Table of Contents

What This Book is About...

Dedication

Epigraph

BLIND SIDE

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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About the Author

Also by Josh Lanyon

Copyright

It’s a good problem to have: more business than they can comfortably handle on their own.

But with resources already overstretched, the last thing former DSS agents and newbie security consultants Will Brandt and Taylor MacAllister need is another client—and the last thing Will needs is for that client to turn out to be an old boyfriend of Taylor’s.

Sure, Will has always known Taylor had a wild past, but he was kind of hoping he’d never have to sit down and have a beer with it. But golden boy Ashe Dekker believes someone is trying to kill him, and Taylor is determined to help, no matter the cost.

It’s a bit of a jolt to have Taylor for once totally disregard his feelings, but Will is equally determined that “the cost” won’t be their relationship—or Taylor’s life.

To Marilyn, because of course.

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

BLIND SIDE

Dangerous Ground 6

Josh Lanyon

Prologue

Two Christmases ago.

The walkie-talkie crackled, and Taylor said, “Romeo to Base.”

Romeo? Will, who had been blowing on his hands to warm them, spluttered a laugh and picked up his walkie-talkie. “Base.”

“Refresh my memory. Whose idea was this again? Over.”

Will grimaced, looked up at the stars burning bright and cold in the black night sky of the Mojave Desert. Not another light for miles out here. Nothing but Joshua trees and sand and the sharp cutout ridge of distant mountains. “Not sure now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Yours.”

“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”

Taylor’s wicked laugh rustled across the six chilly miles of empty airwaves and Will’s lips twitched in instinctive response. “That is one nasty laugh, buddy boy. I could get a search warrant based on that laugh.”

“Base, standby.” Taylor was suddenly all business.

Will waited, his eyes scanning the darkness. Nothing moved in the sky or on the ground. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye. A shooting star. He smiled faintly. Taylor was not much for the great outdoors.

At the same time Taylor, sounding relaxed again, said, “Go ahead, Base.”

“You were saying?” Will replied. It was only the two of them out here, after all.

“I was saying, this is one hell of a way to spend our last Christmas Eve.”

Will was terse because he wasn’t enjoying freezing his ass off any more than Taylor was—and because this was a sensitive subject. “It’s not our last Christmas Eve.”

The following silence stretched long enough to start sweat prickling on Will’s hairline. He had accepted the posting in Paris despite knowing Taylor’s feelings—and the strain it would put on their relationship. After a couple of months of delays, on January 1st, he’d finally be shipping out for a two-year tour of duty in the City of Lights.

And what happened at the end of that two years was anybody’s guess.

“If I do take the assignment in Paris, it doesn’t mean we’re not still together.”

“Other than the six thousand miles between us.”

“Five thousand six hundred and sixty-one miles.”

“But who’s counting.”

Will knew what he wanted to happen at the end of that two years. And he was confident it was what Taylor wanted too.

But two years was a long time.

And Taylor was a guy with little patience and a lot of options.

“Copy that,” Taylor said at last. “Doesn’t change the fact that we’re currently one step up from snipers.”

Will started breathing again. “Not if we don’t shoot anybody.”

Taylor said darkly, “That depends on how much longer we’re stuck out here.”

Will peered at the luminous dial of his watch. “I make it half an hour.”

He could feel Taylor’s sigh, though the walkie-talkie remained silent. Taylor hated this op for a dozen reasons, starting with the fact that it was their last not-last Christmas Eve for the foreseeable future and ending with the fact that any half-awake civilian with a radio and a pair of binoculars could have handled this. They were simply providing backup for the backup.

“I’ll make it up to you, Romeo,” Will said suddenly, surprising himself. “Next Christmas will be different.”

“Roger so far.” There was a smile in Taylor’s voice. “Should we switch to a secure channel?”

In one short week, phone calls would be all Will had to keep him warm at night.

Not for the first time he wondered if he was mistaking stubbornness for smart choices. Because if this promotion ended up costing him Taylor—

But no. It wouldn’t. Taylor understood. Taylor had ambitions too. It would be okay. They would be okay. And he would make it up to Taylor. He really would. Starting now.

