He turned back and caught his partner’s expression. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?” Wilkins asked innocently. “Oh . . . you mean I shouldn’t comment on the fact that you haven’t taken your eyes off her since we got here? Is that what I’m not supposed to talk about?”

“It’s my job—our job—to watch her.”

Wilkins nodded. “Of course.”

Jack muttered under his breath. At least in Nebraska a man could glance at a woman once or twice—for professional reasons—in peace.

He stole another look, for security purposes, and watched as the sweater once again slid away from her collarbone, inching down, taunting him, teasing him, dipping lower and lower, revealing creamy ivory skin and that delicate gray silk strap he could rip away with his teeth.

A shoulder. He was going crazy over a f**king shoulder .

He swore, turning to Wilkins. “What’s the deal with that sweater, anyway? Is there a reason she can’t keep herself clothed? Did she buy the wrong size? Seriously, somebody needs to throw a coat over that woman.” He shoved away from the bar. “I’m going to walk the room. Make sure everything is still secure.”

AMY LEANED OVER and whispered in Cameron’s ear. “Okay, now he’s pacing back and forth.”

“You don’t have to give me the play-by-play,” Cameron whispered back. “If I want to know what he’s doing, I’ll just look myself.”

Of course, that’s exactly what she did. She snuck a quick glance across the room and watched as Jack did a loop around the bar, then looked back. When he saw her watching him, he turned and began crossing the room toward her, like a panther stalking its prey. From the intense look in his eyes—whatever he was about to say—he was a man on a mission.

Sitting next to her, Amy was wide-eyed, mesmerized at the sight of Jack heading over in all his seemingly pissed-off-once-again glory. “I changed my mind, Cam. If this was all a big setup and he’s coming over to strip for me, I think I can handle it. I definitely can handle it.”

Hearing Amy’s words, the other girls stopped talking. Following her gaze, they turned to watch as Jack approached. He stopped in front of the bed of women who lounged about like a sultan’s idle harem and stared down at Cameron.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Okay. Talk.”

“Alone.”

Cameron didn’t like being ordered around by Jack, but she didn’t want to make a scene in case he needed to discuss some security issue. With a nonchalant look, she slid off the bed—oopsie, another flash of leg, strange how that kept happening around him—and followed Jack out of the VIP room.

He took her by the arm and led her through the hallway into a barely lit corridor.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” she asked. From the look on his face, she was only partially teasing.

“Not today.”

He released his grip and paced the corridor in front of her. Cameron had no idea what he was so worked up about, but she looked him over closely right then and was satisfied to say that he looked nothing like a ham to her.

More like a chocolate molten lava cake. A dessert so sinful, so luscious, so filled with inner heat it made a girl want to lick each and every crumb right off the plate. That was Jack Pallas.

Cameron regrouped. “So am I supposed to guess, or do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“I think you know.”

Oh, balls. He was going to bring up The Thing That Never Happened on her doorstep.

“The investigation?” she asked hopefully.

He threw her a dark look that reminded her why Jack Pallas was not a man to be trifled with.

She leaned against the wall, thinking she might as well make herself comfortable. Jack stopped his pacing. His eyes ran over her.

“We’re going to finish that talk of ours from the other night.” He crossed the hall and put one of his hands on the wall next to her. “You said that I saw what I wanted to see that morning at Davis’s office. Explain.”

Cameron stared up at Jack defiantly. Ha—like he could intimidate her into talking. Well, he probably could; he could probably get anyone to talk eventually. But she was decidedly immune to any of his so-called sexual char—wow, he smelled fantastic. His shampoo, perhaps? Couldn’t be aftershave, with that I-just-rolled-out-of-bed scruff of his.

Decidedly immune.

“We’re back to this again?” Cameron asked, feigning disinterest.

Jack put his second hand on the wall to the other side of her, trapping her in.

She eyed her predicament. Wits don’t fail me now.“I think this constitutes false imprisonment, Agent Pallas.”

“Probably. And I’m about to throw in an illegal interrogation.” He peered down into her eyes. “Let’s start at the beginning. Three years ago. Martino. You told me the decision not to file charges was yours.”

“You think we’re going to have this conversation now? Like this?” Cameron gestured to their closeness.

Slowly, Jack grinned. His voice was warmer now, whisky-rich. “Actually, I think this is perfect.” But his gaze remained unwavering. “Start talking, Cameron. I saw you come out of Davis’s office that morning. Why were you th—”

They were plunged into darkness as all the lights in the club went out.

Cameron felt Jack’s hand grip her arm. She felt his other hand brush against her chest as he reached underneath his blazer for his gun.