“Thank you,” I said, turning on my heels and heading back the way I’d come.

Instead of retreating to my cubicle, I went into the hall and poked around until I found Val. She was in Agent Marks’s office.

“Can I speak with you for a minute?” I asked.

She looked at Marks and then stood. “Sure.”

She shut the door behind her, biting her lip.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

She made a face. “He’s been chasing me for six months. Now that Trex is out of the way, he is under the misapprehension that he has a chance.”

My face compressed. “Did I transfer to a singles bar?” I shook my head. “Don’t answer that. I need a favor.”

“Already?”

“Where does Maddox frequent around lunchtime? Does he have a favorite eatery? Does he stay here?”

“The fitness room. He’s there every day at this time.”

“That’s right. You’ve mentioned that. Thanks,” I said.

She called after me, “He hates being interrupted! As in, his soul hates being interrupted!”

“He hates everything,” I grumbled under my breath, pressing the button for the elevator.

I went down two levels and then took the skywalk to the west offices.

The newly built San Diego office was comprised of three large buildings, and it would likely be a maze to me for a week or two at least. It was a stroke of luck that Val had shown me the way to the fitness room the day before.

The closer I came to the fitness room, the faster I walked. I held my badge against the black square protruding from the wall. After a beep and the sound of the lock opening, I pulled open the door to see Maddox’s feet dangling in the air, his face red and glistening with perspiration, while he bobbed quickly on a chin-up bar. He barely acknowledged me, still carrying on with his workout.

“We need to talk,” I said, holding up my report, which was now crinkled from my grip. That made me even angrier.

He let go of the bar, his sneakers landing on the floor with a thud. He was breathing hard, and he used the collar of his heather-gray FBI T-shirt to wipe the dripping sweat from his face. The bottom hem pulled up, revealing just a sliver of his perfectly cut lower abs and one side of the V that I had fantasized about at least a dozen times since the first time I’d seen it.

His answer brought me back to the present. “Get out.”

“This is for all employees of the facility, is it not?”

“Not between eleven and noon.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” His jaw flitted under his skin, and then he eyed the papers in my hand. “Did you rework that FD-three-oh-two?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” I seethed. “The transcription and translation are accurate, and the FD-three-oh-two, like I’ve said, is thorough.”