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  His single friends.

  When he’d showed up on her doorstep later that night, he’d been surprisingly quiet—which had led her to conclude that their days together were numbered. By going out with his friends, he’d been reminded of the life he’d previously enjoyed and had undoubtedly realized that he wanted it back.

  That was what tonight was going to be about, she thought. A well-rehearsed speech containing the words, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or sentiments to that effect. And then that would be that.

  She felt sick.

  “Look, we don’t have to go through this,” she told him resolutely. “I’ve got an autopsy to finish, and you, you’ve got whatever it is that you have to do.”

  “This won’t take long,” he promised.

  “It’s already taking too long,” she shot back. And if he remained here any longer, she knew she was going to break down and cry, no matter what she promised herself to the contrary. “Just go. Just—”

  Words froze in her throat as she found herself looking down at a small black box that Malloy was holding in the palm of his hand.

  “What’s that?” she asked in a shaky whisper, the question barely making it out of her all-too-dry mouth.

  “Something I was going to give you tonight, but I just couldn’t wait. I guess it’s burning a hole in my pocket,” he admitted. Since she continued staring at the box, he opened it for her.

  Her eyes widened.

  “It’s a ring,” she whispered.

  “That’s what they usually put in ring boxes,” he agreed.

  She raised her eyes to his. “Who’s it for?” she asked in the same hushed whisper.

  “Well, it sure as hell’s not for the guy on the table. I was going to give it to you tonight, but I showed it to your mother after I picked it up, and I realized that she wasn’t going to be able to keep this a secret. I wanted to give it to you before she spoiled the surprise, so I decided to bring it to you now.”

  Stunned, Kristin continued looking at him.

  Why wasn’t she saying anything? “You’re making me nervous, Kris. Are you going to make me beg?”

  “I thought you were going to break up with me,” she finally confessed, her voice cracking.

  “Break up with—” His voice almost evaporated, then came back in full force. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  She took in a shaky breath. He deserved an explanation. “Because you got to see what you were missing out on last night, going out with your friends.”

  He couldn’t help laughing at how wrong her interpretation of last night was. “What I was missing out on was an empty life. Those guys are out there, looking for what I have right here.” He took her hand in his. “I love you, Kris, and I don’t want to go back to that life. Marry me. Marry me, Kristin, so that I can go on having and living that full life. Marry me,” he said, lowering his voice, “or I’ll sic your mother on you.”

  She started to laugh then, with relief and with joy. “Good closing argument.”

  He took her into his arms, bringing her body against his. “So it’s yes?”

  Her smile encompassed her entire being. “For a bright guy, you can be so dumb—it’s been yes from the first time you kissed me.”

  “Then I’ll just have to keep on kissing you,” he said. And to prove it, he did.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  A BABY FOR AGENT COLTON by Jennifer Morey

  If you loved this novel, don’t miss other

  suspenseful titles by USA TODAY

  bestselling author Marie Ferrarella:

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  A Baby for Agent Colton

  by Jennifer Morey

  Chapter 1

  “It’s not her.” Trevor Colton strolled around the body lying on blood-soaked carpet next to the bed.

  Evidence of a violent fight for life cluttered the scene, a tipped-over lamp and chair, broken picture glass and the item that had prompted the call to him. A red permanent marker lay on the floor where a pen and pencil jar had fallen from a small desk crammed next to a dresser. That, in addition to the first letter of the victim’s name, had alerted him and his team that this could be the work of the Alphabet Killer. As soon as Trevor saw the scene, however, he didn’t agree.

  When his most promising agent didn’t respond, he turned to see Jocelyn Locke staring at the body, one arm folded against her ribs, the other propped on top, fingers curled at her lips.

  Since when did she get queasy at crime scenes? The bloody body and overall gore surrounding what had once been Jane McDonald would shock anyone not familiar with this line of work. Jocelyn was a trained FBI agent, still a rookie, but this wasn’t her first murder case. Trevor enjoyed training her, molding her into an excellent detective. He ignored the little voice that taunted he liked something else about her, too.

  She noticed him scrutinizing her. Lowering her hand, she asked, “What?”

  Whatever had her disturbed abruptly disappeared. He decided to let it pass for now. They had work to do.

  “Our subject didn’t do this,” he said. “Someone who once loved her did this. A man. Husband. Lover.” He pointed to the stab wounds. “See how many times he stabbed her? Twenty or twenty-five times. Look at her chest. It’s shredded.”

  Jocelyn’s curled fingers went back to their previous pose. She stared at the body again.

