her arm, stopping her. When she looked up, they were almost nose to nose. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” she snapped.

“More like sixteen.”

“Get out,” she ordered, “or I’ll scream, and security will—”

“You won’t scream.” To keep her from doing just that, Roman released her and pulled out his Department of Defense credentials. “Because if you do, the only people who come will be the Homeland Security agents waiting outside,” he lied. “They’ll raid this place and take you all into custody. And you know what happens next: deportation.”

Real terror sparked in her eyes. She stepped back and crossed her arms, her fingers squeezing and releasing her arms. “You’re right. You’re just like Lyle.”

“Has he offered you permanent residence in the US if you cooperate? Or to bring your family over from Chechnya? That’s where you’re from, right?”

She glanced at the door behind him and shook her head. “He’ll kill me if I say anything.”

“Not if he’s in prison.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I know they keep you imprisoned here,” Roman said. “I know they took your identification. All your money. And I know they won’t let you go until you’ve paid off your debt to them. They probably threatened to harm your family back home if you ran away.”

She shifted on her feet and inched backward.

“None of this is new,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “The threats, the power plays, the lies. Traffickers have been using the same old script for decades. But I can change all that for you.”

“You lie, just like him,” she spit out, clearly terrified. “Leave me alone. I only have a year left until I’m free.”

“I bet they told you that last year. And the year before that. There are expenses you have to reimburse, right? Interest that racks up? You won’t be any freer a year from now than you are now. They’ll keep you here until you escape or they kill you.” Roman let that sink in for a long, quiet moment. “All I need is a little help, Brandy. A little help and you and your family will live a free life in America.”

When she didn’t shoot back another denial, he gestured to an overstuffed chair in the corner. “Now, have a seat so we can talk business.”