“Affirmative,” he said gruffly. Why the hell not? It was just them and the coyotes, and any smart coyote was safely curled in his den, dreaming of rabbits and the spring.

“Yeah?” Taylor sounded alert and interested.

Will realized with blinding clarity that there was no going wrong with this; anything he said would, at the least, make Taylor laugh. But Taylor wouldn’t laugh. Will knew that too. Realized that however awkward he was at verbalizing…stuff, the very attempt would mean something to Taylor. Taylor, who spent more than his fair share of time putting it all on the line. Phone lines included.

“Yeah,” Will said boldly. “That’s right, Romeo. They don’t call me Roger Wilco for nothing.”

Three hours later

“Roger Wilco?” Taylor started to laugh.

“I don’t recall hearing any objections,” Will said mildly. “Then or now.”

“No, and you won’t.” Taylor stretched luxuriously against the tumbled stack of pillows and grinned at him. In the soft lamplight he looked young and happy. No shadows in his eyes tonight.

Will leaned across to the bedstand, picked up the bottle of bourbon Taylor had given him for Christmas, and topped up the two tumblers. He handed one glass to Taylor.

Taylor held it up thoughtfully, watching the light catch and flash in the two fingers of red-brown liquid. “You trying to get me drunk, William?”

“I shorely am,” Will drawled. Not drunk enough to ruin Christmas morning for either of them, just drunk enough to keep Taylor in that agreeably pliable and affectionate mood his rare boozing triggered.

Taylor laughed again and clinked it against Will’s. “Merry Christmas.” He sucked in a soft breath, said steadily, “And here’s to Paris.”

“Merry Christmas,” Will said. He took a swallow, set his glass aside and leaned down to kiss Taylor. He whispered, “And here’s to us.”

Chapter One

The razor-sharp edge between Before and After. That’s what haunted Will.

That split second between the moment when all options were still on the table, when there were still infinite possibilities as to how it could all play out, and the moment when the choice was made and consequences rolled out with the inevitability of high tide.

He hadn’t seen it coming. That was part of it. He’d been blindsided.

And the thing was, it had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening. No indication of what lay ahead. In fact, the ordinariness of it was what made it perfect.

“Why don’t we celebrate?” he’d said.

Not quite five o’clock, it was nearly dark as they crossed the wooden bridge. The damp twilight smelled of car exhaust, Mexican food, and maybe, distantly, the ocean. Colorful lights blinked and twinkled in the ragged black silhouettes of the surrounding trees. In the manmade hollow beside the Spanish-style strip mall, the miniature golf course was decorated for the holidays with fake snow and leafy garland. It looked like Santa’s Village. Quaint, cute, commercialized.

Will didn’t mind. He sort of liked the holidays, even if they typically worked straight through them. People tended to be in a better mood around the holidays, and people in better moods were a good thing in their line of work. Less bullets. More bonuses.

Taylor answered, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“A couple of steaks. A couple of drinks. An early night.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Taylor’s “Okay” was said absently. He probably couldn’t have read Will’s expression in the dusk anyway, but he was no longer looking at Will. He was staring ahead at their office, the last space in the mall, where a blond man in a leather jacket was exiting through a glass door that read American Eagle.

“He changed his mind,” Will commented, following Taylor’s gaze. “He doesn’t want to know she’s cheating.”

Taylor made a dismissive sound. They didn’t do cheating spouses. They weren’t PIs. They were security consultants, and as of this afternoon’s successful landing of the Webster Fidelity account, they were moving into the big leagues just like they’d been talking about since they’d left the Diplomatic Security Service to strike out on their own three months earlier.

The man in the leather jacket hesitated for a moment, aimlessly jingling the keys in his pockets, and then started toward the bridge. Technically, there was parking in the mall, but the hair salon at the opposite end guaranteed that there was rarely any available space. Will and Taylor always parked on the street.

