The Fed followed her calmly, his body warm behind her. His weight rocked the car before he pressed the button for the main floor. Then he took up all the space in the delapidated elevator as it ascended and faltered alarmingly every once in a while. He stole all the oxygen as well. Brigid studied the six-foot-two government agent from beneath her lashes. “I am not drawn to controlling individuals,” she said with as much force as she could muster.

He moved then, faster than a whip training a new colt. His big body bracketed her into a corner. “Let’s test that theory.” When he leaned down, the scent of woodsy musk washed over her like a warning. “And the word ‘individuals’ wasn’t what you meant.” His voice went low and hard. “What word did you really mean?”

She blinked twice, up into his incredibly dark eyes. A shiver ticked from her shoulders down her spine, licking each vertebra on the way. This was not the same man she’d been dealing with for the last couple of months. “Step back.”

His face lowered, his eyes blazing. “No.”

Holy crap. She tried to meet his gaze, but her stomach had gone all mushy and her head fuzzy. What in the world was happening? He was like a code that didn’t add up. Unfortunately, she was drawn to a mystery like that as much as to a seriously sexy man. This one she should so not find sexy. He wasn’t even close to her type. “Raider,” she breathed.

He watched her more closely than anybody ever had, his gaze running from her widened eyes down her heated face to her throat as she convulsively swallowed. His chin lifted. “Interesting. Score one for the profilers.”

Panic melded with anger, and she let both loose. She shoved him with hands set on either side of his perfect tie.

He didn’t move. Hard muscle, cut and warm, lurked beneath the pristinely pressed shirt. His head cocked to the side. “I asked you a question, Brigid.” The commanding tone alone would’ve caught her attention, but a thread beneath, a hint of something new, stilled her. Was that a Southern accent?

She needed more words from him. “Men. Man. Males,” she muttered. “I don’t like controlling men.”

“Of course, you don’t,” he agreed, stepping back just enough to let her breathe. “But you do like men who are in control.” The accent was gone.

“There’s no difference,” she snapped.

“Oh, sugar. There’s definitely a difference.” There it was again.

Very faint, but so intriguing she leaned toward him. “Do you have an accent?” she asked.

His smile provided both warning and invitation. “You’ll know me well enough to be able to answer that question soon.”