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He advances on me in the same instant I free myself of the tangle of my panties, his big body caging me against the wall, his thick erection pressed to my hip. His fingers tangle roughly, erotically, into the strands of my hair and he drags my mouth to his. “Mine,” he proclaims. “Mine to protect,” he adds. “And mine to take.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, and he swallows the word, his lips closing down on mine, hard and hot, his tongue licking into my mouth.

  I taste hunger in him. I taste pain. I taste fear. The kind of fear that comes from blame. I ache to comfort him, but as his tongue is stroking against mine again, the pull of desire drugs my mind and awakens my body. I ache now in that bittersweet way I always want to last forever and ever. I feel it in the heaviness of my breasts, the burn of my nipples, the wet heat of my sex.

  His hand caresses over my hip and he shifts our position, lifting my leg to his waist as he settles between my thighs. The thick pulse of his erection presses into the slick heat of my body and he releases my hair, his hand palming my breast, fingers tugging on one sensitive, swollen nipple.

  I moan, and he answers me with a kiss of his mouth and the press of his cock to my sex. He drives into me, deep, hard, lingering for several seconds, his body arched around mine. I pant with the anticipation of what will come next, and he proves this isn’t about teasing or taunting. This isn’t about lingering or lovemaking. It’s about fucking, and the adrenaline and the rush of pleasure that makes you forget to feel anything else.

  He cups my backside and angles me into a fierce thrust, and then another. And still it’s not enough, and he wants more. It’s in the hard lines of his body, in the way his hands go up my back, molding me to him. I cling to him, burying my face in his shoulder and inhaling his deliciously raw, masculine scent, touching him, moving with him. Pumping and sliding and grinding, and still I sense he needs something I’m not giving him. I become wilder, move faster, and he feeds off of me. I feel his energy, his growing hunger, and I know when he’s finally at the place he needs to be, where there is only the raw burn between us. I feel the edge of release coming over me, over him.

  “Chris,” I whisper, or maybe his name never makes it from my lips. My sex spasms and I can’t do anything but feel the sensations rocking me. He tightens his hold on me, a low growl escaping him. I fade in and out of awareness then, coming back to the room as he leans me back against the wall.

  I loosen my legs from around his hips, sliding down his body. Chris leans over and grabs his shirt, pulling out of me and pressing it between my legs, one arm on the wall over my head.

  My fingers go to his jaw, the light stubble teasing my fingers the way it teased my face. “What did Tristan say to you before we left?” I ask, certain that’s what set him off tonight.

  “That I killed Amber and I’ll kill you, too.”

  My heart clenches. “You know—”

  “I know that you saved me—the way I wish I could have saved her.”

  “You tried, Chris. You tried.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “Is that what Tristan said?”

  “It’s what I say.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have gone there tonight.”

  “Hiding from it isn’t going to make it go away.” He scoops me up and moves to the elevator door, leaving our clothes behind. I don’t speak. I’m just glad he’s not hiding from me.

  Part Two

  Hers

  Chris and I wake early to rain pattering on the bedroom windows. With both of us feeling the time change, we decide that going back to sleep is the exact right thing to do. It’s noon when we finally, truly wake, and the rain continues to fall, darkness cloaking the room.

  “I’ve never lived anywhere it has rained as much as it does here,” I murmur, curling into Chris’s side, as he absently strokes my shoulder.

  “It’s only November. Wait until the rainy season, in January.”

  Twisting around to look at him, I balance half on my elbow and half on his chest. “That means we’re going to be here for Thanksgiving.”

  “Which is an American holiday and not celebrated here, but we can find some way to make it special.”

  “What do you normally do?”

  “If I’m in the States, Katie and Mike insist I join them. If I’m here, I skip it. And you?”

  I feel a little twist in my gut. “Last year Ella and I went out to dinner and to a movie.”