Anyway, it was just as well this guy was bailing. Securing the Webster account solidified the fact that they were understaffed. Not as understaffed as they had been two weeks earlier when Will had persuaded Euphonia Jones to quit her job at the DMV and come work for them. But for the first time ever, they did not need another client.

As though reading his mind, Taylor said, “Maybe he’s dropping off his résumé.”

Probably not. Nothing about that slender, slightly aimless figure gave off a law-enforcement vibe.

“So. Outback? Black Angus?” Will returned to more important matters. “Aloha Steakhouse?”

“Aloha,” Taylor said. No surprise there. He did not like chain restaurants. Well, and after Paris, neither did Will.

The blond man had reached the head of the bridge and was starting toward them. His aftershave, a distinctive and disagreeable blend of musk and patchouli—what was that? Obsession?—reached them first. Taylor checked mid-stride.

The man also seemed to lose step and waver, peering forward as though trying to see through the gloom. He said doubtfully, “Taylor?”

And in a voice Will had never heard out of him before, Taylor said, “Ashe?”

He sounded—well, the cliché would be he sounded like he’d seen a ghost. But actually, he sounded like he was a ghost. The ghost of his former younger self. Taylor’s husky voice sounded lighter and uncertain, and there was just the suggestion of a boyish crack. It startled Will.

Taylor and Ashe strode toward each other, and hugged—or rather, half hugged, half collided—before stepping back to have a look at each other. Or at least as good a look as they could get in the wavering shadows of the Christmas lights.

“Taylor. It is you,” Ashe said. “I was thinking it couldn’t be. That it had to be some other Taylor MacAllister.”

“Jesus. How long has it been? What are you doing here?” Taylor was already turning to Will, making the introductions. “Will, this is Ashe Dekker. Ashe is an old friend of mine.”

Will shook Dekker’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” There wasn’t much he could add to that because until that moment, he’d never heard of Ashe Dekker.

Taylor was still talking. “Ashe, meet Will Brandt. Will’s my partner. We worked together at DS.”

“Sure,” Dekker said. “How’re you doing, Will?” His grip was firm, though his hand was ice cold.

“Great.” Will studied Dekker curiously—and felt his interest returned.

Dekker was a good-looking guy. Average height, slim, with carefully groomed stubble and the kind of shaggy haircut that actually costs a fortune. His clothes were casual and expensive: designer jeans, leather jacket, alligator skin Western boots. Will didn’t think much of guys who wore cowboy boots as a fashion statement, but he was willing to make an exception for a pal of Taylor’s.

“Taylor and I were at UCLA together,” Dekker said.

“Right,” Will said. So this was a very old friend, predating any of Taylor’s other old friends—not that Will had met so many of them, and not that Taylor had so many of them. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

Dekker gave a self-conscious laugh. “To be honest, I was hoping to hire you. Hire American Eagle, that is.”

Taylor said, “You need security consulting services?”

“I’m not exactly sure what I need,” Dekker said. “But I think someone’s trying to kill me.”

Euphonia was locking the front door when they arrived at the office, Ashe Dekker in tow.

“That’s okay, we’ll lock up,” Will told her.

“The painters are coming at eight. I was going to run home, have dinner, and come back.” Euphonia—Nee to her friends—was a petite black woman with a mop of bronze-gold curls and wide brown eyes. For years she had been their go-to girl at the DMV, so it had been a surprise, when they finally met in person, to discover she really was a girl. She was only in her late twenties.

Regardless, she was a paragon of efficiency and ingenuity, and within the first week they had promoted her from receptionist to office manager. Not that that meant a whole hell of a lot, given there were only the three of them employed at American Eagle.

“They’ve got an access code,” Will said. “You don’t need to drive out here again.”

Euphonia smiled the smile of a woman who was going to do exactly what she thought best. She glanced past Will, spotted Dekker, and said in surprise, “Oh, you changed your mind?”

Dekker grimaced. “Yeah. Sorry for being so mysterious.” He said to Taylor, “I was here earlier. I, er, declined to fill out any paperwork.”

