“Oh dear,” Faith murmured, wide-eyed. Agent Callan looked awfully determined to stay. The prospect sent another flurry of tingles down her limbs. “Umm-Mr. Callan, I don’t think you understand. It’s like I told you-”

“I know what you told me,” Shane said, staring down at her. Annoyance scratched at his temper when he realized his gaze was being drawn to the O of Notre Dame on her sweatshirt, where the letter distinctly outlined her nipple.

He cleared his throat and glared at her as if her body’s involuntary response had been planned deliberately to distract him. “Now let me tell you a thing or two, Mrs. Gerrard. Mr. Banks believes you need protection. I take orders from Mr. Banks. When the Justice Department sends an agent to look after you, you can’t just say no thank you and slam the door in his face. That may work with encyclopedia salesmen, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Faith stared open-mouthed at him for a full thirty seconds before she could scrape together a response. With her small chin set at a mutinous angle, she decided to fight arrogance with arrogance-provided she could fake it. Arrogance wasn’t high on the list of things this man was making her feel.

“The last I knew the United States was a democracy, not a police state,” she said in her most businesslike tone. “My taxes pay your wages, Mr. Callan. That makes me your boss.”

Immediately her imagination raced to consider the possibilities of having this government hunk at her beck and call. Her skin heated.

“That’s an interesting theory,” Shane said, successfully suppressing a chuckle. She was a feisty little thing… but that didn’t interest him in the least. In an effort to keep his eyes off her breasts, his gaze wandered lazily around the spacious entrance hall, taking in the heavy mahogany reception desk, the polished walnut wainscoting, and the freshly papered wall above it. “Maybe you should join a debate club.”