Meet Max Carter–brilliant, hot, and damn fine FBI agent–whose perfectly ordered life is about to get a whole lot messier once Gina Castillo gets involved!
Before Max got his own story, we first met him in The Wrong Kind of Compatible…
Drew took another swig of his beer and pretended to watch the baseball game on the TV over the bar. Max had dragged him to their favorite Irish pub—all mahogany wood, a hundred beers on tap, and sports on every TV—for a few hours on a Saturday night. He’d insisted Drew needed to get out of his head before he went out of his mind.
He’d been working flat out trying to find something, anything, to close this damn case and escape his own personal hell. Being around Cassie without allowing himself to stare, or tease, or touch, was damn near killing him. If this went on much longer, the FBI would find his cold, lifeless body in his apartment, and the coroner’s report would cite an excessive buildup of sexual tension in the cells as the cause of death.
She, in the meantime, didn’t seem the least bothered by their status quo.
“What’s your problem, Kerrigan?” Max drawled, neatly stacking the coasters, flipping one over so that the same side was facing up on all of them.
Drew raised a single eyebrow. His friend’s OCD was showing.
“Didn’t say anything,” Drew replied.
Max wasn’t to be sidetracked from his earlier question, though. “You’ve been about as fun as a sandy towel at the beach. I’m used to you not speaking much, but if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’re in need of some mind-blowing sex.”
Drew’s body agreed as a crystal-clear image of Cassie’s gorgeous body assailed him. Unfortunately, banging his head on the bar in an attempt to rid himself of said image would only make Max more suspicious. “I’m not,” the words came out as a growl.
“No?” Max challenged.
Unwilling to argue, Drew shrugged and swung his gaze back to the game. Not that he’d paid enough attention to even know the score, but what the hell.
“I told you getting close to your assignment was a bad idea.”
Damn Max and the computer he carried around instead of a brain. He was almost as bad as Cassie in the hit-the-head-on-the-nail analysis of others. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“When my buddy starts acting like a bug crawled up his ass, I have to step in. It’s just the kind of guy I am.” Max slapped him on the back just as he was taking a swig of beer, and Drew came up spluttering.
In retaliation, Drew scoured his brain for a diversion and landed on a topic guaranteed to distract. “Has your mom found you a wife yet?”
Max’s expression snapped from grinning to pissed in less time than it took him to trace laundered money to the source. “Low blow, man. Why’d you have to take it there?”