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ages.
    And then she’d shut him down.
    “You have to leave,” she’d said, reaching for the doorknob.
    “ Why? ”
    She’d fumbled with her keys, finally shaking them loose from this ridiculously tiny black purse. Then she’d turned and looked at him, and he’d never forget her face.
    She’d looked appalled.
    “I can’t sleep with you. Don’t you understand?”
    “I understand we both want each other. What else—”
    “Don’t you get it? I can’t do this. I’m married, for crying out loud!”
    Now he stood in front of her door again, wondering if he should expect another brush-off. She was no longer married, which was definitely good. But the fact that she’d moved all the way to Austin and neglected to call him wasn’t what he considered a positive sign.
    He couldn’t focus on that right now. Celie was mixed up in some kind of trouble, and he needed to help her.
    He took a deep breath and lifted his hand, and the door swung open before he could knock.
    “McAllister!”
    And then she was in his arms, all soft and warm. He stood there, amazed, as she melted right into him, instantly reminding him how good she always smelled, like woman and strawberries and some kind of soap. He glanced inside and noticed the two men standing in her living room.
    “Got company?” He shifted her so she was standing beside him, his arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders.
    “Oh, um, yeah.” She tried to step away, but he kept her planted right where she was.
    John didn’t like the idea of men, period, lounging around Celie’s apartment, but these guys were especially bad. They both wore suits, which in Austin usually meant you were headed to a funeral or to the state house. These guys were headed to neither, which made them feds.
    Both men stepped forward. One was young, maybe late twenties, with dark hair and a smarmy smile he probably practiced in the mirror a few hundred times before going out on a date. The other one was older. His dark hair was gray at the temples and he had crinkles around his eyes. He was ripped, though.
    Something about the older agent seemed familiar. Then John placed him: he’d been on the scene at Feenie’s house the night Robert Strickland skipped town.
    John looked down at Celie. She’d been crying, over her dead ex-husband, no doubt. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “Care to introduce me?”
    “Oh…yes. I’m sorry,” she said, regaining some of that southern gentility she’d been raised with. “John McAllister, this is Special Agent Nick Stevenski and Special Agent Mike Rowe. They’re with the FBI.”
    John shook hands with both men. Back the fuck off, he telegraphed mentally. Rowe raised his eyebrows, clearly getting the message.
    “I was just apologizing because we’ll have to postpone the rest of our interview.” Celie turned to John with a plea in her eyes. “I’m running a little behind. Can you give me ten minutes to change before we go?”
    Go?
    “No problem,” he said. “Take your time.”
    Rowe cleared his throat. “We’ll talk tomorrow, then. How about ten a.m.?”
    “I’m working tomorrow,” Celie said quickly.
    Rowe looked perturbed. “Any chance you could get the day off? We need to go over a few more details.”
    John felt her tense. She did not want to talk to these guys, and he couldn’t blame her. The FBI had practically set up camp in her front yard for weeks after her ex’s disappearance. It had been a nightmare for her. And now here they were, back for an encore.
    “I’m in charge of the Easter party tomorrow. There’s no way I could disappoint the kids again.” She smiled weakly. “I’m sure you understand.”
    “Fine,” Rowe said. “We’ll come by in the afternoon. Four o’clock.”
    He made his way toward the door without waiting for a reply. Stevenski trailed behind him, smiling as he walked past Celie.
    “Nice meeting you, Ms. Wells.” He gave John a curt nod. “Mr. McAllister.”
    “Later, fellas.”