For any of you who chose to skip the previous chapter due to its sexual content, it was  Mark's and Virginia's fault, not Paul's 😂 In summary, married life is treating them well 😉

Paul cut across the grass of the Quantico Court apartment complex. Two mature trees, looking over-burdened under the weight of their pink, spring bounty, took up most of the space in the small central courtyard, but a young couple had still managed to find a spot for their blanket in full sun. They sat huddled together, their delight in each other obvious, and Paul felt an unexpected stab of jealousy—until he noticed the baby stroller parked under the shade of the closest branch. Spotting him, the couple smiled and waved, and he returned the gesture, envy free. As much as he loved his niece and nephew, that was not the life for him.

He turned his attention to the doors of the low rise building. One-twenty-five she had texted, so in all likelihood it was on the ground level. Right there. Paul walked up to the door and knocked, noticing one of the numbers was out of alignment and somewhat surprised she hadn't been all over the landlord to get it fixed. Maybe she wasn't as uptight when it came to her personal life.

"Just a second," Robbie's muffled voice called from the other side.

When she opened the door, all traces of tweed were gone, but what took its place was just as unusual—a loose hockey jersey over black tights. Still no makeup, but once again Paul was struck by how exceptional bone structure created its own contours.

"You didn't need to get all dressed up for me," he joked.

"I like to be comfortable when I'm at home, sorry."

He followed her down the small entrance hall and into the main living area. "No need to apologize, except maybe for your choice of teams."

She stopped and spun around, pulling her hands up to her hips. "There will be no insulting the Capitals under my roof."

He lifted his palms, his briefcase swaying from its hook over one thumb. "Thought you were smart, that's all. The Kings are a much better team."

"I'll have you know that the Caps were ranked number one in the Eastern Conference this year while the Kings barely clinched a playoff spot in theirs."

He couldn't stop himself. He enjoyed teasing her. "But the Caps didn't do much with it did they, losing five in a row in the second round to Tampa Bay."

"At least they made it to the second round."

He lifted his chin. "I guess you really know your hockey."

She looked away. "It's a love I inherited from my dad. He taught me all the rules."

"Do you go to games with him?"

"He died when I was eight." She moved across the room.

Oh, man. He followed her with his eyes. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"Why? It's not your fault." She glanced over, and then changed the subject. "I figured we could work over here." She pointed to a comfortable looking couch with a large coffee table sitting in front of it. "Did you eat?"

Paul didn't push it. He had never lost a family member and did not presume to know how it felt. "Yeah, Crap of the Day at the mess hall."

She smiled. "Maybe tomorrow I can make us something here."

That sounded delicious. And dangerously close to a date. "Nah, I'm used to it." He patted his stomach. "Iron gut."

"Fine," she said, although she didn't look fine. She was clenching her teeth, the delicate line of her jaw bulging under the stress.

He walked over and sat down, placing his briefcase on the floor and opening it. Pulling the files out one at a time, he stacked them on the wood surface in front of him. "I haven't had a chance to look at all these yet, but I've been told it's all here—crime scene data, statements from witnesses, friends, and coworkers, evidence indexing, everything."

Robbie went down on her knees across the table from him and grabbed one of the files. She turned and sat cross-legged, spreading documents across the carpet in front of her like they were a deck of cards and she was about to play solitaire.

Paul frowned. He was pretty particular about order. "What are you doing?"

"I'm organizing the interviews by date. I figure if you take half and I take half, we can meet with these people much quicker." When he didn't say anything, she stopped dealing and lifted her head. "You really don't like having a woman assigned to help you, do you?"

She thought he was sexist? Hah. What a joke. Yes, most of his relationships with women had been sexual rather than professional, but it wasn't due to some superiority complex. He enjoyed women, but he also respected them and believed in equality—in both the bedroom and the boardroom. "You're wrong. It's not the W and O in your credentials that bugs me. It's the F, the B, and the I."

She looked a little stunned. "Oh . . . well . . . good."

Not the response he'd expected. "You're okay with that?"

She nodded. "I can handle it. I know I can prove myself worthy. The one thing I can't do is change into a man."

"You're far too pretty to be a man." Okaaay . . . where the hell had that come from? Was his brain preprogrammed to flirt every time there was estrogen in the room? Theirs was a working relationship and he needed to keep it that way. Besides, she wasn't even his type.

And, great, now she was frowning back at him like he was a perv. He attempted to make light of it. "You are full of surprises, Agent Westcott."

"Robbie." She rolled her eyes.

"I'd prefer to stick with Agent Westcott. If you don't mind."

