I'll try anything once, twice if I like it, three times to make sure. ~ Mae West

Three months ago — Kansas City, Missouri

“Max, I—” M’Kenzee Davenport didn’t get a chance to finish what she wanted to say as her big brother stormed through the room. He didn’t look her way — or even hesitate to acknowledge her —before disappearing into the training room where doctors and trainers buzzed around their friend Janie Lyn after someone had brutally attacked her during Max’s football game.

Ooooh!

M’Kenzee stomped her foot at his dismissal. She needed to tell him something, and she would not be ignored.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re still not allowed in here.” The agent guarding the door grated on M’Kenzee’s last nerve. She’d already tried to reason with him multiple times. Still, he refused to pay attention. On top of that, Max couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge her. How ridiculous.

“I have to talk to someone about what happened,” she said. Again.

“Officers will get around to your statement when they can. Until then, you need to stay out here.” He brushed her off, not even glancing her way as he spoke.

“You just let my brother—”

“Ma’am, don’t make me tell you again,” he threatened, looking up at her from where he sat in a chair just outside the door she needed to enter. His eye contact lasted less than an instant before his gaze went back to his phone.

The little twerp didn’t look old enough to shave. M’Kenzee decided she could take him…even with his shiny FBI windbreaker, his fancy badge card hanging on a lanyard around his neck, and the compact sidepiece strapped in the holster on his belt. If this guy represented the future of law enforcement in America, the country was in grave peril.

“If you could just—” 

He scooted his chair sideways to ignore her.

She’d had enough.

M’Kenzee looked over her shoulder to find her sister and friends huddled across the room. Noting they were fine, she inhaled to shore her resolve and shoved the door open behind the agent.

In his scrambling alarm, she sidestepped the agent and entered the training room to see Max sitting beside Janie Lyn’s physical therapy table. Her eyes were closed, her face and arms already turning black and blue. Dried blood crusted on her hair and clothes. Max held her hand. He leaned forward, his forehead resting on the cushion next to her arm. M’Kenzee stopped short.

If a picture spoke a thousand words, the image before her narrated an epic novel of despair.

Ohhh.

She’d had no idea. Their little sister, Maree, had hinted that she thought something might be going on between Janie Lyn and their big brother, Max, but Maree, a hopeless romantic, liked to imagine that the entire world was falling in love at any given moment. M’Kenzee usually allowed Maree’s ramblings to go in one ear and out the other without giving them too much credence.

Janie Lyn had spent the past few days in Kansas City. M’Kenzee assumed Janie Lyn needed to help Max with a few house projects he couldn’t make time for during the football season. Clearly, there was more to it. Much more.

“Ma’am, you cannot be in here!”

The agent reached forward to grab M’Kenzee. Instinct to protect herself kicked in. She turned in a defensive move, grabbing his wrist to twist the man’s arm behind his back, when a strong, deep voice behind her took control of the room with a quiet but commanding statement.

“She’s fine.”

Oh.

M’Kenzee released the agent and lifted her hands in compliance. Agent Nadir snarled at her, clearly embarrassed a civilian had bested him, and a girl, at that. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, a silent challenge. His features twisted. She hoped he didn’t spit on her…for his sake.

“That’ll be all, Agent Nadir,” the man across the room said, clearly dismissing the weasel.

M’Kenzee closed her eyes, dreading what came next.

“Hello, M—” Brennigan Stewart’s Scottish brogue had a distinctive, mocking tone about it.

M’Kenzee whirled to face him before he could finish the greeting. The look in her eyes threatened his death if he said the wrong thing.

“—Kenzee.” He chose wisely. “Max is spending a moment with Janie Lyn. The team doctor sutured a pretty nasty cut, and she’s going to be terribly bruised. Otherwise, she seems to be okay, all things considered.”

A family outing to cheer on Max, who played tight end for the Kansas City Chiefs, had somehow turned into a crazy, chaotic afternoon.

Wanting to grab drinks and a pretzel before the second half started, M’Kenzee and Janie Lyn were working their way to the concession stand, fighting upstream through the crowd, when they’d been separated in the melee.

Next thing M’Kenzee knew, a fierce-looking man just a few steps ahead of her grabbed Janie Lyn, pulling her away by her hair while Janie Lyn kicked and screamed with all her might.

M’Kenzee began pushing people out of her way, rushing to catch up, fighting to get closer to Janie Lyn and her abductor. Years of working around the world as a photojournalist had her grabbing the camera hanging around her neck. M’Kenzee aimed the lens toward the action and clicked photos on the run.

