"No fucking way." Paul Sullivan glared across the desk at his good friend, Lt. Col. Grant Plummer, Regional Defense Counsel for the eastern region of the Marine Corps.

"Sorry, Paul, I should have mentioned it. We brought you in because of your proven track record, and I know you will do your typical comprehensive and unbiased job, but the FBI is putting the pressure on. The victim was one of theirs after all.

Paul grunted.

"In the end, we're all on the same team, right? We all want justice."

Paul kept the next curse to himself. He usually worked alone and resented the FBI poking their noses into Marine Corps business. And from what he'd seen of them during the Chilvati investigation, they were all a bunch of uptight fact-checkers. "I don't need a bird-dog tagging along with me everywhere I go."

"He might be a big help considering you've only got three weeks to prepare. If it's any consolation, I've heard Robbie Westcott is tough, with a reputation for getting to the truth regardless of rank or political correctness. A genius with computers too, works part-time as an instructor right here in Quantico at the FBI Investigative Computer Training Unit. Just consider him an overpaid executive assistant."

Paul ran his eyes over the wall of built-ins behind Grant. They were crammed full of leather-bound reference books, all having to do with the law, and he swore he could smell the pages. It reminded him of all those years spent in the library. Fact-checking. "Well maybe I will be able to use him, give him the tedious stuff to handle," he muttered.

"Good." Grant rolled his chair back and stood to grab his jacket from the coat rack next to the desk. "Agent Westcott's coming in later. Will you join me for lunch?"

Paul picked up his briefcase as he unfolded himself from the guest chair. "I'll meet you down there. I have to stop by the housing office and check in."

Paul walked out and turned right when he hit the hallway. He knew his way around the base pretty well, having been to both Officers Candidate School and The Basic School here before attending the Naval Justice School in Rhode Island. Hard to believe he'd been a practicing Judge Advocate for almost two years now and was already running his own cases. Pretty impressive compared to friends of his from law school who were still slugging it out in the big civilian firms, with little or no courtroom experience under their belt yet.

He'd won every case he had been assigned so far, making him a standout among his colleagues. As a result, he was given first choice on cases as they came up.

But this one was the cream of the crop for a defense attorney.

Tony Shaw, a colonel with a long, outstanding career in the Marine Corps, was accused of killing his wife of fifteen years, who just happened to be a well-respected FBI agent. It was a gruesome murder, her naked body found in their home, laid out on the dining room table, stabbed thirty-one times. No sign of sexual assault.

The story had made national headlines and people across the country were still arguing over it. There seemed to be no grey area—Colonel Shaw was either guilty or innocent in the mind of the average citizen. Luckily for the defendant, he had a friend in Grant Plummer, who stood by the man's claim of innocence, which is why special arrangements had been made between Pendleton and Quantico to bring Paul to the east coast.

He ran over the timeline in his head. Everything was going smoothly; however, Agent Westcott was likely going to be a problem. Not being a trained lawyer, he could get bogged down in the details. How did he let Grant talk him into that?

Caught up in his thoughts, Paul rounded the next corner without paying much attention, moving too fast to avoid the person on the other side. A woman, he realized at the last second, trying hard to minimize the impact when their bodies hit. As his briefcase rammed into her leg, the file she was holding bounced off his chest and spun to the floor, its papers scattering at their feet.

"Great," she groaned, bending to rub her knee.

Paul crouched down to retrieve what had fallen between them. Having no idea what order the papers went in, he did his best to straighten them and came back up to her level holding a semi-neat pile with the empty folder on top. "Sorry, you all right?"

Glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. He wasn't sure if the collision had knocked them down her face or if she just liked to wear them that way. As if noticing his scrutiny, she shoved the things to the top of her head.

"My fault," she said, thrusting her hands out. "I shouldn't be reading and walking at the same time."

Big brown eyes blinked up at him, and he could have sworn they had gold flecks throughout, making them shimmer. With a quick glance, he looked her over, all the way down to the sensible shoes. She could be pretty if she tried, he thought. Even with no makeup and hair that looked more stressed than styled, the high cheekbones and full lips gave off a classic beauty that couldn't be bought in stores. Still, there was drabness to her, most of it coming from the brown tweed suit that did little for her shape or complexion. Jesus, tweed? When was the last time he'd seen a woman in tweed?

With an impatient shift of her hands, she muttered, "I'll take it, thank you."

Coming to his senses, he jerked into action and passed the documents back to her, noticing for the first time the pink memo paper clipped to the front of the file with the handwritten note: FOR ROBBIE WESTCOTT.

With a chuckle he asked, "Do you work for Agent Westcott?"

"Kind of," she drew out, her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"He's working on a case with me. I'm supposed to meet with him later this afternoon. I've heard he's a bit of a hard-ass. What do you think?" He gave her one of his most charming grins as he reached down for the briefcase he'd abandoned on the ground.

She frowned. "If you call being thorough and getting the job done being a hard-ass, then yes, I guess that's true." She shoved the papers into the file and tucked it under her arm. "I'd better be on my way."

"Nice bumping into you."

Not even a hint of a smile as she stepped around him.

"Hey, wait." He was going to ask her what her name was, but she ignored him and kept walking. He shrugged, assuming he would see her again at some point while working with her boss.

Two hours later, Paul was back in Grant's office, both of them hunched over the array of pictures and documents spread out on the man's desk.

A heavy knock hit the door behind them.

"Come in," Grant called over his shoulder before pointing to the most gruesome of the photos. "That one is—"

"Lieutenant Colonel Plummer?"

