Sam let her hand drop away from him. “You’ve worked hard for your career. I respect that, and I don’t want to have anything to do with messing it up.” She was making a bloody mess out of this conversation. Nothing was coming out the way she intended. “That’s all.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I get it. If I were in his shoes, I’d be possessive of what was mine too.”

His intense expression made her heart beat faster as a flash of fear went through her. Nick would kill him if he ever saw him looking at her that way. “I... Um...”

“Forget I said that.” He extended a hand. “Friends?”

Sam eyed his outstretched hand warily before she reached out to shake it. “Friends.”

“Let’s get to work.”

She released his hand and headed toward the main door, suddenly aware that the press corps camped outside HQ had witnessed the exchange with Hill. Fabulous.

“Lieutenant, any suspects in the Vasquez murder?” one of them asked.

“Nothing yet. Hope to have something for you soon.”

“What’s with the scarf?” Hill asked as they crossed the lobby.

“Had a little trouble with Lieutenant Stahl this morning,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

Sam told him about what’d happened outside her front door.

“The guy’s got brass balls going to your house, especially when you’ve got Secret Service all over the place.”

“He’s also got bruised balls. I managed to get off a good kick, but it’s embarrassing to admit how quickly he overpowered me.”

“He took you by surprise.”

“Still...”

“Your pride is wounded.”

“A little bit, but I feel better knowing his junk is wounded too.”

Hill snorted with laughter. “You would.”

Farnsworth waylaid them. “Lieutenant Holland. My office. Now.”

Sam rolled her eyes at Hill. “Meet you in the pit.”

“Good luck,” Hill said.

Sam followed Farnsworth to his office.

He slammed the door and turned to her, furious. “Are you all right?”

Sam couldn’t recall a time when she’d seen him so angry, and that was saying something since she often made him angry. “Yes.”

“Let me see.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“I said, let me see.”

Aggravated by the bossy men in her life, Sam unwound the scarf and tipped her head so he could see what were probably angry bruises on her neck.

“God, Sam,” he said, sagging. “He could’ve killed you.”

“Well, he didn’t and he’s got bruised junk as a result of his trouble.”

“That’s the least of what he deserves. I just got off the phone with Forrester. He’s going to throw the book at Stahl. There’s nothing any of us hate more than dirty cops.”

“So no chance of bail?”

“Forrester will fight it. He’s handling the case personally.”

“That’s good. I can’t help but relish the idea of Stahl in prison.”