A/N: So glad to hear from all of you who enjoyed this new story so far. I appreciate all the reviews, and I hope you like this chapter just as much. Starting college soon (years overdue), so my free time will be limited, but I will try to occasionally update this or one of my other stories.


Jane Kruger dressed for the worst day of her professional career with care. She'd been awake for over an hour when the call came in about the theft of her museum's newly acquired painting—hell, she'd been awake most of the night if she were being honest, and her body tingled at the memory—and she donned a gray skirt suit that flattered her curves without being overtly sexy.

Not that she owned anything overtly sexy. Her wardrobe consisted mostly of suits similar in style and color to the one she was wearing and exercise clothes, much to her friend Sarah's disgust. But to Jane, they helped portray her as professional. In control. Trustworthy. Honest. All the things she'd striven to be her entire adult life, and no longer was, Jane thought bitterly. The morals she'd purported to live by had caved in an instant to Shepherd's diabolical demands.

Her hatred for the woman who she had briefly considered a mother was so intense she could practically taste it, and Jane sighed as she studied her reflection in the mirror. The past few months had taken their toll on her; worry lines seemed to have taken up permanent residence on her forehead. At least they would come in handy this morning.

She grabbed her purse and rooted around for her keys, but her fingers closed around a slip of paper along with them, and she unfolded it curiously.

Jane,

I'm not generally the type to pick up dates in bars (and I don't think you are either), but I had a great time tonight, and I'd love to see you again. If you feel the same, give me a call.

Kurt.

His phone number was at the bottom.

Jane sighed again, and this time it sounded like it came from the soles of her feet. Kurt was exactly the type of guy she'd have liked to have met a year ago—except for the fact that she'd quickly pegged him as a cop—but her hookup with him was destined to be a one-night stand; it had to be. She had accepted that there was no future for her, but she wasn't selfish or stupid enough to drag anyone else into the insanity that was her life.

No, she could never see Kurt again.

But she tucked his note away in her nightstand before leaving anyway.

The museum was swarming with FBI when she arrived, and one of the security guards had to identify her before an agent came out to escort her inside.

"You're the curator here?" the woman asked, and when Jane nodded, she introduced herself as they started up the steps. "I'm Agent Zapata with the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group. I understand you were the driving force behind the recent acquisition of the painting that was stolen."

"Jane Kruger," Jane responded automatically, even though Agent Zapata obviously already knew that. "Yes, I . . . I'm sorry, why are you investigating this instead of the Art Crime Team? The loss of this painting certainly qualifies as a critical incident to us, but—"

"I can't really comment on the specifics of an ongoing investigation," Zapata interrupted.

Jane nodded. "Oh, of course." And really, there was no need. The fact that a group who was more readily dispatched to deal with terrorist threats than the loss of priceless artwork was here said it all. Shepherd, what the hell have you gotten me into? "Yes, I spearheaded the drive to purchase the painting. We're a small museum, and we wouldn't normally have been able to afford one of that caliber, but the owners negotiated a very fair price for it. They felt strongly that it should be displayed for the public to enjoy, and they liked the idea of it being the star attraction here, rather than one more masterpiece at, say, The Met."

"And it would be well worth the price in the long run, since it would boost admissions," Zapata surmised.

"Exactly," Jane agreed. "We acquired the painting a little over a month ago, and already we've seen a thirty percent hike in revenue. It was looted by the Nazis during World War II and only recently returned to the heirs of the original owner, so art lovers have been clamoring to see it."

"Do you think they could have had something to do with this?" Zapata asked. "The owners that sold it to you, I mean. It was quite a windfall for them, to let it go so cheaply. They could have sold it to you for some quick cash, and then used some of that money to hire someone to steal it back for them to enjoy."

Jane smiled wryly. "I'd hardly call fifty million dollars a bargain basement price, Agent Zapata, although the painting would have fetched easily twice that at auction. But no," she added forcefully, "I absolutely don't believe the previous owners had anything to do with this. They're a very nice older couple who were already well off financially, and we've granted them lifetime free admission to come see the painting anytime they choose."

Zapata nodded. "Well, we're still going to need their names so we can talk to them." She lifted the crime scene tape across the entrance to the main gallery, and she and Jane ducked underneath. Weller had his back to them as they approached, deep in conversation with Reade. "And I hope you don't mind my asking, but where were you between the hours of nine p.m. and six a.m.?"

"I was . . ." Jane sucked in a breath as the two agents turned, and she found herself face-to-face with the man she'd determined a mere half hour ago to never see again. He looked as stunned to see her as she felt, but his face quickly blanked back into cop mode.

Zapata's eyes narrowed as she looked from one to the other. "You two know each other?"

