Code Name: Grace (Jameson Force Security 6.5)

The fucking gut-punch of it is that after Katz murdered Corinne’s parents and I’d shown her a photo lineup of our three suspects, with three other random men who weren’t involved mixed in, she picked Richard Katz out with absolutely no hesitation.

It had been what I needed to arrest him. Her positive identification meant he’d sat in jail until trial. Later, the case was bolstered by a DNA match to one of the murders—not her parents’—and those two key pieces of evidence were enough for the jury to convict him.

I’d fucking had him. After interviewing him, I’d known it was him. And while I can reason my hands had been constrained by due process, I surely could have done something more. In hindsight, after getting to know Corinne, I wish I’d had the guts to do more. I could have easily planted evidence in his home, which is so illegal I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking about it.

But I’m not. If it had prevented the pain Corinne felt then and still feels now, I would have gladly done it no matter the risks to my own career. Of course, it could be argued had I done that and prevented her parents’ murders, I would have never met Corinne. It’s that selfish thought alone that has me feeling grounded again.

I just don’t deserve the woman. While I’m so relieved she seems to be doing well, I don’t believe I can ever move past the guilt that continues to consume me.

I’m glad I read through the report again. I needed the pain and weight of my sins to bring me back to reality.

I’m not good for Corinne. Come tomorrow, I’m going to stick to my terms of one night and get her to take me home, then kindly ask her not to contact me again.

CHAPTER 6

Corinne

I’m just about to take a sip of coffee when I hear Clay bounding down the stairs. The kitchen clock shows it’s just past eight-thirty. As he comes into view, dismay fills me when I see his duffel bag over his shoulder. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower. I should feel bad about it, but I don’t, because damn if he’s not the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.

Throughout my life, I’ve known gorgeous men, been with handsome men, and been attracted to a wide variety of men. But in my lifetime, no one has ever affected me on a visceral level the way Clay does. As some women like to say, he pushes all of my buttons.

“Merry Christmas,” I exclaim brightly. Lowering my cup, I ask, “Want some coffee? I was just getting ready to make breakfast.”

Clay lowers his duffel on one of the stools at the island. He smiles, but it’s strained. “I wouldn’t say no to coffee. If you don’t mind, though, would you be willing to give me a lift back to my place afterward?”

Trying to appear nonchalant, I give him my back as I move to a cupboard for another mug. I pour him some coffee, remembering he takes his black. “Why the rush?”

When I turn back to face him, I have to give him credit. His gaze never wavers when he says, “This wasn’t a good idea, Corinne.”

“Breakfast or coffee?” I ask lightly.

His expression doesn’t budge an inch. “You and I spending time together. As friends or something more. And you and I both know we could easily end up there if I’d only let it, but I can’t.”

I hand the cup over to him. “May I point out that you haven’t even tried?”

Clay sets it on the counter without taking a sip. “I have tried. I came here with you, had a nice evening, ate good food, and helped you decorate the tree.”

“So, what changed between us going to bed and waking up this morning?” I demand. “Because last night felt like the start of something good.”

Clay huffs in frustration, running his fingers through his blond hair. He wears it just a little longer than FBI regulations. He’s always been a bit of a rulebreaker like that.

When he picks up the mug, blows over the top, and takes a slow sip, I recognize it for the stall tactic it is.

“Clay,” I prompt. “What changed?”

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his coffee cup. When he lowers it, his mouth is set into a grim line. “Nothing changed. And that’s the problem.”

Cryptic and not good enough. Yes, I know he feels guilty, but I always thought it was foolish. There was no way he could have saved my parents, and I don’t understand why he can’t see that.

“Well, I can’t take you home,” I say with a shrug.

His mouth drops open slightly in surprise.

“And why not?”

“Because there’s no way I’m getting my car out of the garage and down the hill to the main road. The news said almost thirteen inches fell last night.”