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“Crying for a friend is nothing to apologize for.” He again stroked her hair, adding quietly, “I think we should call the men in blue, tell them—”

“No.” She shook her head. “No police. I promised Phylly.” Phylly had made her swear, said there were things about that night April didn’t know, things Phylly had done that would get her in a lot of trouble.

“I think this has gone beyond any promises you made to Phyllis Worth.”

She wanted to say how tired she was of hearing him always use her full name, depersonalizing her, but knew she’d be wasting her breath. That it would only take them down Joe’s own bitter road, a road twisted by resentment and misunderstandings. A road she hoped would . . . straighten out, once he met Phylly and they had a chance to talk things through. So she just nodded again, and said, “We’ll be with her in less than three hours. We’ll call the police—after we talk to her, tell her about Tommy.”

The look he gave her was heavy with disagreement. “Your call,” he said. “For now.”

“Thank you.” To change the subject, she added, “The thing I can’t figure out is who would kill Castor—and why?”

“Money would be my bet. Big money. Maybe someone wanted to take over his show—eliminate the middleman.”

“Maybe we don’t need to know who,” she said. “Maybe it’s all over. If Castor was the one looking for Phylly and someone killed him”—she lifted a limp hand, couldn’t believe she was talking about a murdered man as if he were a character in a play—“maybe that’s the end of it.” Her rationale held more wish than logic and she knew it.

“You don’t believe that, and neither do I.” He glanced out the window at a sign telling them they were nearing the airport. “Castor was a thug and a loser, good at carrying out orders, but useless on his own. His record proves that. He had to be working for someone else. And that someone else decided he was expendable. Someone with balls, motive—and a lot at risk.”

“You think it was the man who kidnapped me?”

The driver of the limo switched lanes to make the turn into Sea-Tac. “I’m saying it’s a possibility, because if Castor found Phyllis—then you, he’d be a threat. So, yeah, I think our John-Doe kidnapper is the man behind all of this. And I think he’ll do anything to protect his sick, sorry ass.”

The black-eyed man . . .

After all these years, he’d come for her again—had killed, and would kill again to find her. Because she knew his face. Would never forget his face.

Anger churned and thickened in her belly. She looked out the window but couldn’t see through the darkness clouding her vision.
No. I won’t let it happen. I won’t let him hurt Phylly or me—ever again.

He’d terrorized her young life, taken her from her brother—the only person who’d ever cared about her. With a cold frightening clarity she hated him. She closed her mind against the hate, the ugliness of it, forced herself to set it aside. She would hold it in reserve—like a shield. But right now, there was nothing to do but get to Phylly, make sure she was safe, and put the pieces of the puzzle together. For that they needed Phylly.

Thank God, they knew where she was.

Phylly came awake just after five. Outside was black as hell. Noah’s house might be made of glass, but with its back to an eastern forest and its decks facing full west, the morning sun arrived late, and the evening sun stayed until the last drop of shine was wrung from it.

The totality of the darkness outside the window made Phylly squeamish. She didn’t want to go out in it, didn’t want to leave the warmth of Noah’s bed—leave behind, for always, the heat of what they’d shared last night.

She didn’t want to leave Noah . . . ever.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and dug around in her sparse supply of character traits for what she needed: Courage.

That she shouldn’t have come here was obvious. All she’d done was bring lies and danger into Noah’s beautiful life.

It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t fair.

For a moment she listened to his breathing, quivered when its warmth wafted over her bare shoulder, then she lifted his arm—the one draped over her waist—and slipped from underneath it to the edge of the bed. She looked back at him, at the face she’d never been able to forget—and the face she’d never see again.

His eyelids fluttered. “Where you going?” he mumbled.

“Bathroom.”

He nodded in his sleep. “Hurry back.”

Phylly padded toward the chair where she’d left her clothes last night. Gathering them up, she disappeared into the bathroom and got dressed without turning on the light.

She’d packed her bag before going to Noah’s room last night. It sat waiting for her inside the door of the guest room she’d slept in the night before.

