“Just as long as Kaminsky doesn’t have to stay in the apartment with me,” she responded, rallying. “Across the hall is close enough.”

Bartoli nodded. “Fair enough. But anywhere outside the house, one of us needs to be with you. Even a short distance like this, you make sure you tell one of us, and we’ll accompany you.”

“I’ll go nuts,” Charlie said. “I’m used to being alone. I’m a runner. I miss my runs.”

“So set a time. I’ll go running with you.”

“You?”

“Sure. Set a time. Morning is better for me. Before work.”

“Six-thirty a.m. Tomorrow.” Charlie’s tone made it a challenge. She glanced at him to see how he would respond.

“Done.” He grinned. “I—”

Whatever he’d been going to add was lost as a man came charging out of the shadows toward them. He came from the direction of the road, and his dark form blended with the night so well that Charlie was only aware of him when he was almost on top of them.

Her heart leaped. She gasped and jumped, but had no time to do anything else because Bartoli thrust her behind him and at the same time whipped out his weapon, leveled it, and barked, “Federal agent! Freeze!”

Dear God …

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s John Price.” Identifying himself, the figure stopped so suddenly that he nearly toppled over. He wasn’t the only one struggling for balance, either. When Bartoli had thrust her behind him, Charlie’s heel had caught on the edge of one of the planks. She stumbled and would have fallen backward into the sand dunes if she hadn’t grabbed on to Bartoli’s waist to steady herself.

“Price?” Bartoli questioned sharply.

“Yeah.” The man’s reply was sheepish. “You know, Officer Price from Kill Devil Hills PD.”

“Did you want something?” There was an undertone of disgust in Bartoli’s voice. As he asked the question, he slid an arm around Charlie’s shoulders to help steady her. Even though her brain registered that they were not in danger after all, her heart still thundered, her pulse still raced, and her legs felt like spaghetti. Grateful for the support, she leaned into Bartoli’s side as he reholstered his gun. His arm stayed around her, and she liked it being there.

“Haney sent me to tell you …” Price, out of breath, huffed between words. “… that we got a surveillance video of a car he wants you guys to look at. It’s from Wednesday night … Thursday morning, I guess … about four a.m., taken off a traffic camera not far from here. The picture’s blurry, but he thought you guys might be able to sharpen it up so we could get something off it.”

Bartoli’s eyes brightened. “Where is he?”

“In the car, out there on the road. We were heading back to town when he spotted you and Dr. Stone walking here, and he told me to bring it over to you. So here it is.” Still huffing, Price pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Bartoli. “He said he’ll stop by tomorrow to see what you get.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “He said he doesn’t want anybody talking about it on the phone. He’s paranoid that some of the reporters … or somebody else … might be listening in.”

Bartoli nodded. “Tell Haney I said thanks, and we’ll do our best.” He pocketed what appeared to be a small DVD.

Price nodded, and turned to head back the way he’d come.

Bartoli looked after him for a minute, then glanced at Charlie. She was suddenly way too aware of her hands on his waist and his arm around her shoulders. Beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt, his waist felt firm and trim, and his arm felt warm and solid and protective curved around her shoulders. He smelled nice, too—maybe some kind of detergent or fabric softener in his clothes, she thought.

And we’re this close because I almost bit the ground. Again. The realization took the this-almost-could’ve-been-romantic overtones out of the situation.

“Okay, I admit it: I’m a terrible klutz,” she said with a sigh, and stepped away from him.

He let her go. “That’s not what I was thinking about,” he protested, and grinned. The grin was a dead giveaway.

“You don’t have to be polite about it.” Charlie started walking. Bartoli fell in beside her. “I’ve been falling all over myself since we met.”

“If you knew me better, Dr. Stone, you’d know polite isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

Charlie looked up at him. He wasn’t quite as tall as Garland—not that I’m thinking about Garland—or quite as muscular, or quite as handsome—or comparing him to Garland in any way. It was just that Garland was the last man (?) she had stood this close to. But Bartoli was plenty tall and muscular and handsome in his own right, and a dependable, steady man of good character besides.

“Probably it’s time you started calling me Charlie.”

The slow smile he gave her told her he liked that. No, it told her he liked her. Which was great, because she liked him, too.

“Charlie,” he said. “But only if you call me Tony.”

“Tony,” she repeated, and smiled back at him. This was progress. Plus, they had a date to go running together in the morning, which was something, too. Then, a little worried that she might be moving too fast, or heading in a direction she wasn’t a hundred percent sure she wanted to take, she glanced away and added in her best professional tone, “I wouldn’t have picked Detective Haney as the type to hand over potential evidence his department found to the FBI. He strikes me as being more territorial than that.”

Bartoli—no, Tony now—seemed content to follow her lead. “Yeah, but he’s got a problem: the media around here are going to crucify him if we don’t catch this guy fast. He’s the local detective in charge of the case. He’s the one who’ll take the heat if Bayley Evans …”

With a glance at her, he trailed off. But she knew what it was he wasn’t saying: if Bayley Evans dies. And with that thought, any lingering hint of prospective romance in the air vanished. The night suddenly became a whole lot colder and darker and every bit of pleasure she’d taken in the deepening of her connection to Bartoli—Tony—was gone.

He must have felt the weight of the case on him, too, because their conversation from then until he handed her over to Kaminsky, who was in the RV with Crane, stayed strictly professional.

Seated at adjacent computers in the War Room, Crane and Kaminsky were exchanging verbal jabs about the significance of a drunk driving arrest in one of the background checks when Charlie and Tony, having made it almost unnoticed through the hustle and bustle still going on in the front part of Central Command, approached them.

“By itself, not that significant,” Charlie advised, and Crane smiled triumphantly at her, while Kaminsky looked put out. Tony interrupted the budding discussion that threatened to follow with a quick description of the news report that had revealed Charlie’s true identity and to tell them about Haney’s disc, and then told Kaminsky to escort Charlie back to their lodging.

“And stay put. It’s almost midnight. You’re done for the night,” he added sternly to Kaminsky.

“You and Crane—” she protested.

“Will be coming when we’re done here. Go do your job, Kaminsky.”

Kaminsky sulked, especially when Tony pulled out the DVD Officer Price had given him and handed it to Crane, who inserted it into the computer.

“Go,” Tony ordered over his shoulder when Kaminsky continued to show a disposition to linger.

She did, taking Charlie with her, but it was obvious she wasn’t happy about it.

“So your cover got blown, huh?” Kaminsky inquired as she marched Charlie into the house, up the stairs, and into the in-law suite like a cop with a prisoner.

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep the bogeyman away.”

Charlie waited as Kaminsky conducted a quick search of her rooms. She was dead tired, emotionally wrung out, and in profound need of Tums and aspirin. As a result, her patience was frayed, and Kaminsky’s semi-sarcastic tone hit her the wrong way.