Nick wished he couldn’t smell her, wished he wasn’t so aware of her. And more than anything, he wished he didn’t so vividly remember the night he’d spent lost in her. “I was furious,” he said in a soft tone.

“When?” she asked, confused.

“On my way to his place this morning. If he hadn’t been dead when I got there, I might’ve killed him myself.”

“Nick…” Her tone was full of warning, reminding him not to forget who he was talking to.

“If you want to know who John O’Connor was, the fact that his chief of staff was on his way to haul him out of bed—again—should tell you everything you need to know.”

“It doesn’t tell me everything, but it’s a start.”

Chapter 5

Sam’s memories of Nick Cappuano should have faded over the years, but they hadn’t. He remained a larger-than-life character from a single night that shouldn’t have meant as much as it had. But she had forgotten the reality of him—his height, easily six-three or -four, broad shoulders, chocolate brown hair that curled at the ends, hazel eyes that missed nothing, olive-toned skin, strong, efficient hands that changed forever what she expected from a lover, crackling intelligence, and the cool aura of reserved control she’d found so fascinating the first time she met him.

Cracking that control had been one of the best memories from her night with him. When he didn’t call, she’d wondered if their intense connection had scared him off. But now that she knew he had called, that he had wanted to see her again…that changed everything.

“Can I ask you something that has nothing to do with the case?” she said as they cut across the District on the way to the Watergate where he’d left his car. Along the way, they noticed a few American flags already lowered to half-mast in John’s honor. The word was out, and the official mourning had begun.

“Sure.”

Her heart raced as she picked at a scab she’d mistakenly thought healed long ago. “When you called me…after…that night…do you remember who you talked to at my house?”

He shrugged. “Some guy. One of your roommates maybe.”

Knowing the answer before she even asked, she said, “You didn’t get his name? I lived with three guys.”

“Shit, I don’t know. Paul maybe.”

“Peter?”

“Yes. Peter. That was it. I talked to him a couple of times.”

Gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Sam wanted to scream.

“Was he your boyfriend?”

“Not then,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Later?”

“He’s my ex-husband.”

“Ah! Well, now it all makes sense,” he said but there was a bitter edge to his voice that she understood all too well. She was feeling rather bitter herself at the moment.