  “Jocelyn?”

  Dropping her hand, she glanced at him with a sickened swallow and then headed for the door.

  Startled, Trevor trailed behind her. What had gotten into her? Maybe he hadn’t noticed her queasiness until now. This had to be the worst reaction she’d had. Concern rose up, more than he should have for a fellow agent.

  Most of the time he concentrated on the investigations. Paying too much attention to her would only lead to trouble. Jocelyn had one of those slender, hot-in-skinny-jeans bodies that drew a man’s eye—and heart—away from tasks at hand. And she talked about
babies a lot. Why she’d become an agent, he never guessed. She struck him as more of a stay-at-home mom, albeit an armed one.

  Outside, he watched her take several deep breaths under a streetlight, late on a warm June night in Granite Gulch, Texas.

  He stopped beside her. “Are you all right?”

  Her long dark hair swung in a ponytail as she turned. “Yeah. Yeah. I just... I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

  Crime scenes were never easy to see. “You have to learn to detach yourself. Your goal is to help the victims and their families. That’s your job, your duty. You bring them justice.” He jabbed his thumb toward the ranch house where the murder had occurred and a neighbor had called to report screaming. “That in there is just a body. You don’t have to feel sorry for it. Feel sorry for the life that left it. And get motivated to avenge her.”

  Jocelyn nodded a few stiff, short times. “I know. I know all of that. It’s just...”

  “Hard, yeah. It is. Just stay focused on your job.”

  With a strange look at him, she nodded slower, closing her eyes and letting out a final, deep breath.

  Why had she looked at him like that? She looked at him that way every time he made references to work. Things they had to get done. Deadlines. Facts of a case. Did he use the phrase too much? Stay focused.

  “Staying focused keeps it from getting too personal,” he said.

  As she recovered from her nausea, Jocelyn’s eyes took on a familiar, teasing glint. “And we all know you don’t get personal.”

  What did she mean by that? She turned this onto him. “Not when I’m working.”

  “We aren’t working all the time. We do have personal conversations, you know. Like right now, for example.”

  “You think this is personal? You just said I don’t get personal.”

  “You shared advice with me that isn’t related to the job.” She pointed to the house. “To that.”

  “It’s advice that will help you be a good agent.”

  Her brow lifted. “By shutting everything and everyone out?”

  “Distractions won’t catch killers.”

  “And you’re the best at controlling distractions?”

  Her teasing had taken on a sarcastic note. “I didn’t say that.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, she started walking toward his SUV. “Don’t be getting any ideas that you’re better at this than me just because I got sick to my stomach in there.”

  First she accused him of not getting personal and now she thought he outdid her. Why? Because he stayed professional? “You’re a rookie.”

  “Best rookie you’ll ever have.” She smiled over at him.

  Damn if she didn’t have a way of turning on the charm. “I can see you’ve recovered. You’re back to your cheery self.”

  “You should try it sometime.” She slid him a playful glance as she came to a stop at the sidewalk.

  He grunted, used to her teasing, which at times could be crass. “You’re saying I’m a downer?”

  “You’re serious.”

  Dead people had a tendency to take humor out of the day. He took in her slender form, curving in the right places in dark jeans and an FBI jacket over her white T-shirt. Maybe her femininity did distract him. But she reported to him. He morally disagreed with intimate relationships with his employees.

  “You own a cat,” he said.

  She laughed, breathy evidence that she enjoyed the way they poked at each other. Trevor had trouble deciphering whether she meant everything she said. Did she really think he was serious? Too serious? He wasn’t all the time...was he?

  “Having a cat doesn’t make me serious. You’re a guy. Guys don’t like cats.”

  “Only guys who have dogs.”

  She laughed outright at that.

  She had a great laugh, one of many things he’d begun to like about her.

  Big smile still sparkling all over her face, she tapped him with her finger. “The Alphabet Killer might be trying to throw us off. Remember, she’s copying Matthew Colton’s methods. Don’t discount her as a suspect in this murder. Wait for the DNA testing.”

  She may have a point. The evidence told the truth. But he’d investigated a lot more crimes than she had.

  He didn’t comment. Any other detective, he’d have argued, but not with her. He encouraged her to offer theories. She learned when wrong and he preferred she figured that out on her own.

  “My two o’clock,” she said. “We have company.”

  He covertly turned and spotted a car parked on the side of the road. Illuminated by dash lights, a man sat inside, watching. The car still ran.

  “Did our subject come back to see the fuss his handiwork caused?” Jocelyn asked.