The familiar feminine voice had Paul's head whipping around. It was her. The woman in tweed. Standing just inside the doorway. He looked behind her, but she was alone.

"Yes?" Grant said, straightening and turning.

"I believe we have a meeting scheduled. I'm Agent Westcott."

Paul had to admire Grant's reaction time. The man blinked a few, but pulled it together pretty damn quick. "Oh . . . yes . . . Agent Westcott, please, join us."

Paul stayed silent, still working on his recovery . . . not to mention the big foot currently sticking out of his mouth.

)l(

Robbie's knee was screaming like a banshee as she crossed the room, but she wasn't about to show it in front of the two of them. She'd been around Marines long enough to know that personal discomfort was something divulged only in medical records, filed under "s" for "suck-it-up." The baritone voice from the commercials popped into her head, chanting, The few. The proud. The—

Macho maniacs, she mentally cut in.

She kept her focus on the lieutenant colonel with a level of self-confidence that was impossible to attain when it came to the captain standing next to him. Which, given their ranks, really should have been the reverse.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Westcott." Plummer shook her hand before pointing to the man who had maneuvered behind her. "This is Captain Paul Sullivan."

No avoiding him now. She turned around.

God, he looked the same, tall and broad and too damn handsome for his own good. She'd been keeping track of him through social media and the occasional press release. A little stalkerish, yes, but she doubted she was the only one. His reputation was no secret—women liked him. And he liked them back. Lots of them. Too many to count in all probability. No big surprise that a woman he'd talked to once or twice during working hours would be lost in the crowd. Their little fender-bender in the hallway had only confirmed what she'd already expected—he didn't recognize her.

"Call me Robbie," she said, extending her hand, hoping it wasn't sweaty.

After a momentary hesitation, he put his in hers and muttered, "Sorry about thinking you were a man." When his gaze shifted behind her, she glanced over her shoulder in time to see Lt. Col. Plummer's eyes bulged so wide he looked like he was being squeezed at the waist.

"No worries. It happens all the time, what with the name"—she lifted her chin—"and the hard-ass reputation."

He was staring at her.

Really? Is this going to be a problem, working with a woman? Looking over to the desk, she asked, "Is that our case?"

It was impossible to miss the sudden stiffening in Paul's posture.

Plummer cleared his throat. "Yes, we were just going over a few of the details. Let me tell you what I know."

They spent the next hour going over the basics, the man in charge providing all the information that he, as regional defense council, had privy too. When the discussion turned more personal, Plummer described his history with Colonel Shaw. They had met in university. During the Gulf War, they were stationed together in Kuwait, Plummer as a battalion judge advocate, while Shaw, a lieutenant at the time, was in operations. He'd even been best man at the colonel's wedding, and as far as he or anyone else could tell, the couple had been happy during their fifteen years of marriage.

"It makes no sense," the lieutenant colonel sighed, shaking his head. "There's no way in hell that man suddenly killed his wife, never mind having the capability to stab her thirty-one times. He just doesn't have that kind of violence in him."

"Well, somebody did." Paul said. "Hopefully, I will figure out who that was."

We. We will figure it out, Robbie kept to herself.

Paul rose from his chair and Robbie followed suit.

"I'm going to go over all the statements tonight, then meet with Shaw in the morning. Can you let him know I'm coming?"

"That we're coming," Robbie corrected, hearing the irritation in her own voice.

Plummer's eyes flicked between them. "Sure, no problem. He's under house arrest, so he's available most of the time."

It wasn't until all the papers and pictures had been gathered together and jammed into his briefcase that Paul acknowledged her presence once again with an after-you sweep of his arm.

"Paul," Plummer called as they were leaving.

Paul stopped. Robbie went to the door and waited.

Plummer walked up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for taking this on." His gaze shifted to Robbie. "Both of you."

Robbie nodded.

"I'll"—Paul closed his eyes briefly—"we'll do whatever we can to help."

Robbie held the door for him on the way out. The two of them strode through the hallways without speaking. Once in the parking lot, Paul came to a halt and gazed up at the sky. "Well, Agent Westcott," he drew out, sounding like he'd just been saddled with babysitting duty. "Where would you like to start?"

"It's Robbie," she all but hissed, glaring up at him, tired of his attitude.

Green eyes lowered to hers and stayed there.

"You're going to have to get used to us working together."

The silence that followed made her want to curse. When he finally nodded, she blurted out, "How about my place?"

Dark brows shot way up.

Yeah, like you've never heard that before. She didn't give him a chance to reply before explaining, "It's not far from here, and we'll have privacy with room to spread out."

"Sounds good to me. I need to stop and pick up a few things, and then I'll meet you there."

She pulled out her phone. "Give me your number and I'll text you the address."

After exchanging digits, they parted, and all the way to the car she questioned her judgment. Her apartment? What the hell was she doing? How was this going to work? What was he thinking of her? Not the best way to maintain a professional distance there, Westcott.

She chose to ignore the self-warning, allowing the more disturbing question, the one that had been lurking around in the fringes for a while like some uninvited guest, to make its way in, right through the front door: What exactly did she want from Paul Sullivan?

END OF CHAPTER TWO

So we find out what happened to poor Elizabeth Shaw. Horrible. 😫 Let's hope they can figure out who killed her.

Paul never changes, does he. How do you think Robbie knows him?

Warning ⚠️ Full steam ahead. The next chapter is a sexy one. I know exactly what you are all thinking. Whaaaaaaat? So soon?  You betcha! Be prepared.

All votes ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ and comments 💬💬💬💬are appreciated!