Abruptly she dropped into a crouch, leaning forward to check out what looked like a pile of trash swept into a crevice along the alley wall – until her black braid slid over her shoulder. Impatiently she stripped off her gloves and coiled the braid into a figure eight, fixing it to the back of her head with some elastic gizmo she pulled from the pocket of her jeans. Her movements were quick and practiced, which came as no surprise. Unpinned, the tip of her braid nearly reached the small of her back. It likely got in her way often.

It would have been more practical – not to mention safer – to have cut it long ago. It would be a major vulnerability in a hand-to-hand fight, giving her opponent an easy way to immobilize her.

It would also give her lover something to hold on to as he . . . No. Not going there. Not today. But his mind already had, just as it had many, many times over the past nine months.

Ruthlessly corralling his thoughts, Marcus watched her motion to the CSU photographer, pointing to the asphalt, then pull on a new pair of gloves as the man snapped a picture.

She reached into the trash and drew out something that glinted in the beam of her Maglite. A bullet casing. A big-ass bullet casing. No wonder my back hurts so much.

She dropped the casing into an evidence bag, then rose fluidly to continue her search of the crime scene. She was, he thought, everything he remembered. Tall and proud. Lithe and graceful. Strong, yet compassionate. Too compassionate for her own good. Her job was eating her alive. There were shadows in her eyes that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. He knew this because he saw the same haunted expression in the mirror.

She was haunted too. Still, she’d come when he called. Just as she’d done before.

And just as before, he’d sensed a . . . connection between them, something more than the physical attraction he hadn’t even tried to deny – not in his waking thoughts or in his dreams. He wasn’t sure exactly what the connection was, but he knew deep down that Scarlett Bishop would understand.

Understand what? he demanded bitterly. Me. She would understand me. The choices he’d made. The secrets he kept. The razor-fine edge that he walked. The darkness that drew him ever closer. She would understand. She might even help him.

Which was why he’d left her alone, and would continue to do so. Because as much as he yearned for the solace she might provide, he refused to drag her down with him.

Her gaze shifted from the crime scene to the man with a shock of bright white hair who’d just joined her in the alley – FBI Special Agent Deacon Novak, Scarlett’s partner on the Major Case task force. Marcus actually knew Deacon better than he knew Scarlett, having met the man at a handful of social gatherings co-engineered by Marcus’s stepfather and his cousin, Faith, most recently the party celebrating Faith and Deacon’s engagement. Marcus had been happy for them. Deacon seemed to be a decent man.

Too decent, he thought. He couldn’t see Novak approving of any of the blood-soaked fantasies of revenge that flooded his mind as a crime-scene tech placed markers on the asphalt, next to the mess that had been Tala’s blood and brains.

She was only seventeen. And she’d been gunned down like an animal.

A sheet of white paper attached to a clipboard appeared in his vision, blocking his view of the carnage. ‘If you’re not going to let us transport you to the ER,’ the paramedic said in a disapproving tone, ‘you need to sign this form.’

‘I’ve had broken ribs before. I’m just bruised,’ Marcus said, glancing at the form long enough to sign it before returning his attention to Bishop. She was now walking toward him, Deacon Novak at her side.

Marcus pushed to his feet, biting back a grimace. His back throbbed like a bitch, but he had his pride. It was bad enough that he was shirtless while Scarlett and her partner were fully clothed – Deacon in a suit and tie, no less. Talking to them from a sitting position was simply not going to happen.

Scarlett met his eyes for a brief moment before turning to the paramedic. ‘Well?’ she asked crisply. ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘Contusions,’ the paramedic said. ‘Possible broken ribs.’

She frowned. ‘So why isn’t he en route to the ER?’

The paramedic shrugged. ‘He’s refused transport.’

‘Because it’s only a bad bruise,’ Marcus muttered. ‘Can I have my shirt back?’

Her glance flicked down to his bare chest, then shot back up to his face like a rocket. ‘I’m sorry. Your shirt is evidence now, along with the Kevlar vest, but my partner brought you something to wear,’ she said, her tone coolly efficient.

‘Marcus,’ Deacon said pleasantly.

Marcus nodded once. ‘Deacon,’ he said in the same pleasant tone.

Deacon held out a plain black T-shirt. ‘Good to see you’re not dead.’

Marcus clenched his teeth against the memory of the shots fired at close range. ‘Yeah,’ he said bitterly. ‘That would have left an even bigger mess.’ He tugged the shirt over his head, managing to swallow most of a groan as fire streaked across his shoulders and down his back.

‘I heard that. You need to go to the hospital,’ Scarlett said firmly.

‘No. I don’t.’ Marcus took an experimental deep breath, happy when both his lungs inflated properly. ‘I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime. Nothing they can do for broken ribs anyway.’ He gave the medic a nod. ‘But thanks for checking me out.’

‘Whatever,’ the paramedic said, shaking his head as he slammed the ambulance doors closed and drove away.

Then it was just the three of them at the end of the alley, standing in a little bubble of silence as CSU processed the scene fifty feet away. Scarlett and Deacon were waiting for his statement, he knew. Suddenly wearier than he’d been in months, Marcus straightened his spine, his gaze arrowing in on the patch of bloodstained asphalt. He had to be careful. He was tired, he was in pain. But most of all, he was filled with cold rage. In this state he could easily reveal more than he should.

Clear your mind. Tell them only what is relevant to catching Tala’s killer. Everything else was not their business.

He cleared his throat. ‘Her name was Tala. She was only seventeen.’

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 3.45 A.M.

‘Tala what?’ Scarlett asked evenly, thanking God that the man had put a shirt on. Not staring at his chest had taken a sizeable portion of her concentration. Now she could focus on his words. Now I can do my damn job. A girl was dead. The victim deserved justice, not the half-assed efforts of a homicide detective who couldn’t keep her hormones in check.

Scarlett was glad Deacon had arrived. In the moments she’d stood in the alley alone with Marcus O’Bannion, she’d lost her professional perspective. Her emotions had taken over – and a few of those emotions hadn’t left her feeling proud of herself. She’d felt jealous of the dead girl, for God’s sake, because he’d been meeting her. Then disappointment that he’d been meeting her. All combined with a nearly obsessive refusal to believe that whatever Marcus was up to could be wrong in any way.

She believed too deeply, too blindly, that he was a good man. That he was a hero.

‘She never said her last name.’ Marcus didn’t look at them as he spoke. He was staring at the crime scene, at the spot where the girl had died. ‘I didn’t get the chance to ask.’

Because the girl had been shot. As had Marcus.

‘What did she get the chance to say?’ Scarlett asked.

Marcus clenched his jaw. ‘That her family was in danger. When I asked from who, she said, “The man and his wife, they own us.”’

Scarlett’s heart sank.

Deacon muttered a curse. ‘Owned exactly how?’ he asked.