She heard the crackle of the flames and took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, I know better than to get so upset. You’re right, of course. I should have thought of it.” She turned her face up to his. “If we’re going to stop the fire, you’d better kiss me.”

He caught her chin firmly and lowered his mouth to hers. “What a chore.” He brushed her lips gently, enticingly. Teasing her. Nibbling at her lower lip to distract her. To feel her shiver in his arms. Wanting the thrust of her br**sts against his skin and melting softness of her body as she went pliant. It wasn’t about stopping a fire, it was about redirecting the fire. He wanted the flames in her. In him. Sharing their skin.

His teeth tugged at her lower lip until she opened her mouth for him, allowing his tongue to sweep inside, to claim her. To lick away the flames on the walls and put them where they belonged, in her mouth, in his. His arms tightened around her, his hands restless, skimming down her back, cupping and squeezing her bottom, dragging her up and into his groin. The energy took them, as it always did, a storm flaring into an instant wildfire. He loved the way the energy was eaten up by the flames, by the way their mouths clung and melded, hot and wet and needy.

Dahlia felt right in his arms. Each time. Every time. Sometimes when he sat away from her, he felt the ice-cold blood running in his veins and knew he had mastered his emotions. Maybe too much. And then she’d look at him. One smoldering look and he’d heat up, feel everything. Every emotion a human being was meant to feel.

He slid his hands back up her body, cupped her head while he kissed her, again and again. Long, slow kisses and fierce, hot ones. She pulled away first, lifting her mouth inches from his. “Do you kiss me like that because of the energy? Or because you want to kiss me like that?”

“I have to kiss you. I need to kiss you. I’ll never get enough of kissing you. If the energy needs us to find ways to use it up, I consider it an added bonus in our relationship.” His fingers slipped into her hair. It was always so impossibly shiny. He loved the sight and scent of it, the feel of it. “I’m very much like you, Dahlia, I rarely do anything I don’t want to do.”

She stepped away from him reluctantly. “Well, you kept the house from burning down. Lily will be happy if she’s the one who rented it for us. I want to look at the rest of the photographs. Maybe I’ll see something else familiar.”

He handed them to her.

“Nicolas? Thank you for saying what you did about Bernadette. I don’t know why I jumped to the wrong conclusion like that. I think I’m more upset over Max than I want to admit. Why wouldn’t Jesse and Max tell me they knew Dr. Whitney? Why didn’t they say he performed the same experiment on them?”

“You didn’t exchange much information with them,” he pointed out carefully. “You’re all taught to keep secrets.

That’s the name of this game, Dahlia. Maxwell and Calhoun are agents for the NCIS and before that SEALS. They aren’t going to talk out of turn. You can’t blame them for that.”

Her black eyes met his. For the first time he thought she looked like the mysterious witch some called her. There was something haunted and magical in her gaze. “Yes, I can.” The way she said it had him believing in voodoo and witchcraft. A slow, Cajun drawl, every bit as soft and sexy as Gator’s but with a soft hiss of a promise of revenge. It actually sent a chill down his spine.

Dahlia dropped her gaze to the pictures she held in her hand. She didn’t want to think about betrayal. She’d start another fire for certain and that would lead to kissing Nicolas, and he drove every sane thought from her head. She was recovering the data tonight so she couldn’t afford to get distracted. She forced herself to look at the photos. Several were of the Quarter. Obviously the photographer planned to show he’d been vacationing. Many were at the French market where Milly and Bernadette often bought produce. There was even a picture of the narrow alley and the small yarn shop where the women purchased their knitting supplies.

Dahlia sat on the end of the bed and spread out the pictures. There was one taken of a storefront and the reflection of the photographer was clearly in the window. She picked it up and studied it carefully. “I’ve seen this man.”

“How could you know? The camera hides his face.” But Nicolas was watching her. Dahlia was methodical and very controlled when she wanted to be. She was being very thorough, meticulously studying the photograph. If she said she’d seen the man before, he was certain she had.

“This is the man I saw at Rutgers just outside Dr. Ellington’s office. And then I saw him again when I was scouting the Lombard building. This is definitely the same man. I know it’s him. It’s the way he holds his head, just a little tilted to the side and down, but he’s watching everything. He was stalking Bernadette.” She pointed to the shadowy outline of a woman reflected in the glass. “That is Bernadette. She’s wearing her sunhat.” A sad smile flitted across her face. “She always called it a bonnet. She made them because she loved to sew, to create things.” Dahlia forced herself to stop rambling. Her throat felt raw.

Nicolas pressed his lips to her temple. “You’re closing in on him, Dahlia. I hope he feels your breath on the back of his neck.”

She turned into his arms almost blindly, instinctively. She wanted to be held and comforted. At that moment she didn’t care how much she was relying on him. She was just grateful she had him.

Nicolas simply held her, rocking her gently back and forth. He knew she was hurting. She’d lost everything and this one, elusive man had everything to do with it. Nicolas just needed the name. Needed it confirmed. Then he would go hunting.

