She moved to the desk, hoping to find something salvageable. Like everything else, this formerly neat and orderly section of the lab had been trashed. Chunks of small electronics and plastic that were clearly the remnants of a laptop littered the floor by the desk. But the hard drive was missing. Probably the melted square among the burned pile.

A rectangular chrome frame lay facedown on the desk. She brushed off some debris and picked it up, turning it around to take a look.

It was a double picture frame. One of the pictures was missing, but the other photo was unmistakable. She and her brother at the beach. A five-year-old Harper was frozen in time with a huge toothy grin, sitting in the middle of the sand castle Bobby had just finished building. But instead of being mad at her for flattening his masterpiece, she remembered he’d laughed even harder than she had.

The picture frame dropped from her fingers and crashed to the desk. Harper’s shaking hands shot up to her head as grief and fury pounded her mind.

“Oh crap.” Harper gasped and doubled over. It was happening again.

She took a deep breath, struggling to calm her frenzied mind. Tried not to think she was standing where her brother used to stand daily, bathed in the natural light he’d created for his precious plants.

Harper was breathless now, as if someone had kicked her hard in the gut and smashed a board across the back of her skull. Aching sorrow blasted behind her eyes. She fell to her knees.

Icy shards sliced through her veins, only to be replaced once again by a scalding heat-so hot, she saw a red inferno glow behind her tightly closed eyelids. Pain swarmed within her rushing blood. Energy vibrated inside her brain, thrashing around to get out of its cage.

Harper howled in agony and shuddered as she felt the ravenous wave of power surge from her mind. The wild force hammered everything around her with barely perceptible currents emanating from her body, sending Bobby’s desk slamming into the wall just as someone burst through the door.

A tortured wail from inside the lab pierced the air. Done with decoding the lock on the lab’s secure door, Rome reached under his coat and withdrew his gun from its holster. Holding the gun downward and ready, he gripped the door handle and shoved it open.

Rome instantly dove to the floor, barely missing the flying desk coming straight at him. It crashed hard against the concrete wall right above his position, raining thick splinters on top of him. He bit back a moan and struggled to clear the broken parts away enough to get into a crouch.

He stilled, listening. It was quiet save for some creaking and settling of scattered tables and other debris. What the hell just happened? An explosion?

Then he heard it. Heavy breathing. Panting. The suffering wail he’d heard outside had an owner. He clutched his gun and started to glide along the wall like a ghost.

A stumbling noise made him freeze. Peeking around the corner of an upturned lab table, he spied the source of the sound and aimed his weapon. The dim lighting, mixed with the lab’s destruction, cast irregular shadows, bathing the hunched figure in an ethereal glow.

“Don’t move,” Rome ordered with quiet intensity.

Edging closer to his target, he now had a clear view. The person was on hands and knees, gasping for breath, back arching and bowing with each labored gulp of air. Rome’s sharp gaze tracked from the dirty running shoes, along the jeans, to the tight rear end. Mussed blonde hair was evident just above the folded hood of a raincoat. The shape of the body told him this could very well be his quarry, returned to the scene of the crime. That’d be nice. He’d be able to have his pizza and beer after all.

He pulled out a firm cord from his leather jacket, meant for binding his prey. He stowed the gun in his holster and silently unraveled the line, creeping even closer, ready to spring.

Rome pounced, but hit solid ground with a thud. Instantly he rolled to a squat. His target had slid out of the way and now mirrored his crouch mere inches away.

They faced off. Hunter and hunted. Wild and savage. Though still cloaked in shadows, he could see that it was indeed the woman from the picture. Much scruffier than she’d been in the happy photo.

Her frightened eyes glinted in the low light. Good, she should be scared. He was the best. And he loved a good chase. He didn’t want this to be too easy. Blood raced through his body, readying it for a strike. Excitement and anticipation surged in his muscles.

He shot her a feral smile. Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

Without warning, she threw a hard jab to his nose. His head snapped back. Well, the girl had some guts. He liked a little fire.

Rome snatched her arm, pulling her close, then forced her down onto her back. He pushed her arm into her chest, holding her in place. He lifted his leg to straddle her. Tears and sparks blurred his vision when her knee solidly connected with his groin.

Okay. Enough playing around. Still holding her arm, he tucked his pain away and sat on her hips, kicking his legs out to pin her lower body and lie on top of her. To her credit, she didn’t scream.

Rome held strong while she tried to squirm away, but his bulk encased her slimmer frame. He was surprised by her solid strength. Every place his body touched hers was firm and coiled and hot.

The woman kept struggling, her breathing coming in huffs, warming his stubbled cheeks. She thrashed around like a trapped animal.

The photo had done very little justice to the woman. Hair the color of moonlit straw framed a face that wasn’t striking but fit well together. The green eyes held fathoms of depth that could never be captured on paper. And in stark contrast to the cheery picture, absolute terror and sorrow etched her features. This wasn’t the face of a villain. He’d seen enough of them to know.

Her stamina was impressive. She didn’t seem to be wearing down. But he was getting impatient.

“Stop,” he growled, and pulled out his gun to show her he meant business. “I’m taking you in one way or another.” He’d hate to have to shoot her. But he would.

“Why?” the woman rasped. Her husky voice and bleak tone shocked him. Shouldn’t she be belligerent rather than surprised? She sounded downright confused. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to us?”

Us? He took a quick look around. No, they were alone. What was she talking about? She was a wanted woman.

“You did this,” he countered. Was she playing him?

The woman finally stopped floundering and gave him an aching stare that shot straight to his soul.

“You killed my brother,” she whispered brokenly, cold pain behind each word. She closed her eyes tight and cringed. Then she passed out.

Rome cautiously released his hold, and her body sank to the floor, totally limp, her breathing shallow.

Leaning on his haunches, he gazed at her. She’d thrown him for a loop. His duty commanded that he take her in. That was his directive. But something in her shattered voice touched him. And her eyes, wounded and searching. They tugged at the frayed edges of his heart.

For the first time in his life, he doubted his orders. His instincts told him to help her. And usually his instincts were right on target. She was a firecracker for sure, but a dangerous threat? Of that he wasn’t so sure.

His targets almost always fought back, but not in selfdefense. The guilty never asked why. But she had.

Rome made a decision. He needed to find out more.

He stuffed his gun into its holster and slid his arms under her amazingly broad shoulders and solid thighs. He stood, hefting her sinewy weight, and tossed her over his shoulder.

He’d get his answers-one way or another.