“That’s okay. Let’s hear your story first,” Taylor said.

“Thanks, Nee. Is your car on the street?” Will asked Euphonia.

She sighed. “No, Agent Brandt. My vehicle is located in the lot as ordered.”

“Good. And we’re not feds anymore.”

“Uh-huh. You can take a boy out of the agency, but can you take agency out of a boy?”

They were still trying to come up with an answer to that as Euphonia swept out into the damp night, the brisk click of her heels fading quickly.

“She’s been waiting to use that line on us,” Taylor commented, resting his hip on the edge of Euphonia’s terrifyingly neat desk.

“I know.” Will ripped the plastic off one of the waiting room’s two brand-new chairs, saying to Dekker, “Have a seat, Ashe.”

“I’m sure I freaked her out,” Dekker confessed, taking the chair Will indicated. “I couldn’t stop pacing up and down.”

“She used to work for the DMV. She’s freak-proof.” Taylor absently picked up a paperweight shaped like a crumpled 1040 application, raised his brows, and replaced it.

Dekker watched him. In fact, Dekker seemed to have trouble taking his eyes off Taylor. Not that Will blamed him. With his black hair, burnished green eyes, and elegant bone structure Taylor was probably Will’s favorite thing to look at.

Maybe Dekker was comparing the college kid with the man. Maybe he was wondering about that striking single strand of silver in Taylor’s hair—a souvenir of his shooting almost two years ago now. Maybe he was looking at the wedding ring on Taylor’s left hand and wondering exactly what “partner” meant.

If it was the last, good, because Taylor was definitely off-limits to Ashe Dekker.

Now that he could see Dekker in the light, Will reconsidered his original impression. The guy was attractive, true. He had that kind of bad-boy sexy vibe that Will found annoying, but that appealed to some people—Taylor maybe? His features were a little too sharp, his eyes a little too narrow, his mouth a little too thin. He looked quite a bit older than Taylor, but that could be because he was also—appeared to Will, anyway—a drinker. That slight puffiness around his pale blue eyes, the tiny broken capillaries on the tip of his otherwise perfect nose? Taylor’s dad was a drinker, so alcohol abuse was not a trait he found endearing. Although everybody had their exceptions to the rule.

It was hard picturing this guy being close to Taylor. Close enough that a decade later he felt he could call on him when he was in trouble.

Maybe that was more about Taylor than their friendship, because one thing about MacAllister: he was loyal. He was also not what you’d call a naturally gregarious guy. He had friends, of course, a few good men, as the saying went. And for the most part, those were relationships that stretched back years.

Will tuned back in to hear Dekker saying, “I’ve been living in Europe a while now. Anyway, after my mother passed, I came back to sell the beach house and found a bunch of squatters had moved in.”

“Squatters,” Will repeated, glancing automatically at Taylor.

“Right. They call themselves a family, but if they are, it’s more like the Mansons than the Brady Bunch.”

Squatters? That was the threat? That was what had driven Dekker to reach across time and tap Taylor? Will couldn’t help thinking it was kind of a flimsy excuse. Or were they now supposed to be in the trash removal business?

“What did you do?” Taylor’s attention was still focused on Dekker.

“I went through all the legal steps. Posted a three-day notice, filed an unlawful detainer, made sure they were served—”

“Made sure who was served?” Taylor interrupted. He was not the stickler for details Will was, but he liked his facts straight.

“A guy by the name of Mike Zamarion seemed to be the head man. His was the name I used for the lawsuit. He never responded, so I got a default judgment.”

“This has been going on for a while, I take it?” Will asked.

“It’s been going on for about six months.”

Will nodded.

Taylor said, “Then what happened?”

“I took that judgment to the sheriff’s department, but when the deputies went out to the beach house, everyone was gone. Their stuff was still there, though, so I figured they were hanging around, watching the place, waiting for a chance to come back.”