  “We’re still searching for her, baby,” Chris assures me, tracing my jaw with a finger, and his tender promise eases a tiny bit of the ache inside me. “But Rey is concerned about Neville’s mob connections. He can’t dig deep enough without risking putting himself and us at risk. He wants to bring in a third party to go deeper.”

  “What third party?”

  “A group that operates off the grid and does jobs other people won’t. Blake’s using Walker’s FBI and DEA connections to find out more about them. I don’t want us in bed with people we don’t trust.”

  “How soon will we know if we can use them?”

  “Blake is buried in the hunt for Ava, but he assures me he’s on it.”

  “Thank you. I feel like I need to do more for her.” The truth is, I’m afraid that it’s already too late to help Ella—like it was for Rebecca.

  His voice softens. “Let’s go out to the chateau for Thanksgiving and get away from all of this. We can make it a new tradition. We’ll get you an office set up out there, too, for the times we’re there and you want to work.”

  “I’ve barely gotten started on my business.”

  “Now’s the time. We’re here, and we’re not wrapped up in the middle of a police investigation anymore. You can focus on what you love: art.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby. That’s why I want you to make your dreams come true.”

  My heart feels squeezed by the bond I have with Chris. “You are so unlike the men in my past. I love how you always give me power over myself.”

  His lips quirk. “Except in bed.”

  I laugh. “Yes. Except in bed.”

  His cell phone rings on the nightstand and he sighs, sitting up and letting the sheets fall to his waist as he glances at the screen. He doesn’t react—Chris never does—but I sense, rather than see, the tension ripple through him. He turns his back, and my mind races with the possible news this phone call could bring. Ava has hurt someone. Ella is . . . dead.

  I sit on my legs, ankles at my backside, holding my breath, listening.

  “You bet he’s handled,” Chris replies tightly. “I didn’t leave it to you this time. I handled it—which means it’s handled.” There is a beat of silence. “She’s with me. That should answer that question.”

  She who? Me?

  “She’s not a target, and since when do you give a fuck?”

  I suddenly know he’s talking to my father, and it’s as if a knife has been shoved into my chest. I turn and scoot over to the opposite edge of the bed from Chris and grab the pink silk robe I’d dropped there last night, slipping it on as I walk to the huge windows to my right. Pulling back the heavy drapes, I attempt to look out of the fogged window where rain pounds on the glass.

  “She’s not,” Chris says. “No. That’s not an issue.”

  I drop the curtain and turn to find Chris still facing the other way, which tells me he isn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of me. I don’t like it. I never like anything to do with my father, and I sure don’t want Chris involved with him. I rush across the room and down the stairs to the open living area, and detour to the cute spare bathroom with mahogany cabinets and a big white teardrop sink, intent on staying busy and not letting myself think.

  Leaving the door open in case Chris comes looking for me, I open the medicine chest and silently thank the once-weekly maid for the supplies inside, washing my face and then brus
hing my teeth and my hair. I don’t know why Chris talking to my father bothers me so much, but it does. I know Chris is protecting me; that’s what he does. But my father despises the life I’ve created, one that doesn’t require his dictation.

  I’m about to head to the kitchen to make coffee when I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway, his elbows resting on the door frame, his torso bare, faded jeans slung low on his lean hips. “Why are you down here?” he asks, his eyes a little too keen.

  My lashes lower and lift as I turn to face him. “I know that was my father.”

  “Yes. He was reassuring me that Michael was fired. Michael’s stock in your father’s company came with stipulations your father fully enforced to keep him away from you in the future. He heard about Ava. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I laugh bitterly. “He doesn’t care if I’m okay. He’s just afraid this might cause a scandal for him in some way.”

  He pulls me to him, stroking my hair as my hands settle on his chest. “Don’t let him upset you. And for what it’s worth, his concern came out awkwardly sincere.”

  I press on his chest, leaning back to study him. “Tell me you aren’t defending him! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Either he wants something or he’s protecting himself.”

