My time with Chuck Puckett hadn’t been all bad. We’d had some good times, like the time he took me to that carnival and won a stuffed animal for me. It might have been a photo op set up by his people, but at the time, I didn’t care. As he’d handed me the oversized elephant that now rested in peace at the dump after being drilled with a few hundred rounds from my semiautomatic, he’d done so with the crooked grin that had reeled me in from the start. Chuck Puckett had oozed charm, secreting good-natured humor and gentlemanly goodness through every pore.

Good. That was how I’d describe him. Genuinely nice. The voters had thought so too, reelecting him to a second term by a landslide. He’d been handsome, blond with the ruddy-cheeked ruggedness from a Land’s End catalog. Some girls liked bad boys, some suits. Me? I had a weakness for flannel and guys who could make a snowman and a cup of hot cocoa.

No, he hadn’t been all bad. It was these sentimental musings that had led me to be sitting in my car in front of the church where Chuck Puckett would be eulogized. The same church where generations of Pucketts had been baptized, married, and mourned. Chuck Puckett had talked about us being married here as though it were a certainty and not the consolation it apparently had been for banging his southeast slut on the side.

The mourners filed up the steps in twos and threes. I recognized a few political cronies, family members, and friends. This was the crowd I’d run with during the year Chuck Puckett and I had been together. I hadn’t thought I’d fit in, but he’d paved the way so that even the snootiest political wife air-kissed me with the same enthusiasm as she would the first lady. It was nice that so many had shown up to honor him.

I flipped down the visor and opened the mirror to dab at unexpected tears. I didn’t know why I was crying over Chuck Puckett. I was supposed to be mad at him, furious at the cheating rat bastard. But a new, surprising emotion had replaced my anger—regret.

I climbed out of my car and picked my way around the puddles left over from last night’s rain. I knew better than to wear suede pumps, but they’d gone so perfectly with my outfit. Head down, I didn’t see the mob until I was in the midst of it and then it was too late. Shouts of “Why’d you do it, Maggie?” and “Murdering Maggie!” drowned out the somber strains coming from inside the church. Reporters jostled me from all sides, and I would’ve fallen if a strong hand hadn’t gripped my elbow, steadying me.

“I got you.” Super Agent Poole put his arm around me and hustled me up the church steps and into an unoccupied antechamber off the main vestibule. He didn’t release me. Instead he gripped both my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “Are you crazy? What in the hell are you doing here?”

Not the reunion I’d pictured. In my imaginings there’d been flattering words and smoldering looks. What I got was two hundred and fifty pounds of pissed-off G-man.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” I asked. Who was this guy to tell me what to do?

“The cops are already looking for a reason to charge you with murder. Showing up at the victim’s funeral only helps their case.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. No wonder the sharks out front had circled and bumped me like it was feeding time.

“I can take you out the back way.” He started to steer me to a door on the other side of the room.

Holding up a hand, I dug in my heels. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Why are you here?”

“A senator was murdered.”

That was as good an answer as any, I supposed. “What about you?”

He huffed out a breath. “What about me?”

“Do you think I killed him?”

“No.”

His one-word exoneration left me a bit lightheaded. He was the first law-enforcement type I’d come across during this whole mess who hadn’t mentally convicted me on sight, including my own attorney.

“Why?”

“Does that matter? We have to get you out of here.”

“I just wanted to pay my respects. I kinda loved him. You know…before.”

His mouth compressed into a grim line. “I’m sure you did. Can we go now?”

We started for the door but stopped at the sound of voices. Super Agent and I exchanged looks. He put his finger to his lips, drawing my attention to their kissable perfection. The doorknob turned. Gripping my arm, he pulled me through another door, this one a tiny closet. Two men came into the room where we’d just been, arguing.

Super Agent shifted, rubbing me in a most titillating way. Man, did he smell good, all woodsy and leathery, like he’d been hiking outdoors. I leaned in for a sniff and bumped my forehead on his chin. He slid a hand into my hair at the nape, holding me still. I suppressed a moan and the instinct to arch into the caress. This man barely touched me and my body lit up like the Fourth of July.

“I can’t find her,” said a man who sounded a lot like the thugs my brother used to hang out with, all ego, no smarts.

“What do you mean you can’t find her?” a guy with a distinct Boston accent answered. “You weren’t supposed to take your eyes off her.”

“She slipped out when that loudmouth lost it and kicked the senator, ruining everything,” Thug said.

He was talking about me! I made a move for the door, but Super Agent blocked me and pulled me tight against him, clamping his big hand over my mouth. I stilled, my brain caught between wanting to rub up against him like a cat in heat and head-butting him. It was a rather annoying predicament.

“She knows too much,” Boston said, his voice tight and ugly. “Find her. I don’t trust her. In the meantime Miss Castro will make the perfect patsy.”

I struggled, which did more to arouse me than free me. Super Agent seemed to be having the same issue. He backed me up against the side of the closet, pinning me with his big body. My heart jackhammered in my chest, making it difficult to find air. The big, giant mitt over my mouth didn’t help matters either.

“That’ll cost extra,” Thug said, obviously afraid of Boston.

“You’re trying to charge me more for a botched job?” Boston’s tone sent a shudder through me.

“Jesus, stop squirming,” Super Agent whispered in my ear, giving me more shivers. My quickened breath blew hot over his fingers as he smoothed his thumb over the pulse in my neck to calm me. But it didn’t work. This guy set off all my libidinous tendencies.

“Expenses. That’s all,” Thug tried to reason.

“Eat ’em.”

Super Agent stiffened and I sucked in air at the distinct click of a gun being cocked.

“Or I’ll give you something else less pleasant to eat,” Boston finished.

“Yes, sir.”

A door opened and closed. They were gone. Super Agent relaxed once more. Well, most of him did. A very impressive part of him still stood at attention.

“They killed him,” I mumbled under Super Agent’s hand.

He removed his hand. “What?”

“They killed Chuck Puckett. Go arrest them.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know who they are. Did you get a look at them? ’Cause I didn’t.”

“What exactly does the I in FBI stand for?” I shot back.

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Fan-flipping-tastic. The only possible lead to exonerate me just walked out the door.”

“Are you all right?”

Half turned-on, half scared, I shook my head. None of this was right, including my very wrong thoughts about Super Agent.

He cradled my face in his hands. “I’ll find them for you.”

As much as I wanted to hand over this entire mess to someone way more qualified than me to find out what really happened, I had to ask. “Why?”

“You don’t deserve this. Any of this.”

In the history of right answers this had to be the rightest answer ever delivered. Somehow my arms had twined themselves around his neck and now he was bringing me closer or I was pulling him down. Either way, in the darkness, we kissed, and this time the jolt was not caused by static electricity.