Target of Betrayal

Kathleen froze. Her entire front yard crawled with policemen like some kind of murder investigation scene. Void of nothing but the yellow tape and dead body. Oh, hell. At least she hoped the last part was true.

"Ma'am, can we come in?" She stared Marshal Thomas down as the nausea in her stomach gained strength.

"I-I remember you. But, what are you doing here? At my house?" She cringed at her pathetic response and cleared her throat. "You never identified yourself as a U.S. Marshal." As her gaze dropped nervously from his stone cold brown eyes to his stern mouth, a jolt of electricity sparked through her veins. His lips were anything but cold. Generously sculpted, even stretched into a thin foreboding line, they'd never pass as cold. With a quick breath, she darted her attention back to his eyes.

"If you'll let us in, we'll explain."

"This can't possibly be standard procedure for a prowler," she said, avoiding his request and waving a hand toward the commotion in her yard.

"No, ma'am. I'm afraid not." With what could only be interpreted as a grunt, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and removed a black leather billfold, flipping it open to reveal his ID.

Kathleen's eyes adhered to the object in his hand like sticky tack on the wall. There in vivid color was a picture of the breathtaking man now standing in her doorway, along with a badge confirming his identity. She couldn't inhale. Reality sank in for the first time in hours. Things were about to get worse. She felt the sting as if someone slapped her across the face.