"No problem," she hissed. "Have it your way."

She was angry. Good. All the better for maintaining some distance between them. Especially now with him noticing how those full lips formed a perfect heart shape whenever she pressed them tight. Shit.

As a distraction, he took a moment to look around. He'd seen his share of women's homes, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Only a few stuck out in his mind, though, like Downtown Debbie's renovated industrial loft. Its glass and steel design was about as warm and welcoming as Minnesota in the middle of winter. They'd ended up doing it on a bean bag chair that had landed Paul in the chiropractor's office once a week for the next three months.

Then there was Grateful Greta's. She was a shy one, probably because most of her inner wildness had ended up on her walls by way of stripes and stars, in all the primary colors. Who knew a studio apartment sat at the end of the rainbow? The sixties chic didn't stop there, either. A shag rug that could have used a good mow was where they'd done the deed. Two days later he'd still been finding red wool fibers in the weirdest places as he showered.

And let's not forget the pigsties. He'd seen a few of those, and somewhat surprisingly, it was usually inside a residency shared by two or more women where dishes piled up and hangers sat empty, but Adventurous Amy's townhouse took the cake. He couldn't recall what was under the pile of clothes they'd fucked on, but he did remember the roommate joining in and adding to it.

Good times. He kept the smile to himself. Until recently, his dealings with the fairer sex had typically involved a few drinks, maybe dinner, and a variety of mutually agreed upon positions. It didn't matter to him how or where they lived. He had never been around long enough to care.

Thankfully, Robbie's place was nothing like those. The bluish-grey color theme and rustic furniture were pleasant enough. He'd even go as far as saying cozy. It was spacious too, for what he assumed was a one bedroom, given the single door next to the bathroom in the far corner. A desk sat in front of the large picture window overlooking a treed ravine, and the open concept gave him a direct view to the mostly white kitchen farther in. Five stools were pushed underneath the two-tiered granite that divided the rooms.

Working here was a good idea. She'd been smart to suggest it. And generous—not everyone was willing to offering their personal space for the sake of a case. The polite thing to do would be to tell her so. "You've got a nice place. It suits you."

She took a quick look around. "Meaning?"

With the glaring differences between her place and the ones he'd been thinking about still fresh in his mind, words found their way out without a filter. "It's comfortable, clean, not too flashy."

"Uh . . . thanks?"

What the hell was he saying? He shook his head. "I didn't mean it as a comparison to you. It's just . . . I've been in a lot of women's places, and—"

It was official. He was an idiot.

As she blinked up at him, Paul scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, wondering when exactly he had contracted this foot-in-mouth disease. "Thank you for inviting me into your home," he managed to utter without any further screw-ups.

She continued to stare, perhaps rethinking the offer, but then she nodded and turned her attention back to the papers in front of her. "Try not to mess it up," she muttered, her sarcasm so thick she should have choked on it.

Hard-ass, he thought to himself as he reached across the table, grabbed a file—and did his best not to smile.

)l(

Robbie had a hard time concentrating. Notwithstanding all the moments she'd allowed her imagination to create this scene in her mind, it was still surreal to have Paul Sullivan sitting in her living room. With his head lowered over the documents, she jumped on the chance to steal a hungry look.

His hair was as adorable as she remembered, the short military cut having little success in controlling the curl at the top, but it was his eyes that always struck her the most. Although she couldn't see them at the moment, the unique shade of green, set off by the dark hair, brought back memories of family vacations she'd spent at the ocean while her dad was still alive—and their father/daughter ritual. After every storm he would pack up all the sand toys and take her for a long walk on the beach in search of sea glass, sometimes filling her bucket to the brim with the colored gems. Most of them were green, but in a wide variety of shades, and the two of them would spend hours sorting and ranking their beauty. Her mother would shake her head at their fascination with recycled pollution, but Robbie found herself mesmerized by the subtle differences cultivated by waves and currents.

Paul's stare was just as captivating.

If it had been anyone else sitting in front of her, another colleague perhaps, or one of the many "nice guys" her friends tried to fix her up with, she might have shared the story, unembarrassed by the corny compliment, but Captain Sullivan had likely heard it all before. Countless women had no doubt gushed over those pretty peepers. Not that he needed the extra advantage they provided. The tall, dark, and handsome were enough to get him noticed. Throw in the athletic build along with the brain to back it up, and . . . well, it wouldn't surprise her to find a giant red S hidden under that khaki shirt.

