LITMIR.BIZ

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surmised it must be difficult for a stodgy man like him to understand people willing to take risky ventures, and suspected the auditor was about to go down a path she didn’t want to follow. Jet stood. “Thanks so much for your concern about my portfolio. Warning taken.”

      He rose also and frowned. “Sit down, Miss Bosarge.” This time his voice had an edge as sharp as a stingray’s barbed stinger. “Only a couple more questions.”

      She reluctantly planted her butt back in the cheap chair.

      “Are you acquainted with any of the officers of this company?”

      “No.”

      Perry had handled all aspects of their treasure sales to Gulf Coast Salvage. She’d checked the company out on the internet and they’d seemed legit. Her accountant had warned her not to put so many eggs in one basket, but he’d also found the company aboveboard. But if it was being investigated and about to go under, she’d better pull out quick.

      “How did you hear of them to start with?”

      Jet again stood. “They’re large and well-known. I live on the coast and have always been fascinated by treasure. Why wouldn’t I pursue my interest? I haven’t done anything wrong. I may be an incompetent judge in picking stocks—” damn you, Perry “—but that’s it. If you have any more questions, I’d prefer to exercise my right to have an attorney or my accountant present.”

      He nodded and rose. “No need to be on the defensive. If I need more information, I’ll get in touch.”

      Easy for him not to be upset—he wasn’t the one being drilled. Why did they always have to go after the little guy anyway? Plenty of hedge fund investors and private equity firms, with tons more money than she’d ever see, had been flocking to invest in increasingly specialized treasure ventures.

      Fields walked with her toward the door. “Much success on reopening your antiques store. You already have employees hired?” he asked. His previously intense manner, combined with his sharp, wintry eyes, mellowed to a casualness that she suspected was false.

      “No. Not yet,” she admitted.

      “I see. Well, I wish you much success.”

      His body was close to hers. Too close. The soapy, clean smell was strong. Jet swallowed and licked her dry lips. “Thanks.”

      She swept around him and into the hallway, inhaling the stale air deeply, ridding her lungs of the auditor’s masculine, clean scent.

      “Miss Bosarge?”

      Jet whipped around.

      “I’ll need to take a look at the manifests for all the items you and your business partner sold to Gulf Coast Savage.”

      “All of them?”

      His mouth curved upward, but those arctic eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. “Every last one.”

      She frowned. The gleaming teeth made her think of a shark. Perhaps Landry Fields was as lethal on land as a shark was at sea. Only the faintest curling at the ends of his light brown hair ruined the predatory image. “I’ll have my accountant call you and make arrangements to send the paperwork.”

      “No need for all that. I’ll drop by your store to collect them, or your home if you prefer.” His smile widened, but she wasn’t fooled by the offhand manner with which he requested the paperwork or by the way he casually leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

      Jet scowled back. She most certainly didn’t prefer Landry Fields inside her house. The whole thing reeked of unprofessionalism and an interest that went beyond the norm of an IRS audit. What was his real game? “Give me a couple days and come by the store. I’ll have them.”

      “Thank you so much for your coop—”

      Jet turned and scrambled away before he could finish the insincere thank-you. As if she had a damned choice, as if he wasn’t issuing an order.

      The rain outside felt wonderfully fresh and she didn’t bother with an umbrella, unlike the few humans venturing outdoor in the storm. The contact of water on skin somewhat calmed her agitation and Jet smiled ruefully. How desperate was she that a number cruncher like Landry Fields could affect her body so deeply during an IRS audit? The man was probably as passionate as cold pudding and would laugh his ass off if he guessed her errant thoughts.

      She lifted her face to the rain one last time before getting in the truck, absorbing moisture as if it were sustenance. The water fortified her. At least Mr. Conservative-Government-Man provided a convenient excuse to confront Perry today. Her pride no longer demanded she sit and wait for him to show up again.

      Perry was the one with the contacts at Gulf Coast Salvage and had insisted the company provided a perfect cover for selling their stuff without bothering with legal hoopla. Did he personally know the company owners or major stockholders? Did it have a reputation for playing fast and loose with maritime-reclamation laws? She had never asked him.

      That was what you got for trusting someone. It always came back to bite you in the ass.

      * * *

       What an unusual woman.

      Landry Fields stood at the window, watching Jet Bosarge in the parking lot as she lifted her face skyward, closed her eyes and smiled. Rain ran down dark eyelashes onto an elegantly sculpted nose, lush lips and then down her long, pale neck before disappearing in cleavage. The wet purple cotton shirt molded to the curve of her breasts. Abandoning his usual professional detachment and gentlemanly manners, Landry leaned forward against the windowpane, curious if there might be an outline of nipples.

      Damn, she was too far away to tell. He ran a hand through his hair, which annoyingly curled at the ends, despite his best efforts to comb it down straight. Bosarge wasn’t easy to peg, and he liked to classify people he interviewed into categories within minutes of meeting them: Con Man, Bad Guy with Attitude, Psychopath, Injured Wife, Slutty Girlfriend, or—more rarely—the Innocent or Unknowing. All part of his job as an FBI agent.

      Too soon to know what type of woman he was dealing with. And the sexual tension crackling between them played havoc with his normal analytical observations. It made no sense. He’d never before had chemistry with someone he interviewed and Bosarge was unlike any other woman he found physically attractive. She was dark-haired, tall and athletic, deep-voiced and a bit edgy. His usual type was a petite, curvy blonde with a soft voice and an easy, uncomplicated smile.

      The woman jumped into a battered red pickup truck and pulled out much too fast, tires squealing on the wet pavement. The corners of his lips involuntarily tugged upward. What kind of woman wore diamond earrings and drove a beater jalopy? She could easily afford a Rolls-Royce.

      Everything about Jet Bosarge was a contradiction. Dark hair and eyes contrasted with pale skin and deep red lips. She dressed casually, as if she’d thrown together an outfit with no thought, but the choppy haircut and diamonds gave an air of natural, feminine elegance. At first, she gave one the impression of an overgrown tomboy with her lean, muscular body, short hair and direct mannerisms. Yet, her long legs and low, throaty voice had distracted him so much, only his considerable willpower had allowed him to remain professional during the interview.

      He’d studied photographs of the woman, but those cold prints didn’t do her justice. Something about Bosarge in the flesh was vibrant and pulsing with energy. It was as if the rainy day had been nothing but gloomy shades of gray until she’d walked into the office. The effect was akin to when Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz tumbled out of the ruined Kansas farmhouse and stepped into an explosively Technicolor alternate universe.

      Landry shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. The woman most likely was a thief and a liar. Getting personally involved with her would be inappropriate and potentially damaging to his career. He was here to do a job and at last things were moving. He’d spent a whole week in the bayou doing nothing but watching Perry Hammonds and reviewing, yet again, the case files with which he’d grown

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