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woods, and it was dark as dusk. A layer of pine needles carpeted the forest floor. She walked around to the back of the pickup where he was unloading wood.
    Tara grabbed a pair of two-by-fours and carried them to a growing pile at the base of a tall wooden frame. Someone was constructing a tower, it looked like. For rappelling? She stacked the wood and glanced around, noting the group of tires arranged on the hard-packed path. Farther down the trail she saw parallel bars and a wall made of logs. Nestled out here in the woods, the PT course reminded her of the one at Quantico.
    “You train your people here?” she asked.
    “Yep.”
    She returned to the truck. He scooped up an armload of two-by-fours like they were Styrofoam pool noodles. Tara grabbed two. “What are you building?” she asked.
    “A cargo net.”
    She gazed up at the frame. “What is that, sixty feet?”
    “Seventy.” He looked at Tara, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “SEALs train on a sixty. Can’t be outdone by a buncha frogboys.”
    A warm tingle filled her. Something about his eyes without the sunglasses, especially when he smiled. She looked at the frame again. “Impressive,” she said.
    There was no point in denying it. Liam Wolfe was impressive. His operation was impressive.
    But she hadn’t come here to be impressed.
    He hauled the last of the wood as Tara stood there shivering. He seemed immune to the cold in his thin T-shirt. His muscles rippled as he stacked the lumber, and Tara watched him, suddenly struck by the certainty that he’d killed men before, probably with his bare hands.
    “You used to be a Marine?” she asked.
    “Retired.” He looked at her. “There’s no ‘used to.’ ”
    “Mr. Wolfe, what sort of threats was Catalina Reyes concerned about?”
    “Liam.” He slammed the tailgate on the now-empty truck bed. “And I don’t know.”
    “Weren’t you her bodyguard?”
    “Security consultant.”
    She crossed her arms, annoyed by more semantics. “What’s the difference?”
    He leaned back against the truck. “In some cases, life and death.”
    “Okay, so you were her security consultant for how long?”
    “We worked together about six months. She terminated the arrangement after she lost the election.”
    “You were her security consultant for six months, and you don’t know what kind of threats she was worried about?”
    “Lately? No.”
    She tipped her head to the side. “I find that hard to believe.”
    “That doesn’t much bother me.”
    She watched him, trying for a read, but his body language didn’t offer many clues.
    He wasn’t defensive. Or evasive. Or nervous. He seemed relaxed but alert. And she somehow knew he was keenly aware that he was being interviewed by a federal agent who might consider him a suspect in the disappearance—and probable murder—of a woman he knew.
    Yet he seemed calm.
    Tara looked over her shoulder at the path snaking through the trees. They’d been here ten minutes, and not a single trainee had come pounding down the course. They were alone, with only the chirping of birds and the distant pops of gunfire coming from the range.
    Tara looked at him and caught him checking her out. His gaze lifted, and she felt a hot flush of sexual awareness.
    “How’d you meet Catalina?” she asked.
    “A referral from a client.”
    “Mind if I ask who?”
    “Yes.”
    She arched her brows.
    “My clients are confidential.”
    She looked at the trees again, struggling not to let her impatience show.
    This was a casual conversation, and he was having it willingly. She was lucky to be here. He could have asked to have a lawyer present or made her get a warrant to set foot on his property, but instead he was being cooperative.
    Mostly.
    “When was the last time you talked to her?” she asked. “Do you know that much?”
    He lifted an eyebrow at the edge in her voice. “Probably a few months ago. I’d have to check a calendar to know for sure.”
    His tone was