“Probably,” Will said. He was starting to wonder why Dekker had had second thoughts about asking for their help. Since he didn’t seem to realize this was not the kind of service they provided, it couldn’t be that. But he had changed his mind about hiring them. He had been in the process of leaving their office without giving Euphonia his contact info. If the traffic had been just a little worse, they’d have missed him and that would have been that.

Of all the nights for smooth sailing on the 101.

“The deputies went ahead and changed the locks, although I guess technically, they were only supposed to post a five-day notice. If you can believe that bullshit. I hired a company to clean out the place—which the assholes had trashed—and to dump their junk.”

“Ah.” Taylor glanced at Will. “Problematical.”

“Yep.”

In California, the laws concerning squatters vs. trespassers were a little more complicated than in some other parts of the country. Trespassing was a criminal charge and much simpler to resolve, whereas, depending on a variety of factors, squatters actually had rights and protections. Even after a formal eviction, dumping or destroying a squatter’s belongings could lead to legal problems for the property owner.

Plus, it was a shitty thing to do.

Granted, so was squatting in most cases.

“Well, I know that now,” Dekker agreed, “because Zamarion came back demanding I hand over their personal property, and when I told them everything had been carted to the dump, they threatened to burn down the house, which they tried to do a week later.”

“Are you sure—” Taylor was, by nature, a skeptic. It was one of the things Will liked about him.

“I’m sure,” Dekker said with finality. “According to the fire department, it looked like arson.”

This was getting better and better.

“Sounds to me like a case for the sheriff’s department,” Will said. Maybe working in conjunction with the fire department investigators. Maybe not. Looked like arson wasn’t exactly conclusive. What none of this sounded like was a case for a global security consulting firm.

Taylor directed an unreadable look his way.

Dekker said, “That’s what I thought too. Except the sheriff’s department says there’s nothing they can do. Even after someone ran me off the road a couple of nights ago.”

“Wait a minute. Back up.” That was Taylor. “You went to the sheriff’s department with an arson report? And told them about threats made by—”

“Zamarion. Like I said, he’s the ringleader. He claimed he’d been paying property taxes for the past two years and had a legal right to the house. He said he hadn’t received the eviction notice and that it had been illegal to change the locks and dump their belongings.”

Which, if this Zamarion guy was telling the truth, was correct.

Will said, “Ashe, I know you’re not going to want to hear it, but this is a civil matter, not a criminal one.”

That time the look Taylor threw him was one of impatience. But Will was just telling it like it was. Clearly, the sheriffs weren’t impressed by the arson report, assuming there had been one. This whole thing was a mess and a matter for the courts. It sure as hell wasn’t something they needed to be involved in—although if someone really had tried to kill Dekker…

“Did Zamarion pay the property taxes?” Taylor questioned.

“Yes, but so did I. The way it works, his payments were applied to future bills, but there won’t be any future bills because I always pay my taxes. The fact that he’s paid toward the property taxes complicates my selling the house. It’s the craziest situation.”

“You said Zamarion made threats,” Will said. “What kind of threats exactly?”

“The kind you take seriously.” Dekker’s blue eyes grew glittery with emotion. “He came to the house and told me, in front of witnesses, he’d see me dead before he’d let me force him and his so-called family out.”

“That’s a criminal threat. If he made it in front of witnesses, you can—”

“Take him to court?” Dekker’s laugh was bitter. “Sure. If the sheriffs can find him. He’s a transient. He doesn’t have a legal residence. He’s using my house as his mailing address. And if I can persuade the painters to testify—that’s another big if right there since their own legal status is questionable. In the meantime, Zamarion is going to keep on trying to kill me.”

Taylor chewed his lip, said, “Do you have proof that the person who tried to run you off the road was Zamarion?”

“You mean like a convenient snapshot of the license plate number? Hell no! I nearly went off a cliff. There wasn’t time to grab my cell phone and start snapping photos!”

“Okay.” Taylor was calm, his voice neutral. “How are you so sure Zamarion was the other driver?”

“Of course he was! Who else? He had just threatened to kill me the day before! That’s not a coincidence.”

