The Intelligence Unit Series

One year later

KAI ROMAN'S morning didn't s**k. This was more than he could say for most mornings-after all, they were mornings, and had an uphill battle by default. But even though he wasn't exactly a chipper kind of guy (fine. He was stone cold serious. So sue him for being a realist), he had to admit that this particular morning actually had a couple semi-decent things going for it. There hadn't been a line at the coffeeshop on the corner by his apartment. The weather was crisp and cool, with none of that humidity bullshit he suffered through every summer, but not so cold that he'd needed to drag his coat out of the hall closet where he'd jammed it in March. Best of all, last night he'd been able to slam-dunk another massive fraud case he'd worked jointly with Remington PD's Intelligence Unit, turning over the last of the case notes and paperwork that would close the case and bring justice to hundreds of people who had been victimized. While Roman didn't believe in anything nearly so cosmically woo-woo as good omens, he had to admit, so far, this morning had been full of promise.

Just like another morning attached to a day that f*****g wrecked you, pointed out a voice from the deep hidey-hole of his subconscious, making him stop short on the busy city sidewalk a few blocks from his office. Roman dodged out of foot traffic just in time to avoid being side-swiped by a man with a jogging stroller, placing his back to a bakery storefront and pretending to check his cell phone even though his heart was jammed in his throat. The deep breath he took did nothing to get his subconscious in line, and the memory of that other morning, six years ago now, yanked him back in time as if only six minutes had passed.

Sunshine spilling down from a cloudless sky, glinting off his freshly minted wedding band as he drove to work. A chest full of idiot happiness, thinking that the life in front of him would be loaded with anniversaries and milestones and maybe even kids. Grandchildren. A pair of rocking chairs on the porch. Forever.

The caller ID flashing over his dashboard with the words Northview Hospital. The simple, straightforward words the doctor had used when Roman had arrived fifteen minutes later, still convinced there had been some sort of mistake.

Your wife, Gabrielle, was hit by a car while she was on her morning run. She sustained multiple serious injuries, and despite our every effort, she died...

So, yeah. Good omens were for suckers. He'd stick with cold, hard reality, thanks.

At least reality would never blindside him, and it sure as hell wouldn't make him think he was cut out for something as happy-happy as forever. That ship had f*****g sailed.

Roman kicked his feet back into motion, his dress shoes clipping out a steady cadence on the concrete as he boxed up his memories and slid his focus back into place. He'd dealt with Gabi's death six years ago, doing all the Agency-required grief counseling and taking off enough time that his boss didn't give him too much shit for coming back to work too soon. But Gabi wasn't going to be any less gone no matter what Roman did. Throwing himself into work had been better than wandering around the apartment they'd shared, still expecting her to come home and tell him it had all been a huge mistake. It had been better than diving into a bottle. And it sure as hell had been better than getting all up in a bunch of feelings over something he couldn't change. So what if he'd spent the last six years at the office?

Grumbling under his breath, Kai opened the door to the bank a few blocks from the FBI field office he called home and stepped over the threshold. Wrapping the case last night had afforded him a little flex time this morning, and he'd put off his errands for far too long. Remington Financial was in one of the city's historic buildings, with polished marble floors, high ceilings, and a long, mahogany front desk adorned with brass fixtures. Despite having an old-world aesthetic, like a museum or a library, the bank hadn't skimped on security. As was the case with any financial institution nowadays, bullet resistant security glass separated the tellers from the bank patrons, and there were cameras mounted in several strategic yet subtly placed points along the ceiling and walls. Not that those were a guarantee that nothing bad would ever happen-Roman knew better than damn near anyone that you couldn't one-hundred-percent something like safety-but they sure didn't hurt.

Making his way further inside the well-lit space, Roman lifted his chin at the security guard, who returned the single-nod gesture before returning his attention to the side of the lobby where the bank managers and loan officers sat at their desks, quietly working. The large, airy space was divided by a combination of glass cubicle partitions, potted trees, and strategically placed furniture, offering privacy without ruining the open concept.

There were only two other customers on the opposite side of the lobby, an older white man who was chatting with the teller through the bulletproof barrier at the front desk and a dark-haired woman with her back to him, headed for the table bearing deposit and withdrawal slips. Her cream-colored sweater dress hugged a set of knockout f*****g curves, and Roman couldn't help but let his eyes linger on the hypnotic sway of her hips keeping time with the clack-clack-clack of her boots as she walked. Heat hit him in an uncharacteristic punch he hadn't felt in...Christ, had it been a whole year since he'd met Camila Garza, a.k.a. the younger sister of Detective Matteo Garza, a.k.a. the Intelligence Unit detective who still hated Roman's guts? The feeling was (also still) mutual, not that Roman tended to get all chummy with RPD detectives in the first place. Especially not ones who poached cases that belonged to him.

But the detective's sister had been different. Camila had hit him like a sassy, sexy hurricane. She'd flirted with him pretty boldly as they'd taken turns beating each other at darts, which normally, Roman would've shut down quick. But whether it had been the high of the case they'd closed or the buzz of the two beers he'd thrown back when he normally abstained (occupational hazard, and all), he hadn't. Instead, he'd flirted back. A lot.

And for the first time in six f*****g years, he'd felt that undeniable, red-hot pull of want. Want that had quickly become panic as Camila had turned to kiss him goodnight in the back alcove of the bar.

And the only thing Roman did less than flirt was panic. He'd been so thrown by the whole thing that he'd pulled back from Camila as if she'd been on fire, wordlessly slipping out of the booth and not stopping until he was in his car, headed far away from the dark- haired beauty and all of his burning want for her.

Not his finest moment. Camila probably thought he was a consummate dickhead for how he'd behaved that night, yet the memory of the way she'd stirred him up was apparently still as strong as ever. For Chrissake, he was eyeballing random women in the bank and wishing they were her.

The woman turned, and oh hell.

"Oh." Camila's deep brown eyes flared wide at the same time Roman took a step back in surprise. Funny, the move didn't seem to endear him to her. "What are you doing here?"

"I bank here," Roman said, because a) it was true, and b) he couldn't get a more cohesive thought past the image of her perfect, peach-shaped a*s still burning through his brain. Camila pursed her lips, which didn't help the state of affairs in his pants. "So do I."

"I

I got that part," Roman said. He'd been trying to lighten the mood, but her expression told him in no uncertain terms that he'd missed the mark.

"Hm." She straightened her shoulders, her chin tilting upward in a way that shouldn't be sexy, but really f*****g was. "Well, I've got a lot of errands to run this morning, so..."

Some unexplained and very unexpected urge screamed at him to tell her to stop. Okay, so he couldn't entirely blame her for the chilly treatment. He really had stiff-armed her advances after two hours of flirting that might as well have been foreplay. But it wasn't as if he'd taken her number and ghosted her, or-worse yet-slept with her, then ghosted her. She didn't have to be so frosty.

Roman opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell her so. But he was interrupted by a gruff male voice, raised high enough for everyone in the lobby to hear.

"Nobody move! This is a robbery."