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Then Tom would take care of his team, get the judge to the courthouse and take an hour of calm to look into Isabelle’s situation.
He knew the bare bones of it. He knew what her father had been charged with and the further crimes he’d been suspected of. But the supporting cast was a sticky, tangled, dangerous mess of unnamed cops and shady figures.
The FBI had known that people high up in the Chicago PD were, at best, protecting some of the players. At worst, they’d been in charge of the whole racket.
But...
Tom stretched hard, noting the various sore muscles in his body and wishing he had time to enjoy the memory of what had caused them. But he couldn’t. Because there was that one big question hanging over him as he headed naked for Isabelle’s small shower and turned on the tap.
The FBI wouldn’t have put a flag on a federal file because of the activity of the Chicago PD. It wouldn’t have attached a warning about leaking information to Chicago. Unless it had already been done.
Someone in the FBI was working with those bigwigs in Chicago, or had been.
Tom had gotten only a quick look at the federal files before Gates had called. He knew Gates hadn’t been the head agent on the case back then, but what if he’d been associated? What if he’d been the leak?
A long shot, but Gates was suspiciously invested. If he hadn’t been the leak then, that didn’t mean he hadn’t been bought off since.
Tom needed another look at that file. And shit, Gates was already here. Tom didn’t need to worry about drawing more attention if he looked again.
Determined now, he cleaned up and got out of the shower in record time. He was pulling on his wrinkled suit pants when Isabelle walked in.
“Hello,” she said, her mysterious smile in place as she looked over his bare chest. “Sleep well?”
“I don’t remember a thing after I passed out. I hope I didn’t snore.”
She moved closer and kissed his chest. Tom closed his arms around her without even thinking about it. Fuck, she felt good against him. He recognized the blue shirt she’d been wearing the night before, and he wanted to strip it off her. Again.
“I didn’t hear you snore,” she said against his skin. “But are you saying you don’t remember that second round?”
His mind flashed on warm skin and dark pleasure. “Damn. I do remember that. I half thought it was a dream.”
“A wet dream,” she murmured. “Want breakfast?”
“Hell, yes,” he said, not realizing he’d decided to stay until he spoke.
He followed her to the kitchen, buttoning his shirt as he walked.
“It’s not much,” she explained. “Bacon and scrambled eggs. Leftover lemon cake.”
“Sounds perfect.”
It was. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Or he was really hungry and finally remembering the night before, when Isabelle had come so beautifully around his cock. She was beautiful. And as soon as he left her house, this spell would be broken.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping her as she moved to pour him another cup of coffee. “I have to run. It’s not very romantic...”
“I’m not very romantic,” she said with a smile. But it wavered. “And you’re not my boyfriend. We both have a lot of work to do.”
Right. He wasn’t her boyfriend. He couldn’t be, and he knew why. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe she didn’t like him that much, and sex was always this good for her.
But if it was only her past between them, maybe they could work it out. Maybe she wouldn’t panic and lash out and hate him. Shit.
“Isabelle—” he started, but she shook her head.
“Go to work. Maybe I’ll see you again tonight. But it’s no big deal if you can’t.”
It was a big deal to him. And he thought it might be a big deal to her, too. She had to say it didn’t mean much, because what choice did she have? He was a US marshal.
He opened his mouth, one more attempt to tell her the truth. He’d hoped to come up with a plan sometime between midnight and morning, but it seemed more impossible than ever. He needed Mary’s advice. He couldn’t just wing this, or he’d screw it up and lose Isabelle for good.