Taylor opened his mouth, but Will cut in. “MacAllister. Can I have a word?”

“Sure.” Taylor’s tone was easy, but the look he gave Will was direct and uncompromising. Clearly, his mind was already made up.

Well, he could just unmake it.

They went through the reception area door, crossed the hall, navigating ladders and cans of paint, and stepped into the boudoir-pink room that would ultimately be Will’s office. Their building space had previously belonged to a bridal shop, and the walls were painted in delicate shades of peach and pink. Pastel wallpaper borders featured parasols (why parasols?) and wedding cakes and lovebirds nibbling gold bands. None of which projected the appropriate YOUR SAFETY IS IN OUR HANDS! vibe—or even, in Will’s view, a reassuring preview of marriage.

They were hoping to have the renovations finished before the end of the year, but the holidays turned out to be an unexpectedly busy time for contractors. Most of the work at American Eagle was having to be done after-hours—and at a premium price.

Will closed the door to his office. He kept his voice low. “Okay, listen. Dekker is a friend, and I understand that you want to help him, but this is clearly a case for the sheriffs.”

“Sure,” Taylor replied. “That doesn’t mean we can’t take a look around, ask a few questions.”

Will didn’t trust that reasonable tone. “Yes. If that’s all you’re talking about. Because we’ve got to be realistic. You know as well as I do, we’re not in a position to take on another client.”

Taylor shrugged dismissively. “If you don’t want to take Ashe on as a client, that’s okay with me. I wasn’t planning on billing him. I’ll handle this as a favor. In my spare time.”

This was exactly what Will had feared. Taylor had not only already made his mind up, he was busily working out the details before they could even finish identifying what those details might be.

He tried very hard to keep his exasperation from showing. “What spare time? You don’t have spare time. Neither of us do.”

“What’s your point, Will?” Taylor rested his hand on his canted hip, and studied him with cool, green eyes.

That—in fairness, unconsciously—cocky posture, that skeptical really? stare, were the reason so many people longed to punch Taylor five seconds after meeting him. It wasn’t really who Taylor was. Or rather, yeah, the confidence, the cynicism, were facets of his personality, but not the main facets, and not traits he typically turned on Will.

Obviously, this was a unique case, and Will needed to respect that. Which he was trying to do.

He said, “All I’m saying is, doesn’t it make more sense—isn’t it better for all of us—if we direct Dekker back to the sheriff’s department? And if you don’t feel like that’s enough, we can refer him to another—”

Taylor cut him off. “Uh-uh. We’re not referring him anywhere. Ashe came to me.”

“I know that. That’s why I’m saying—”

“I gave Ashe my word that if he ever needed help, I’d be there. I didn’t say, if you ever need help, I can refer you to someone. I promised I’d be there for him.”

“I get that.” Will did. It would be unreasonable to be irritated with Taylor for making those kinds of promises years before they’d ever met. He wasn’t irritated, and he definitely wasn’t jealous—he didn’t think—but Christ, Taylor could be so bullheaded.

“Do you?” There it was. That hint of cynical smile. “Because that’s not what I’m hearing.”

“What you’re hearing is me trying to work out what’s going to be best for all of us. We’re not bodyguards—”

“We’ve handled plenty of protection details, so don’t give me that. What’s your real beef?”

“My real beef is not two hours ago we landed the kind of job we’ve been hunting since we left the DS, and we both know we don’t actually have the manpower to carry it off.”

“So we’re going to be stretched thin. We should be used to that by now.”

“So, taking on another job—one that’s liable to be as time-consuming and distracting as this one sounds—is not smart.” He shook his head.

“It’ll take a day. Two at most.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“The hell. You think I can’t handle tracking down this Zamarion guy?”

“Of course I don’t think that. But come on, you know what this is going to be. Chasing smoke in the wind.”

“I know.”

“Then you admit it’s not an efficient use of our resources.”