  “I’m not defending him. But you deserve to know everything and to make your own decisions.”

  I can’t seem to contain the accusation in my voice as I say, “You talked to him forever.”

  “I hung up right after you left the room. I was on my way down here when Blake called to check on us.”

  “Is there news on Ava?”

  “None—which is why he wanted to make sure we were here, not in California. And apparently Mark’s not pleased, and not waiting for Walker Security or the police to deliver results. Blake thinks he’s looking for revenge against anyone he perceives as having hurt Rebecca. He seems to think Ryan’s a main target. Mark believes Ryan was involved in Rebecca’s death, but there’s no evidence.”

  “I think he was, too,” I agree, thinking of the way Rebecca wrote about Ryan in her journals, and about some of my interactions with him. “But I don’t want Mark to do something he’ll regret.”

  “Blake wants me to talk to him before Mark does something he can’t undo.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I can’t talk him out of what I’d do myself in his place. I promise you, baby, if someone hurt you, the only thing that would keep me sane was trying to see justice served. Let him have his sanity.” I open my mouth to object and he adds, “He’s smart, Sara. He’ll be careful.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “That’s probably the grocery order I put in yesterday.” He kisses my forehead and gently moves me away from him, departing for the door. “I don’t envy the delivery person in this rain.”

  I tighten the belt of my robe and go in pursuit, following Chris through the living area to the stairs in case he needs me to carry some of the bags. Chris is just opening the door when I arrive, and I frown as he bends down and picks up a large yellow envelope that’s dripping with rain. He shuts the door, reading something on the outside of the envelope before he looks inside and scrubs his jaw.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “The contract and check I left Tristan last night. And”—he turns the envelope upside down and lets a set of keys fall into his hand—“the keys to Amber’s apartment that I was paying for.”

  My stomach rolls. “I forgot you bought her an apartment. Wasn’t he living with her?”

  “Yes, a detail I forgot and should have remembered. I assume, from the keys, that he’s moved out.”

  “Seems that way. Is there a note?”

  He turns the envelope so I can read the words baise-toi written in huge letters on the outside. “It’s French for ‘fuck you,’” Chris explains. “Only he’s fucking himself instead, in some demented attempt to drive home my guilt over Amber.”

  My stomach rolls again, and I know he’s right. Tristan is like Mark right now, driven by his own guilt and heartache, seeking revenge. And he wants it badly enough to hurt himself in order to hurt Chris. I just hope this is where it ends.

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later, Chris and I have received our groceries and put them away before he drags me to the shower, where I am thoroughly fucked under a hot stream of water and then ordered to dress. In the process, I attempt to convince Chris to call Mark by reasoning that Tristan and Mark are alike, both in too much pain to be reasonable. Chris tunes me out, taking a call from his attorney, so I try to call Mark myself and end up leaving a message.

  Shortly thereafter, despite my further protests, we end up headed to The Script to talk to Tristan again, only to find the shop dark with a Closed sign in front. Our next stop is Amber’s apartment, a gray brick building that’s only a few blocks from our house. We arrive at the ground-level unit and pull into the parking garage. The doors close behind us and I can hear rain pattering on the exterior steel casing. Suddenly, it’s like we are in a box and the air is being sucked out.

  I turn to Chris, my hand settling on the arm of his black waterproof Polo jacket that matches the red one I’m wearing. “Let’s not do this.”

  His hand covers mine as he stares at the door leading into the apartment. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, baby, it’s that what I don’t face now, I face later.” He doesn’t wait for any further objections on my part, opening his door to exit. I quickly follow suit, hugging myself as the cold seeps through my jacket and jeans. But as Chris stares at the door of the apartment, I am certain any chill he feels has nothing to do with the weather.

  As seconds tick by—one, two, ten—I can almost taste the tears Chris struggles with deep in his soul. I wait, respecting the vibe that tells me to be with him, but not suffocate him.