"No," Jane said quickly. Strictly speaking, that was true. She still didn't even know Kurt's last name, though clearly that was about to be remedied. She had a feeling he was about to learn more about her and her past than was good for her. What the hell was Shepherd thinking, bringing the cops down on her head like this?

"Okay," Zapata said, unconvinced. "This is my boss, Special Agent Weller, and my partner, Agent Reade. Guys, this is the curator of the museum, Jane Kruger. She's been filling me in on the provenance of the painting, and she was just about to account for her whereabouts last night."

I broke back into the museum and stole the painting that was supposed to be the crowning achievement of my career here, then went home with your boss and screwed his brains out, Jane thought. Aloud, she said only, "Sure. I left here last night around six-thirty and picked up some Chinese on the way home. I stayed in until a little after ten, when I went to my favorite bar for a couple of drinks. I was there for about an hour." She could feel Kurt's eyes boring into her as she named the bar, but she didn't meet his gaze. "And then I went home." Eventually. "And before you ask, I live alone, so there's no one other than the bartender who can verify my story."

"Okay," Zapata said when neither Weller nor Reade had any questions of their own. "We're still nailing down a timeline of events for last night, so we'll be in touch if we have any further questions."

"Anything you need," Jane agreed. "I'll have my assistant get you the contact information for the painting's sellers. I want it back where it belongs as soon as possible." That, at least, was the gospel truth, though it wasn't likely to happen. She would be handing the painting over to Oscar in two days time, and it would no doubt be sold to some black market buyer to line Shepherd's coffers. She swallowed the now-familiar feeling of regret.

Her brother's life was worth a million such masterpieces.

xxx

"She's hiding something," Zapata observed as the team watched Jane duck back under the crime scene tape and head toward her office.

Yeah, Kurt thought, a night of mind-blowing sex with me. And as much as he appreciated her attempt to protect his reputation, lying about having an alibi had been an incredibly stupid thing to do.

But it did give him hope that she felt the connection between them as strongly as he did.

"Doesn't mean it's anything case-related," Reade pointed out, ever the voice of reason. "For all we know, she could be screwing a married man or an employee. She really doesn't seem the type to be creeping around in the dead of night robbing museums."

"Fifty bucks says you're wrong," Tasha countered, and noted with interest that the crease between Weller's eyebrows deepened.

"People's lives aren't a betting matter, Zapata," he snapped. He took a deep breath as both Reade and Zapata looked at him in surprise. "I think we're done here. Let's leave the crime scene techs to their work and head back to the office to see if Patterson has found anything."

"We still haven't gotten the contact info for—"

"I'll get it," Kurt cut Zapata off. "You and Reade bring the car around and meet me out front." He strode off in the direction Jane had gone before he could make an even bigger ass of himself. He was muddling this situation badly, but he didn't have a clue how to navigate this intersection of his professional and personal lives.

Jane was just handing a slip of paper to another woman he assumed was her assistant, and she froze like a deer in the headlights as she saw him approaching. "Hey," Kurt greeted. "Could we . . . could we talk for a minute? Alone?"

Jane's smile felt stiff on her lips. "Of course." She took the paper back from Ana and handed it to him as they entered her office. "Here's the contact info for the Fergusons. I, uh . . ." Her voice trailed off as Kurt brushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She'd seemed like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders last night even before this happened.

To her alarm, tears welled in Jane's eyes at his kindness. "I've . . . had better days." She told herself she should resist as he pulled her into his arms, but instead she found herself laying her head on his chest and clinging to him in return.

Eventually, sanity returned, and she forced herself to draw back. "Look, about last night . . . I know you can't want this to get out any more than I do, so if your investigation does connect us at the bar, I think we should say we left together and went our separate ways."

"What I want," Kurt said deliberately, "is for you to be cleared as a suspect in this case so that I can ask you out for a proper date. And you have my word that I will make that a priority, even if it means coming clean to my boss about us. You're not going to be under a cloud of suspicion for long if I can help it, Jane; I promise you that." He hated to leave with her looking so distraught, but the sooner he could clear this obstacle from their path, the better. Hopefully they would have better luck identifying a suspect in this case than in the previous five robberies that this thief had committed.

Within minutes of returning to the NYO, Kurt learned to be careful what he wished for. Patterson had the video of the robbery queued up on the monitors in SIOC when they arrived, and he felt a cold chill snake its way down his spine as he watched the black-clad thief walk over to the painting and stare reverently up at it before getting down to business. The gait and posture were painfully familiar, and that head cock . . . he'd seen it firsthand for himself last night in the throes of passion. Even as his heart rebelled against what his mind was telling him, he knew he'd been played.

Jane was the thief.

And he was a fool.