Taylor opened his mouth, and Will added, “And while we’re on the topic of resources, I thought you were frantic to pay Richard back? Just this morning you said again how much you didn’t want to be in debt to him. Which is all the more reason not to take on a pro-bono gig that’s liable to jeopardize the first job we’ve had that might allow us to start paying off that debt.”

Everything Will was saying was true, so it was maddening to have Taylor keep looking at him with that skeptical expression like…what? What did think was really motivating Will?

“I see,” Taylor drawled. “If David Bradley came to us for help, you’d just give him the name of a good local firm and send him on his way?”

Will felt himself change color. “It’s not the same situation. David is—was—”

He stopped, realizing he was wading into quicksand.

Brows arched in pointed inquiry, Taylor said mildly, “David is—was—?”

“David is our friend—”

“He’s no friend of mine.”

“He’s not someone from my distant past asking for a favor. And anyway, I’d have to tell David the same thing I’m telling you now. We don’t have the resources to handle this.”

“Bullshit.”

Somehow the quietness of that was more jarring than if Taylor had shouted at him. “If David Fucking Bradley came through that door, asking for your help, you’d move heaven and earth to give it to him. We both know it. And guess what? I understand that. I even respect it. Which is why I expect you to understand and respect my position. I’m not asking you to put in extra hours. I’ll handle this on my own. And I’ll make damn sure that it doesn’t interfere with the Webster Fidelity job. Okay? Fair enough?”

No, it was not okay, it was not fair. It was foolish and impractical. But after Taylor invoked David’s name, what else could Will say? No way in hell could he risk arguing with Taylor about David, and clearly that’s where this conversation was headed.

Will said curtly, “Fair enough.”

Taylor nodded, yanked open the door, and they walked in silence back into the front office. They found Ashe scrutinizing a stack of framed photos. He looked up with an expression of hope mixed with wariness, and set aside a seven-year-old picture of Will accepting his marksmanship qualification badge.

“Okay,” Taylor told him. “We talked it over. We’re taking your case.”

“You are?” Ashe threw a quick, doubtful look at Will.

“Yes,” Will said.

Ashe still seemed unsure. “If this isn’t the kind of thing you do—”

“We do whatever needs doing,” Taylor said.

“It’s our company’s slogan,” Will said sardonically. “We’re going to get it printed on coffee mugs.”

Taylor gave him an unamused look before saying to Dekker, “Where are you staying?”

“The beach house. Carpinteria.”

“Okay, I’ll drive up first thing tomorrow and take a look around. You can fill me in on the rest of the story. We’ll start there and see where it leads us.”

“That’s… I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Dekker said, with another of those slightly ill-at-ease glances at Will. “Thank you both.”

He did seem thankful. But Will couldn’t help thinking Dekker also seemed more scared than when he’d first walked into their office.

Chapter Two

Will was not happy.

Even after two Knob Creek bourbons and ordering Aloha Steakhouse’s legendary prime rib Menehune cut, he remained stern-mouthed and steely eyed, and, in the normal course of things, that would have bothered the hell out of Taylor. In this case… Well, in this case, Brandt needed to suck it up.

Taylor sighed mentally, gazing out the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit ocean. The restaurant was one of their favorite places. The food was good, the drinks were good, and the beachy decor with its high ceilings, polished wood, and marine-themed art was usually as relaxing as a walk on the beach.

Not so much tonight.

This was not exactly the celebration Will had wanted, and Taylor was sorry about that. But a promise was a promise, and if anyone ought to understand that, it was Will. He was the most honorable guy Taylor had ever known.

He swallowed the last of his Aloha Amber Ale. He was sticking to beer tonight, not wanting to risk an alcohol-infused argument when they got home—he recognized the precariousness of his own mood. He should never have brought up David Bradley. Will, still appalled by the hurt he’d unconsciously inflicted in Paris, was bound to think that’s what this was about. But it was nothing to do with Bradley. This was about one thing and one thing only: keeping his promise to Ashe.

And yeah, Will was right. Taylor had made that promise in a different life. Will was right that the timing was not good. Well, that went without saying. There was no good time for bad things to happen. Will was also right that they were already stretched too thin and they couldn’t—could not under any circumstances—afford to jeopardize the Webster account.