She picked it up and moved silently and steadily to the front door. Feeling like a second-rate sneak thief, she slipped outside. Black, cold, and misty, the night reminded her again of how far from Vegas she was.

She was immediately chilled to her desert bones.

The car was where she’d left it two days before, and she quickly opened the driver’s side door, tossed her bag onto the passenger seat, and got in, closing the door as quietly as she could.

Taking one last look at Noah’s crystal box, she turned the key and started out of the driveway. There was no way of being a silent runner on the gravel road, so she sped up, anxious to make the first turn, put the house out of sight. She was almost there—

She slammed on the brakes.

Her breath jumped in her throat, her left hand flew to her chest to stop her thumping heart from leaping out.

There, in her headlights, stood a bear the size of a not- so-small elephant. After Phylly got over her initial shock, she realized she wasn’t in any danger—as long as she stayed in the car—but there was also no way around him. She nudged the car forward, hoping he’d take off; instead he increased his bright-eyed scrutiny of her and didn’t budge an inch. And while they locked eyeballs and played chicken, someone rapped on the passenger-side window with enough noise and force to crack it.

It was Noah.
Damn, damn, damn . . .

When the bear turned its attention to him, Phylly quickly hit the unlock button.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, tossing her bag into the backseat and sliding in beside her, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

“I thought I’d drive into town, pick us up some bagels and Starbucks.” She said it lamely, as half lie, half joke, because she had to say something and the truth, as usual, was complicated.

“Even if there were a Starbucks within a hundred miles of here, it wouldn’t be open and you damn well know it.” He looked out the window at the stupid bear and rubbed his arms. “Jesus, it’s freezing out here. Put this thing in reverse. You can tell me the rest of your lies over breakfast.” He leveled his gaze on her. “But get something straight. I’m not letting you go until you’ve told me the truth, the whole truth . . . so help you God. Do we understand one another?”

He stared at her; she stared back. Phylly cursed, rude and crude, but all she got in response was an arched brow. “Reverse,” he said again.

She touched the steering wheel with her forehead, then lifting her head, seeing the unmovable bear, she slammed at the horn. In the quiet of the dark forest its sudden, get-the-hell-out-of-here honk hit the air with the earsplitting blast of a missile warning. Phylly didn’t know a bear could move that fast.
Bastard.

Jolting the car into reverse, she was back where she’d started from in seconds. She turned on Noah. “I do not
have to
tell you the truth about anything. So you can stop ordering me around.”

Without a word, he took the keys from the ignition, reached for her, and pulled her into his arms for a rough, demanding kiss. When he was done, he held her face in his hands, and said, “I can’t lose you again, Phylly. No, make that
I won’t
lose you again. Whatever the hell made you run from my bed, we’ll handle it. Together.” He let her go. “I love you, Phyllis Worth. Have since the day I set eyes on you with fifteen pounds of feather and glitz on your head. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen—still are. Maybe the time wasn’t right for us back then, maybe you needed to do”—he lifted a shoulder—“whatever you felt you had to. But that was then. This is now. It might be cliché to talk about second chances, but damn it, that’s what we have. Here. Now. A second chance. I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to waste it.”

“Oh, God . . . Noah.” She closed her eyes against the intensity in his. Her heart faltered, her brain faltered, and her will had a serious breach. “I can’t . . . You don’t know—”

He touched her mouth, shook his head. “Don’t say anything. Because until we clear the air between us, it won’t mean a damn thing.” He touched her cheek briefly. “Now, unless you’re intent on me freezing my balls off out here, can we go into the house?” His expression firmed. “And dig out that damn journal you’ve been packing around. It’s past time you knew what was in it.”

Chapter 26

When Quinlan woke, it was to the muffled sound of Mercy talking on her cell phone. She was sitting on the edge of the bed naked, her straight, well-muscled shoulders lit by a slash of light coming in the hotel room window. It was barely 6 A.M.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Hold, will you?” She lowered the phone from her mouth. “It’s Charity. She’s located the Worth woman. No sign of the son or daughter though.”

“Has she arranged accommodations for us?”

“Yes, a place called Crystal Cove Beach Resort.”

