Bess Kingsley Author of Contemporary Romantic Fiction

“You must be the local crime scene team,” the deep voice interrupted her daydream.  Emily realized she had wandered away from Sarah, who was still pulling her equipment from the van.  Embarrassed, Emily looked around searching for the voice’s owner.  

“Over here.”  

There it was again, that rich baritone. But this time, she saw a hand waving off in the periphery on her right side.  Emily’s eyes zeroed in on the hand and then scanned down the navy blue jacketed arm up to broad shoulders where an exceedingly handsome face was waiting.  And what’s more, it was smiling right at her.  Emily sucked in a quick breath with surprise.  I thought feds were, well, not that hot, that’s for sure, she thought.  She raised a hand slightly, acknowledging her collaborator.  

Ethan Clarke eyed the small, exquisite woman in the enormous crime scene suit with amusement.  He’d been watching her for the past few moments; studying her copper-colored hair, those luminescent evergreen eyes, the smattering of freckles on her perfect nose, and her luscious rosy lips.  To his surprise, he found himself wondering about the rest of her beneath the gigantic suit.  He unfolded himself from his crouched position on the ground, standing tall, his athletic, near six-foot-frame towering over the woman.

She had accidentally stepped a bit too close to him, so she was forced to look up at an awkward angle.  But even from that vantage point, his chiseled jawline and muscular form caused her skin to tingle with goosebumps.  She looked down quickly, directing her stare toward the forest floor.

He thrust a tan hand toward her.  “Ethan Clarke, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, his intense expression fixed on her. 

“Emily Fox,” she said quietly.  She tried not to look up, but she could feel his eyes on her.  Her heart raced at the prospect.  Whatever that prospect might be.