  Killers sometimes did return to the crime scene. Parking down the street displayed boldness. Or in this case, maybe guilt.

  “I thought you were convinced this was the Alphabet Killer.”

  “Not convinced, just open to possibilities—including this killer being who you suspect.”

  Trevor covertly looked over at the car. “Could be someone who’s just curious.”

  Reaching his black Yukon, he started to open her door for her.

  She swatted his hand away. “Stop doing that.”

  Ever since they’d first met, he felt compelled to treat her like a lady. Sometimes she talked like a man and kept him at a distance like a man. Except when she teased him. Then he wasn’t sure if she flirted with him. But she had a certain femininity about her, a sexy heat that burned just below the surface. Like now, denying him while her eyes and the way she moved said something different.

  He walked around to the other side as she got in, seeing the way she watched him while checking on the person in the other car.

  Maybe she felt the same as him, attracted but uncomfortable with that. She might complain about his professionalism, but she had the same standards.

  Starting the engine, he checked the rearview mirror and saw the car hadn’t moved.

  “Buckle up.”

  “Stop doing that,” she said again.

  “Doing what?” How did asking her to buckle up resemble treating her like a lady?

  “Being so...attentive.”

  Or...attentive. He’d go with that. “I’m being attentive by making sure you wear a seat belt. Okay. Would you rather I let you go through the windshield if we wreck?” He drove into a U-turn and approached the other car.

  “I was going to put my seat belt on, just not in your time frame.” She connected the belt with a firm snap.

  “You get grouchy when you’re tired and hungry, you know that?”

  “So do you. I’m not grouchy. Are we fighting? It started out okay, but it seems like it graduated into a fight.” Her face crimped into a befuddled frown.

  “I get grouchy?” Trevor realized he was hungry as he stopped beside the parked car and Jocelyn rolled her window down, gesturing with her other hand for the man to do the same.

  The stranger gaped at them, a deer-in-headlights stare, and then jerked into action. He yanked the gear into drive and tires squealed as he sped off.

  “Not a curious onlooker.” Jocelyn closed her window as Trevor whipped the SUV into another U-turn.

  The big engine easily caught up to the car, a green Prius. He flipped on the flashing lights along the top of the windshield.

  The Prius turned right. Trevor followed, turning on the siren. The Prius didn’t stop. Instead, the driver drove toward Main Street. Late at night, traffic didn’t concern Trevor much, but his luck ran against him when a moving truck pulled out from a side street. The Prius dodged the front end and Trevor veered to miss the rear.

  The Prius crashed into the front of a liquor store, shattering glass and tearing down the front wa
ll. Screeching to a stop, Trevor jumped out, drawing his gun. Jocelyn did the same and he wished she wouldn’t.

  The man had gotten out of the Prius, the crunched driver’s door left open. Trevor jumped over debris and ran to the back of the store. The man kicked open the metal back door and ran into the alley.

  “FBI! Stop!” he shouted.

  The man ran down the alley toward the road, and to Trevor’s horror, Jocelyn appeared from around the corner. As he saw the subject aim his gun, Trevor’s blood left his head. But Jocelyn ducked back around the corner of the building just before a bullet hit the concrete.

  He gained on the running man.

  Jocelyn peeked out from her hiding place and aimed her weapon. “FBI! Stop!”

  The shooter fired in answer, hitting concrete again as she leaned out of sight.

  A man who’d shoot at a law enforcement officer was a dangerous one. Trevor put all he had into his run. The man glanced back as he veered to the left, away from Jocelyn, and sprinted down a busy street. He toppled a few chairs in front of a café. Trevor leaped over those and saw the man shove a middle-aged woman out of his way. She sprawled to the concrete sidewalk.

  Trevor veered around her, quickly assessing her to make sure she was all right before charging after the heartless man who’d plowed into her.

  He gained some more on him. The man glanced back and swung his gun, very poor aim. He fired and Trevor feared for innocent lives along the way.

  Closing the gap, Trevor grabbed a hold of the subject’s shirt. The man rolled onto his back, gun waving as he tried to steady it for aim. Trevor knocked his wrist and then punched his eye.

  The subject’s head jerked backward, and Trevor almost wrestled the gun from his grasp, still holding on to his own gun, but the man moved his arms and legs in a practiced way to throw Trevor off. He knew how to fight. Trevor should have anticipated that. His hold loosened just enough for the man to escape. Trevor got to his feet just as a blur of a shape passed him. Jocelyn, running at full speed.

  Stumbling into a run, Trevor took up chase behind her, cursing his mistake of overconfidence.