“No, Carrie. No buts. No nothing. Even if I did care, which I don’t, that woman is like a polar ice cap. Thank you but I like a little more heat in my bed.”

“Okay.”

“So let’s just forget it.”

“Okay.”

“It’s over.”

“Um . . . okay. And Conridge—”

“Couldn’t care less. Trust me when I say, Irene Conridge feels nothing for no one.”

“I hate him.”

Jackie glanced at Irene in surprise. “What?”

“I. Hate. Him.”

“But you don’t hate anybody. You said it required emotion that took time out of your schedule.”

“That was before I met the biggest . . .” She struggled for the right word and her friend helpfully provided one.

“Asshole?”

“Yes! He is the biggest asshole. And I hate him.”

“Did something happen I should know about, sweets?”

“I don’t want to talk about it or him ever again. I just want to put this whole horrible time behind me and get back to work.”

“Okay.” Jackie stopped at a red light. “How about we get you home and changed and then we catch a movie?”

She definitely needed to change. The bright red sweatshirt she wore stunk of the man’s scent. And although it wasn’t a horrible smell—in fact it was quite nice—she was clearly too angry to not let it annoy her. In fact, she regretted promising to return the sweatshirt to him. She’d rather burn it in effigy.

“Irene?”

“What movie?” she asked.

“The Terminator is supposed to be good. And there’s lots of killing.”

Irene crossed her arms in front of her chest and felt as if she was possibly pouting . . . a truly horrifying thought. “You sure there’s lots of killing?”

“Vicious cyborg from the future goes on killing rampage searching for one woman to destroy. At least that’s how Paul described it to me. So, yeah, I think there’s lots of killing.”

“Fine.” Because she refused to sit around thinking about Niles Van Holtz . . . the asshole. “I’ll go.”

“Good.” Jackie started driving again and her hand reached out and patted Irene’s leg. “And don’t worry. As soon as you get back to work, you’ll feel like your old self again.”

“I better,” she growled. Because if she had to keep “feeling” things for much longer, she might have to kill that man on principle.

The asshole.

Four

When her thirty-three-year-old master’s student burst into tears, Irene felt like maybe she’d crossed the line a tad with “Pass you? You’re lucky I haven’t killed you.”

Annoyed more with herself than anything else but unwilling to show it, Irene reached her hand back and her teachingassistant handed her a box of Kleenex. She slammed it down in front of the student, ignoring the man’s increased sobs, and stalked back to her desk.

“I expect all lab work completed by the end of next week.” With her back to the students, Irene quickly shuffled the recently handed-in bluebooks into an orderly alphabetical pile for her TA. “I won’t accept any excuses because, mostly, I really don’t care. Short of ending up in a casket, any student with unfinished work will automatically fail the course. And please don’t test me on this.”

She handed the stack of books to her TA and turned to face her class. “Why are you still here? Get out.” They ran like she’d unleashed live poisonous snakes on the floor.

“Is it my imagination or are you a little . . . uh . . . terser than usual?”

Irene glanced back at her TA, Mark. She’d gotten over seventy submissions to be her TA last year but Mark was the only one she’d felt qualified for the position. She wasn’t an easy teacher to work for, but she made it worth the trouble. Almost all students who survived one of her internships went on to super-hot jobs at some of the most important labs or installations in the country. For top dollar. So she had no regrets putting them through the Conridge Gauntlet, as many called it. Only Mark didn’t seem remotely intimidated by her. She kind of respected him for it, but on days like today, she really was only looking for a victim to take out her recent bout of anger on.

“If you really want to see how terse I am, keep annoying me, Marcus.”

“Gotcha.” He picked up all her papers and headed off to her office. She grabbed her briefcase and followed.

Why she ended up crashing into his back, she didn’t know until she looked around him and saw the two men sitting in her office.

Perfect, she thought.

Stepping around Mark, she leveled her gaze on the first male she saw. “And what brings you here, Agent Harris?”

“Just came to check on you, Professor Conridge.”

Irene moved into her office, dropping her briefcase on the floor beside her desk. “Is there a particular reason you can’t call me Dr. Conridge? Or is it just your general insecurities as a man speaking for you?”

Mark grabbed his backpack from a corner and nodded at Irene. “Uh . . . Dr. Conridge, I’m going to head off to the library and get through these papers for you tonight.” Then he practically ran.

“Another pussy-whipped male, I see,” Harris murmured.

Irene sat down at her desk. “Is there any other kind?” She placed her feet up on the worn wood and relaxed back into her chair. She’d learned a long time ago how to fake a relaxed posture when that was the last thing she might be feeling. But Agent Phillip Harris wouldn’t be here unless he had a reason. The FBI rarely wasted time with fishing expeditions.