Brandon attempts to speak through his pain. “B. . bas—”
“Basement,” I fill in, hurrying him along.
When he nods, I demand, “Send a crew to the basement before calling in forensics. I doubt he left any evidence, but we won’t know if we don’t check.”
Brandon peers at me as if I asked him how long his cock is.
“The basement, Brandon. Send men to the basement,” I repeat as if he is stupid.
“We don’t have any men,” he advises, “much less ones I can boss around.”
I wish he were lying. I wasn’t being deceitful when I said Theresa’s crew was sliced to a few men earlier this month.
“By the time either of us get to the basement, he’ll be long gone.” Brandon’s eyes drop to the ground, unsure how to voice his next set of words. I can understand his worry when he stammers out, “I also don’t think it’s wise to bring Theresa in on this. She’ll arrive with a truckload of questions—ones I’m certain you don’t want to answer.”
Although he is being honest, his words aren’t easy for me to stomach. I want the person responsible for the pain that tore at my chest when I spotted Regan’s death threat held accountable for his actions. I want to pound him as mercilessly as my heart is smashing into my ribs. He wants to hurt Regan, so you can be assured Iwillhurt him.
“Then what do you suggest I do, Brandon?” I articulate his name with a sneer, annoyed just at the prospect of seeking his advice. I don’t ask for advice, and definitely not from a man beneath me.
Shockingly, Brandon doesn’t balk at my threatening tone. His cheeks flush, but I’m certain that’s more from his marathon stair climb than my angry snarl.
“Dowhat you’ve been doing the past four months.”
I growl. This time he balks.
His throat works hard to swallow several times in a row before he mutters, “I mean run your own investigation. Theresa is bad news. You don’t want her or her crew on this.”
His reply stumps me. That isn’t something a standard technician would say. He’s more deeply involved in the Bureau than a standard techy. I just can’t fathom how?
Before half a notion can filter through my brain, a sweet voice interrupts it. Regan is calling my name. It isn’t the way I want to hear it shouted. She sounds scared.
Wanting to end one fight before taking up another, I instruct Brandon, “Remove the last ten minutes from the surveillance log and call in a disturbance. If Theresa believes the incident of the electrician’s failure to leave requires further investigation, let her men come in.”
“And if she wants to leave it alone?” Brandon asks, intuiting my thoughts.
“Then I’ll handle it.”
He nods, preferring our second solution.
I hand him back his gun, suddenly wishing I was armed twenty-four-seven. He takes it before pivoting on his heels and stalking away. While waiting for the elevator to arrive to Regan’s floor, he calls in a disturbance.
I wait for him to be given further instructions before shouting his name. When he turns around to face me, I say, “Although this investigation is taking a slight turn, I expect to see your report on my desk first thing Tuesday morning.”
He looks at me strangely, as if to say,you have a desk?
“Theresa may do things dodgy around here, but not all of us are like her,” I explain, hoping he’ll see sense through the madness. “We’re agents before we are anything.”
My last sentence doesn’t come out as strong as my first, probably because it was laced with dishonesty. I don’t know what I would have done if I had caught Regan’s assailant tonight. A dark, wet basement seems rather enticing right now, all the more so when Brandon’s exit coincides with Regan’s entrance.
Her towel has been replaced with a silky black negligee she’s thrown on in a hurry. The uneven hemline isn’t the only evidence of her quick dressing. The fact her negligee is inside out is another indication.
After scanning the corridor to ensure we are alone, Regan locks her eyes with mine. Her brows tack together as she clenches her fists into tiny balls. She’s not scared like I anticipated earlier. She is downright fuming mad.
Chapter Fourteen
“An accountant, my ass,” Regan grumbles under her breath as her eyes drop to where my gun was holstered the afternoon she recognized I was carrying a weapon.
Anger curtails my windpipe when her eyes return to my face and I see the apprehension behind them. She’s afraid I can’t protect her, worried I’ll let her attacker make true on his threat. With or without my gun, she has no cause for fret. I’ll protect her until my dying breath.