“How far from our target?”

“Maybe fifteen miles. Worth is with some man who has an oceanfront house out of town. Very secluded, she says. Nothing around for miles. She says she could take her out herself, save you the trip.” She watched him closely.

“No. Absolutely not.” His voice was sharper than he intended. “She’s to keep her distance.”

“Can you tell me why? Charity’s suggestion certainly makes things simpler.”

“Why is no concern of yours.” He got out of bed and stood over her. “It’s enough for you to know I want the woman alive.”
Until the assembly is complete. Until everyone associated with that April girl and his past was dead.
Including Mercy and her sister. They would all die by his hand—and it would be done to perfection. He would leave nothing to chance. “Make sure your sister understands that. She
must
wait for our arrival.”

“I expected that’s what you’d say.” Mercy went back to the phone, looking smug.

Q frowned.
Odd woman.
And much less sexually appetizing than he had felt last night. While he might attribute his feelings to sexual satiation, it was more likely she was simply like every other woman he’d had before Giselle: Disposable.

“He says to leave the woman alone,” she said to her sister. “Look, but don’t touch. We’ll be there this afternoon. A charter.” She faced him, the phone tight to her ear, her calm gaze fixed on him, her expression pleased. “Yes, we did,” she said into the phone. “Does that surprise you? . . . He was
very
good. Like a fine dessert after a bad meal.” She turned away, half-smiling at whatever Charity had said. “Aren’t they just?”

She shifted from amused to businesslike. “I’ll call from the plane, but we don’t want to be met. Just leave a car and keys at the airport. You can tell me what to look for when I call. The less we’re seen together the better.” She hung up.

When she stood, Quinlan grabbed her wrist. Naked, they stood toe-to-toe. “What were you talking about?”

“I was organizing our arrival.”

“Before that.” Last night, her direct approach, her unfettered female aggression had aroused him, this morning, her set jaw and hard-eyed gall angered him—as did her arrogance. Surely the woman wasn’t foolish enough to believe that what had transpired between them last night had in any way altered their relationship.

“You,” she said. “We were talking about you.”

“Go on.”

She lifted her chin, her odd turquoise eyes meeting his squarely. They seemed sharper in the morning light, her face tougher. “She wanted to know if we fucked.”

“And you informed her we had.”

“Why not?” She arched a brow, not in the least cowed by his cold glare, which by the freezing in his veins and distaste roiling in his stomach, he knew to be frigid and intimidating. Q might have had intercourse with this woman, but he didn’t like her. Her high-handed attitude was too big a price to pay for a bout or two of oral sex—no matter how temporarily satisfying.
Stupid woman.
Quinlan had learned long ago that the fleeting pleasures of the flesh paled against the steady and reliable rewards of power and control.

He tightened his grip on her arm. “I don’t share details of my sexual activities outside the bedroom.”

“Neither do I.” Using a sudden twist and jerk move, surely that of a trained professional, she easily freed her arm from his grip. “Other than with my sister. We share everything.” She eyed him, looking highly amused. “Particularly men—if they’re worth it.” She grabbed his testicles, squeezed to a point that an ounce of added pressure would bring pain. “And I think you’re worth it.” She eased the pressure on his testes and began to stroke.

When his body betrayed him with the stirrings of an erection, he grasped her hand, interlaced his fingers with hers and bent her wrist back—a hold not so easy to break. He, too, stopped flexing at the point of pain, but hovered there. “I believe last night has led to a misunderstanding between us—as to whom exactly is in charge.” She stood very still, her face showing neither pain nor fear. “Have no doubt, Mercy. I am.” He bent her wrist near to breaking, an action that brought a faint whitening to her lips. “If you want to continue assisting me in the Worth affair, you’d best remember that.” He gave her wrist a final bend, saw her grimace of pain, and released her. “Do we understand one another?”

She rubbed her wrist, and he watched while she composed herself by taking a series of deep breaths. She reminded him of a threatened animal, a dangerous animal. The look she gave him was pure loathing. “I understand that men in general are assholes—and you’re the leader of the pack.”