“You can’t, you know,” she said softly.

“Can’t what?” His fingers tangled in her hair, rubbed the silky strands to relieve his spurt of anger, of suppressed rage that someone would so carefully destroy Dahlia’s life.

“I know what you’re thinking. You become very calm, very centered, and your energy level drops more than ever. I’ve figured it out. Your anger is ice cold, not fiery hot, and you contain it. You let it build and you use it when you work. This man isn’t your target. He isn’t your job.”

He bent down to brush the top of her head with a kiss. “I’m going to be there tonight, Dahlia. I’m not letting you go to the Lombard building alone. You won’t see us, or hear us, but if you get in trouble, we’ll be there to pull you out.”

She pulled away from him, her expression stubborn. “I didn’t go with you on your job. It will only break my concentration knowing you’re there.”

“You can be angry with me over this,” he said, “and I’ll understand, but it won’t change my mind. I’m being honest with you. It’s impossible for me to do anything else.”

“So what does that mean? Every time I go out on a job, you’re going to be following me because you think I’m not capable of handling it?”

“No, because I’m not capable of handling it. There’s a difference. Can you live with that? With me being who I am?” He caught her arm when she turned away from him. “I’m asking you to understand what I’m really like. I have my own drawbacks, Dahlia. I’m going to be damned difficult to live with sometimes.”

Her eyes widened in shock. In terror. “I didn’t ever agree to live with you.”

“No,” he admitted, “but you’re going to agree.”

“You’re so arrogant, Nicolas. Sometimes it sets my teeth on edge.”

He tried not to smile. “I know it does.” At least she didn’t say she wouldn’t agree to living with him, so maybe when he mentioned marriage, she wouldn’t just faint on him. Or put on her running shoes.

She tossed the pictures on the bed and rummaged through her clothes to find something to wear. Lily had been thoughtful enough to replace everything on the list Nicolas had given her for Dahlia, including her work clothes and tools. Because it was Lily she sent along as many other items she could get quickly and thought would be useful. Dahlia was pleased with the assortment and the tightly woven clothes with a myriad of zippered compartments to store necessary items and keep her hands free.

She slicked her hair back and braided it a second time as tightly as possible. As she slipped her hands into the thin gloves she glanced at Nicolas. “Well? If you’re coming, you’d better get ready.”

“We’ve been ready. Our gear is already in the cars. Do you want a radio?”

She shook her head. “Too distracting. I have to rely on myself, Nicolas. I can’t change how I do things at this late date. When I go in, I have to believe in myself, not think if something happens you can rescue me. I don’t need rescuing. If I’m in trouble, I’ll get myself out.” She pinned him with her black gaze. “Is that understood?”

“Perfectly clear.” He caught up her equipment bag and carried it out of the room.

Dahlia started after him and then went back to look at the photographs scattered across the bed. She picked up one and stared down at it, at the man who had orchestrated the murder of her family. It took a few moments before she realized the temperature in the room was climbing fast and her fingers were burning black holes in the evidence she would need to show the director. She tossed the picture away from her, but sat down on the bed to look at the others. Nearly all of them were taken in the French Quarter in New Orleans. Why did Louise have the pictures?

“Dahlia?” Max stood in the doorway, his piercing blue eyes watching her.

She lifted her chin, drawing in air to calm herself. It was sheer hell being around so many people and trying to guard her emotions. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for them to be around her. “What is it, Max?”

“I wanted to say I was sorry. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it must have been like for you and you’re right, I should have told you I knew Dr. Whitney. You know all the problems with the experiment, everything that we suffer using the abilities we have and how difficult it is to block out the people around us. You probably know more than we do.” He tapped his finger on the door. “The thing is, we were warned someone was trying to kill us all. That someone knew about us and had already been killing others like us.” He jerked his chin toward the outer room where the laughter and easy camaraderie of the GhostWalkers could be heard. “Someone definitely killed members of their team, and we didn’t want to be next. We all went deep undercover and buried the information on us through as many layers of red flags as we could. Admiral Henderson helped us out.”

“And you didn’t think that I was in danger?”

“We should have, Dahlia. We should have taken steps to protect you as well.”

She knew she shouldn’t ask. She already knew the answer, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Why didn’t you?”

Max looked down at his hands, closed them into two tight fists before looking her straight in the eye. “We trained together and trusted one another. You were an unknown.

You have powers and complications none of us had, and we didn’t know if we could trust you not to turn on us.”

“You still don’t know that, Max.” It was a knife, she decided. He’d taken a knife and just plunged it through her heart. She wished she could be cold and distant and not feel anything. Hurt was just as dangerous as anger. Getting near people was hazardous and perhaps even perilous for someone like her.

“I do know, Dahlia, and I should have known it months ago. Jesse should have known it. We were wrong. I know that doesn’t help with the way you’re feeling, but I wanted to say it. To at least let you know how I felt.”

She didn’t know whether to thank him or spit in his face. She could only stand there helplessly wondering if it was possible to have a silent meltdown.