Another string of suspicious deaths had led them to a forgotten little town in Illinois. And that was how he found himself in a grimy pub, clad in a cheap suit, searching for anyone who might part the curtain of secrecy surrounding any of the victims.

He sank heavily onto a barstool, resting his hands on the counter, his eyes sweeping the room with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. He was worn out — another hunt, another stretch without rest — and it was starting to show. The relentless pace gnawed at him, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull throb of duty.

Then his gaze shifted — and landed on her.

In that instant, the weight of fatigue seemed to lift.

He should have been professional. He should have asked his questions, made contact with Sam, and stayed focused on the task at hand. He should have ignored everything else. But how could he, when the bartender was smiling at him with such mischievous charm, and her skirt — well, her skirt left little to the imagination…

That familiar, well-rehearsed smile crept onto his lips — the one that made women's knees weaken without fail.

“What’ll it be, handsome?”

She asked with a lilting voice, her eyes gleaming as they traveled the length of him. She leaned one hip against the bar, and in the sickly yellow light of the old fluorescent bulbs, she looked absolutely radiant.

“FBI. I have a few questions.”

He replied after a moment of syrupy silence, pulling a forged badge with a false name from his jacket. Her lashes fluttered in surprise as she glanced from his face to the document, then back again. She nodded slowly — though that impish smile never once left her lips.