Strong hands shuffled papers on the table in front of her like two dancers floating over a stage. How would they feel on her skin? Not so gentle she imagined. Damn. What she wouldn't give to have her own personal Man of Steel pressing her into a mattress, or pinning her against a wall, or bending her over furniture for that matter. Hell, she'd even settle for some lumpy backseat of a car.

Okay, she was a slut. A fantasy slut anyway. In reality, she behaved herself. Yes, she dated from time to time. None of the relationships lasted that long, though. Men liked the way she looked, at least that's what she'd been told. Actually, it varied between gorgeous and okay, depending on how horny they were, but if she took all those whispered compliments made during attempts to get into her pants and viewed them from an algorithmic perspective, the unbiased conclusion she came up with was mildly attractive.

And therein lay her problem.

It didn't take long for the interested parties to realize she was a total nerd. Truth be told, she'd rather be tracking down internet predators than drinking beer and watching football games. Any potential boyfriends weren't thrilled with her lack of enthusiasm or attention, often resorting to insults when explaining her behavior to their friends and peers. Cold, stuck-up, self-centered, lesbian, she'd heard them all, including the one coming from the man of her dreams earlier in the day: Hard-ass.

Paul looked up and raised his brows. Oh, shit, she was still staring.

"We've met before you know," she said softly, a lame excuse to explain her scrutiny.

He eased his weight back on the cushions and crossed his arms. "We have?"

"I was at The Nest for a few weeks while you were there." The Nest was a code name for the FBI command post used during the surveillance of the Chilvati crime family. Paul had been brought in by his now brother-in-law, Mark Spinelli, at a crucial point in the investigation. His identification of one of the key parties, not to mention his epic skills as a lawyer in slogging through the mountain of evidence laid out before them, had been instrumental in breaking the family's illegal arms ring.

He tilted his head, in all likelihood trying to picture her there. Geez, was it really that hard? Her desk had only been fifty feet away from his, if that.

Not wanting to linger on the fact that she was so forgettable, she added, "They brought me in to monitor Gus's computer."

Paul frowned. Three seconds later he grinned so wide she could have counted every gleaming white tooth. Oh, God, he had dimples. She hadn't noticed those before.

"You hacked into his computer?" His eyes flared. "You're a hacker?"

"Information technologist we like to call it."

His jaw dropped open. Captain Sullivan was impressed. Her heart beat a little faster with the knowledge.

"Can you hack into anyone's computer?"

She shrugged. "Pretty much, although the government gets a little possessive when it comes to their own systems. I try to stay clear of those."

Now he was the one with a staring problem. Had she struck a cord?

"I was pretty focused on helping Mark while I was there. Everything else is kind of a blur," he said quietly, clearing that right up.

Robbie nodded, not wanting to dwell on it. She certainly wasn't going to reveal the fact that she'd since been to Los Angeles, stopping at Camp Pendleton to meet with a technologist there. She had seen Paul's name on a court docket and had rearranged her meetings to watch his case. Being the coward that she was, she had sat in the gallery, unbeknownst to him, and basically drooled for two hours, then left in a rush. She couldn't remember anything about the actual proceedings or who the defendant was.

Defendant. Right. Concentrate, she said to herself. She grabbed another file. It happened to be the one with the photos. As Robbie spread the eight-by-tens out in front of her, she felt sick. The woman had been brutally murdered, the evidence of which was captured in the glossy pages. And the fact that Elizabeth Shaw's naked body was now permanently on display in these pictures for many to see only seemed to add to the savagery.

She'd fought her attacker, the multiple stabs to her hands deep and documented as ENTRY POINTS THROUGH THE PALM.

"What happened to her was horrific," Robbie whispered.

"Don't personalize it."

How can you not, she wondered, glancing over at him. He was busy reading, but his brows were pulled low and his shoulders were hunched and he suddenly looked much older than the twenty-nine years she knew him to be. She would have called bullshit on the comment, but maybe that was how he survived what he saw day-to-day, by detaching himself. Well, Robbie did take it personally, maybe because she wasn't a case-hardened lawyer, or perhaps it was due to being another woman. Either way, she was determined to do what Elizabeth Shaw no longer could.

Fight like hell.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR

Oh, Paul, you certainly have a few things to learn about women😏 Do you think Robbie will be able to set him straight?

When I originally plotted this out, I had no idea the Washington Capitals would win the Stanley Cup in 2018 🏆 It was pretty exciting, let me tell you. Robbie would have been so proud 🏒 

Dedicated to @scribbler1210 for keeping up with me and for all her . . . well, scribbles in the comment sections. Thank you❤️

All votes ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️and comments 🗣🗣🗣🗣are helpful and greatly appreciated❣️