  He suddenly moves, entering the apartment, and I follow him into the empty laundry area, shutting the door behind me. We enter a connected, small-but-elegant kitchen with beautiful navy blue and teal splashboards complemented by granite counters. To our right is a cutout bar overlooking an empty living room with a large stucco fireplace in one corner.

  Chris leans on the counter, palms down, staring at the empty space. His big body is like stone, his expression all hard lines, his jaw a solid line of tension. Everything about him is withdrawn, and I tentatively settle my hand on his back.

  For several seconds I feel the unmoving flesh beneath my hand, but slowly, he seems to relax beneath my palm, breaking the silence as he does. “He knew I’d come here, and he made damned sure every trace of her was gone.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “That’s exactly what he did.”

  He looks at me, shadows in the depths of his green eyes. “It’s not even mine. It’s in Amber’s name. Unless there’s a will that says she left it to me, I can’t keep it. I intended to let him keep it.”

  “Maybe she left it to you in a will or a note of some sort.”

  He pushes off the counter and runs a hand over his jaw. “I need to see my attorney. I just want to walk the place and make sure nothing is still here.”

  I give a nod and he heads out of the kitchen. I decide not to follow, giving him a minute to himself. Leaning on the counter, I scan the living area again, and this time my gaze catches on something taped to the fireplace. Frowning, I round the corner, stepping onto the marble tiled floors and halfway across the room. My hand presses to my belly as I realize it’s a picture.

  Stopping in front the fireplace, my hand moves to my throat as I stare at a younger Chris with his arms around Amber, staring down at her. They look happy. His eyes look lighter, with no sign of the ever-present shadows I’ve come to know. And I know that this picture is from before the whip found him, or he found the whip. This was before Amber’s parents were murdered, leaving both him and Amber tormented by the aftermath.
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  I reach out and touch Chris’s face in the photo, my hand trembling and suddenly, tears burn in my eyes. This was before his need for self-induced pain helped bury the real pain, and its presence here is no accident. Only to Tristan, this photo isn’t about the Chris that once was. It’s about the Amber that once was, and, in Tristan’s eyes, what she later became because of Chris.

  Chris’s footsteps sound behind me and I suck in a breath, holding it as he pauses, and I can almost feel the punch to his chest as he sees what I am looking at. Seconds tick by like hours and he doesn’t move or speak, as a whirlwind of emotions churns inside me.

  His hands come down on my shoulders and he turns me to face him, but I speak before he can. “He’s being vicious, Chris. He’s using you like you did the whip, as a way to hide from reality. He could have gotten her help. He was with her every day. He was too busy hating you to see how much she needed more than his anger.”

  He wraps his fingers around my neck in that familiar, possessive way he does, as if he needs to own me right now, as if he feels like I am somehow slipping away. “He wants you to question me,” he says. “Tristan wants you to doubt who I am and who we are. He knew you’d be with me when I came here, Sara. He knew you’d see the photo.”

  I know Chris fears my reaction to what I’ve seen, and my hand goes to his arm. “Then he’d be right. I’m with you, Chris. Here, now, and always. I am with you, right where I’m supposed to be.” I pull the picture off the mantel and slip it into his pocket.

  Torment rips through his eyes. “Sara—”

  “You need that memory. I refuse to let Amber be a weapon in Tristan’s war games. And you have every right to grieve a woman who was part of your life for more than a decade. I’m not going anywhere, and we’re facing this together.”

  The lines on his handsome face seem to harden, not soften, seconds ticking by before the hand around my neck drags me closer, our breath mingling, lips a sway from touching. “I won’t let you go,” he says, his tone low, guttural, emotion rushing off of him and crashing into me, and I know he’s not talking about me leaving by choice. He’s afraid of losing me the way Amber lost her family. The way he lost his mother, his father . . . Dylan. And as much as I want to remind him that living in fear of losing each other is a path to hell, I do not. Not here, in the midst of loss and grief.