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tickets me when I forget to move my car on trash days.”
    A twinkle of amusement flashed in his green eyes. The stranger suddenly looked less intimidating and more appealing than before. Younger than she’d first thought, too—he was probably only around thirty, close to her age.
    Well, the age she would be for another few days. Then she moved beyond the actual three-zero and proceeded directly into her thirties. Do not pass go; do not try to pretend you’re just a day or two beyond twenty-nine.
    “Almost makes me wish I could watch. I don’t think she’ll like being told no.” His mouth relaxed into a slow smile, a friendly one that invited her to reciprocate.
    Though her heart skipped a single beat in her chest and her pulse did a little flip, Sam’s lips remained tight by sheer force of will. The way she had been feeling about men these days, she wished he’d paste a frown on his mouth. She couldn’t handle an attraction to anyone right now. She’d been burned so badly her hair probably still smelled smoky.
    “What is it I can do for you, Agent Lambert?” she asked, her tone curt.
    He took her cue, his form stiffening again under his perfectly tailored suit, which looked more appropriate for a Wall Street executive than an FBI agent. “I’d like to show you some correspondence.”
    He glanced around the room, seeking a place to sit. Her sofa, a flowery monstrosity her mother had insisted on giving her when Sam had moved out of her ex’s house, was covered with files and industry magazines. Well, mostly industry magazines. There were a few issues of People and Entertainment Weekly thrown in there, too. Not to mention a small pile of unfolded, clean laundry, freshly dumped from the dryer.
    Two empty Diet Coke cans stood in the middle of their own permanent rings on the coffee table. A crumpled Snickers wrapper protruded from the opening of one can, looking like a castaway’s note stuck into a poor man’s substitute for a bottle, and on the TV, DVD sleeves for The Notebook and Beaches taunted her about her sadly sappy Netflix movie list.
    Her picture should be on Wikipedia as an illustration of a pathetic thirty-something divorcée.
    If not for her desk, she’d probably look like a slovenly hausfrau. Oh, the desk was a wreck, too, but at least it looked like it was used. Very used. On it were three mountains of paper, in varying heights—one critical, one urgent, and one just important. The just-important one was about one-quarter the size of the others. There was no pile called Take Your Time.
    Clearing her throat, she headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s talk in here. I could do with some coffee. You?”
    “Sure, thanks.” He followed her, remaining silent while she put the pot on.
    Joining him at her small table, Sam tried to force herself to relax. After all, she used to like law enforcement types. Her late father had been a state trooper, and the closest thing she had to a father now was an old family friend who was a judge. It was only recently, since her work had been targeted by some supposed experts who wanted to kick the amateur off their playing field, that she’d begun to question the intelligence of those in any legal profession.
    The parking tickets didn’t help, either.
    “What’s this all about?”
    He opened a folder, spreading what looked like e-mail printouts on her kitchen table. “Did you write these?”
    Sam glanced at the pages, seeing her e-mail address on the top of them. “I exchange e-mails with people all the time,” she murmured doubtfully. “This looks like a typical response to someone asking for Web advice.”
    Lifting one of the pages, Sam quickly read the original message, and her own response. A smile suddenly widened her lips. “Oh, yeah, I know this kid—what a sweetheart. He’s written to me several times. He even got his parents to bring him to a signing I did last summer.”
    “A signing for your Internet scam book?”
    She leveled a steady gaze at the