Just as M’Kenzee got close enough to lunge for Janie Lyn, the hulk noticed M’Kenzee. He shoved Janie Lyn into a tiled concrete column in the stadium's concourse. M’Kenzee heard Janie Lyn cry out as her face cracked against the structure.

“Help us!” M’Kenzee bellowed as security officers ran towards them.

When they were mere steps away, the would-be abductor released Janie Lyn, giving her one last shove to the ground as he pushed people between them and ran.

M’Kenzee didn’t wait to see which way he went; she dropped to Janie Lyn, who huddled in a heap on the floor.

Within seconds, the EMTs arrived. They put Janie Lyn on a medical cart and drove her down the ramp to the team facilities under the stadium. Since then, M’Kenzee had been desperate to figure out what had happened, get a detailed update on Janie Lyn, and find someone official to share what little she knew. The entire ordeal felt surreal. Unbelievable!

To make matters worse — infinitely worse — she stood face to face with Bren.

Well over six-feet tall with disheveled auburn hair, a scruffy day-old beard, and startling green eyes, he looked exactly as M’Kenzee remembered. Perfect.

Every bit the confident FBI agent, he reeked of power and superiority.

“Why are you here?” she asked without preamble.

“I’m sure Max will fill you in when he can,” he said instead of providing a real answer.

“I need to talk to someone. I was with Janie Lyn when that brute—”

“Are you okay?” he interrupted. The tone of his voice didn’t change, but the alertness in his eyes reached a new level.

“Yes, but I need to talk to someone. I saw him and tried to stop him. I scraped my nails down his disgusting face and arm. Maybe there’s enough DNA to help find him. Also, I have to give this memory card to someone. They’re not my best work, but I got photos of the attacker,” she said.

Bren stood there, frozen in place, just looking at her. His eyes darted over her features, down her body, and back up to her face. He studied her dark blonde hair. She wondered what he thought of the pixie style, so different from the last time he’d seen her. His thoughts remained unreadable as his gaze lingered on her mouth. She felt the caress across her lips, although he remained several feet away.

The sensation made her uneasy, and when her hackles went up, her temper went with them. She lifted her chin, determined not to let her nerves show.

“I’m verra glad you’re not hurt.” His voice rasped, revealing his fiery heritage. He’d whispered the words for her ears only.

M’Kenzee’s heart rate sped up. He walked forward until they stood so close, she could smell the heady, spicy scent of his cologne. Still, she refused to back down.

“Who should I see about the DNA? And who wants the memory card?”

“I’ll take the card,” Bren said, holding out his palm. M’Kenzee trembled when she removed the card from her camera and set it in his open hand. Infuriating!

Bren clasped her shaky hand with his other one, immediately running his thumb over the back of her knuckles. Was he trying to calm and soothe her? Or was he testing the softness of her skin for himself?

She tried to pull away, but he held on.

“We need to get that DNA,” Bren murmured. He didn’t release her hand, but he did call a forensic tech over to scrape her nails and collect a sample. Once done, Bren walked M’Kenzee to a sink, turned the faucet on, and lifted her hands under the stream of warm water.

“I can wash my own hands,” she grumbled when Bren lathered soap and started massaging the suds into her fingers.

But she didn’t stop him.

It felt too good to feel his touch.

Once he’d rinsed their hands, turned off the water, and pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser, she’d gathered her wits enough to yank one away.

“Always so prickly,” Bren mused.

M’Kenzee finished drying her hands with jerky motions, wadded up the towel, and chunked it in the trash can.

Finished with that little encounter, she moved to leave. Bren reached out once more to grab her arm when she walked past him.

She felt the warmth of his firm, yet gentle, grasp, all the way to the pit of her stomach. She kept her eyes glued to the floor.

“You’re as gorgeous as ever,” Bren said in a low, husky voice, rolling his Rs and revealing his natural Scottish brogue, a sure sign he’d lifted the veil of his cool veneer.

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” M’Kenzee replied. She tried to sound indifferent, but her voice betrayed her.

“Why not?” Bren countered, pulling her arm toward him until she finally met his gaze.

M’Kenzee noted the gleam in his emerald eyes, the flecks of white diamonds that made them glisten. She indulged in one last sniff of his scent, so masculine and clean. She even enjoyed their test of wills for a split second — until he spoke again.

“Can’t a man compliment his wife?”