Shadow Hawk

She was all leg, and Conner Hawk was most definitely a leg man. Hell, he was also a T&A man, but Abigail Wells, fellow ATF agent and communications expert, not to mention all around Hot Chick, was so well put together she could have made him a certified elbow man if she wanted.

Too bad she hated his guts.

She walked — strolled across the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearm’s office, her soft, silky skirt clinging to her thighs with every graceful swing of her hips. Her blazer hid her torso from view but he knew she had it going on beneath that as well. Her honey colored hair was pulled up today in some complicated ‘do that screamed On Top Of Her World.

As if she’d read the direction his thoughts had trailed, she glanced over at him, those bee-stung lips flipping her smile upside down, her eyes going from work-mode to pissy-female mode.

Oh yeah, there was the frown she usually gave him, the one she’d been giving him ever since the day she’d joined the team six months ago. He knew she’d come from the Seattle office, where she’d worked in the field. He tried to imagine her wearing an ATF flak jacket, guarding his six, and was halfway to the fun fantasy when she spoke.

“You.” This in a tone that suggested he could, and should, go to hell.

“Me,” he agreed, surprised that she’d even given him that one word. She usually avoided talking directly to him, as if maybe he was some new strain of the flu.