“You can thank me when we find her.”

Jack’s eyelids close. I interpret it as gratitude, but it could be prayer. When men lose hope, regardless of religious affiliation, they pray. Visit any battlefield and you’ll witness this truth.

“You know, back at the academy, you were pretty much the only upperclassman to give me the time of day.” Jack’s eyelids open slowly. There’s a faraway look to his gaze, like he’s mentally elsewhere. “Never forgot you. And I’m going to find your daughter.”

“I was hoping you’d remember I helped you with that physics final.”

That brings out a chuckle. In me, not in Jack. I suspect he doesn’t have a smile in him.

“Thank you,” he says and nods to emphasize the words. “I’d drive you guys, but I should stick around the house. The police might—”

“That’s fine. I understand.” The last thing the man needs to be worrying about is transporting us.

I am two steps outside the office when he calls out, “And Ryan? Thanks for working with Alex. Cassandra, her parents passed early on in our marriage. She doesn’t have a big family. Alex may not realize it, but she and her dad, in the ways that matter, were her family. She’d want them to be involved.” He folds his arms across his chest. His gaze falls to some point on the floor. “Alex would be her first call. Cassandra believes she’s brilliant. So, thank you.”

The present tense associated with his dead ex-wife isn’t lost on me, but it’s not the type of thing one corrects. Especially on a day like today.

Frustration seeps out of every pore as I clomp up the stairs. Leaving with no clues feels like ringing the god damn bell. I made it through BUD/S, the SEAL training nightmare, without ringing it. And yet here I am. But it isn’t the same.

We have a dozen agents working the case around the clock. Going home doesn’t mean giving up. It just means regrouping. Back in the guest suite, I fling the bedroom door open and freeze.

Alex stands at the end of the bed. She’s wearing a sheer crimson bra and matching lace thong. Christ. Her dark hair skims her shoulders, and those dark eyes lock on me. Mere seconds tick past, yet I memorize every single curve, her flat, smooth stomach, the shadow of her belly button, and those long, lean, sensational legs. I have always been a leg guy, and this woman defines legs for miles. The sheer bra hints at the darker shade of her areolas, and the fabric lifts her breasts, breasts I had dismissed as small, but before me, dressed in red lace, I ache to taste.

Feminine, graceful fingers stroke her clavicle, and the movement breaks my frozen trance.

“Ah, sorry…wrong room.”

One arm crosses over her breasts and one knee bends over the other, demurely covering herself, the same sexy move she pulled this morning. The slope of her hip and thigh draw attention to the juncture between those lengthy thighs.