Found Wanting by Joyce Lamb

her world upside down. Enjoyed it even as he wondered why it should matter. She was nothing to him. A job. "Layton Keller doesn't know where you are," he said.
    "Of course, he does. You said he hired you to find us, and you did."
    He didn't respond, watching all the possibilities flit through her eyes, impressed by how quickly she drew the right conclusion.
    Confusion created a crease between her brows. "I don't understand," she said. "Why haven't you told him where we are?"
    He didn't say that the situation had made him uneasy, that he'd been trying to work out some inconsistencies before calling Keller. Instead, he shrugged. "Maybe I'm milking the job."
    When she just stared at him as if she thought he was nuts, he said, "My point is that he couldn't have been involved with your friends getting hurt because he doesn't even know about them. Someone else did that job."
    "Well, the FBI knows where I am. He probably has a source among the feds."
    "Wait a minute," he said. "The FBI?"
    "You wanted to know why I bailed out of work so fast. That's why. Two agents were there asking for me."
    "Why?"
    "What do you mean why? They found me. Just like you did."
    He was silent a moment, puzzling it through. Keller had told him the feds weren't after Alaina. So why were they asking for her at the newspaper? It had to have been about something unrelated. Yet, the coincidence seemed too much.
    "Let me guess," Alaina said, impatient. "Now you're thinking Layton can't possibly have a mole in the FBI. Do you think he got where he is today without having connections in high places like the federal government? Without having multiple backup plans? It's highly unlikely that you're his only hired thug."
    Irritation at the job description flared, but he shoved it down. "It doesn't matter. What's going to happen here --"
    She charged him. Her body hit him hard, and he dropped back against the dresser, shocked by the attack. She may have been small, but she was fast and strong and already her hand was inside his jacket, groping for the gun. Grabbing her wrist before she could jerk the weapon out, he twisted until, gasping, she went down on her knees in front of him.
    Thinking he had her subdued, he loosened his grip. She instantly surged up, knocking the top of her head under his chin. As his head snapped back, lights bursting before his eyes, she nailed him in the gut with her elbow. His breath left him in a pained woosh, and before he could drag in air, she whirled and brought the heel of her hand down on the bridge of his nose.
    The pain was red. As was the blood that spurted out of his nose. His rage was black.
    She was only halfway to the door when he mowed her down. On her stomach under him, she immediately started to squirm. He put an end to that by planting his weight on the middle of her back, tangling his legs with hers and pinning her shoulders to the floor. Immobilized, she went limp under him, her breath sawing in and out.
    "No more Mr. Nice Guy," he growled, shifting so he could jerk her arms back to snap the cuffs on her.
    She cried out at the rough treatment, but he ignored her as he pushed himself to his feet and swiped his hand under his bleeding nose. He couldn't tell if it was broken, but it throbbed in time with the frantic race of his pulse. She'd almost had him. He outweighed her by an easy seventy pounds. He'd had extensive FBI training, had held his own in many a bar fight in his younger days, and this slight woman had very nearly bested him.
    He glared down at her. "Be glad I'm a reasonable man, because anyone else would be kicking your ass right now."
    She rolled onto her side, still out of breath. "You're not his only detective."
    Turning his back, he stalked into the bathroom for a towel. His head was pounding now, too. His head, and his pride. He told himself that he'd held back because she was a woman. A man he would have dropped with one punch. But the truth was, he hadn't really held back. And that made him feel like an