And finally, Will was right that Ashe was not being completely candid with them.

That was something he’d brought up after the first round of drinks. They’d been making carefully neutral conversation over the fried calamari, and Will had said suddenly, “Maybe I’d feel better about the situation if I didn’t have the feeling your boy Dekker is hiding something.”

Until Will put it into words, Taylor hadn’t acknowledged his own reservations. And even then he said, “Yeah, well, he’s probably a little embarrassed. No guy likes to feel like he can’t take care of himself. I’m guessing the sheriffs weren’t particularly diplomatic.”

“He was definitely vague about the arson report.”

“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t try to burn down his place.”

Will hmmed and sipped his bourbon. Eventually, he said, “How did he find us?”

“We’re in the Yellow Pages. We’re on the web. We’re running ads in Ventura Life magazine. I would hope people could find us.”

“That’s not what I mean. How did he know American Eagle is you?”

“Us.”

“Us. It’s not like we’re running ads under our names.”

Taylor said, “We’re not hiding our identities either. Anyone who looks up our website is going to see our About Us section. It’s reasonable that our names might be popping up in Google searches.”

“Maybe.” Will still sounded dissatisfied.

Taylor again considered Ashe’s nervousness, came up with, “After all, it’s been a long time. Maybe he wasn’t completely comfortable coming to us.”

“Coming to you.” It was said dispassionately, but point made.

“Still.”

Will’s comments confirmed his own gut feeling that there was more to Ashe’s story. But then Ashe had always been a little…evasive.

He said slowly, watching Will’s face, “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Will said. “I’m just making observations as they occur to me.”

They were both a little paranoid after Oregon.

Maybe with good reason. A few weeks earlier they had visited Will’s father for Thanksgiving—now there was a homecoming for the history books—and discovered they were being tailed by a not-very-efficient PI by the name of Stuart Schwierskott.

Schwierskott swore he did not know who had hired Schwierskott & Associate to conduct surveillance on them—or rather he insisted he had been hired by a legal firm acting as a middleman—and despite their best efforts, Will and Taylor had not been successful in finding out who wanted to keep tabs on them.

It seemed pretty unlikely Ashe could be connected to any of that. For one thing, he claimed his troubles had begun months ago, and that was something that could be easily verified.

Besides, Ashe was genuinely afraid; that had been plain to Taylor. And really, that was all that mattered. Ashe needed help, and Taylor owed him that much.

Their meals came, and within a few bites of meltingly tender black & bleu filet mignon, Taylor’s mood lifted. Will stopped looking quite so bleak and ordered a third round of drinks.

They were halfway through their dinners when Will said thoughtfully, “He doesn’t really seem like your type.”

“What’s my type?”

“Me,” Will said promptly, and Taylor gave a little huff.

But Will was smiling at him, teasing, though maybe a bit tentative—they had come way too close to really arguing earlier. Taylor smiled back. After all, it was perfectly true. And Will, with his chiseled, square-jawed handsomeness—alert and amused blue eyes, boyish sweep of glossy brown hair—was about as far from Ashe’s edgy, sensual, and slightly dissolute appeal as it got.

“Maybe we were just friends,” Taylor suggested.

“No. Not the way he looked at you.” Will shook his head. Started to say ruefully, “And…”

Taylor glanced at him. “And?”

“There was a note in your voice.”

“A note in my voice?”

What did that mean? Was Will jealous? No. Will knew perfectly well he came first for Taylor and had from practically the minute they’d been teamed. Will had never doubted Taylor’s feelings for him, just his ability to keep his pants zipped in the face of temptation. To mix a metaphor or two.

Anyway, he didn’t want to dwell on old resentments. Not everything could be resolved. Sometimes you just had to let go of the hurt and move on.

Will said, still smiling, still rueful, but something was going on there, “You sounded very happy to see him.”

“Well, yeah. Sure.” He had been glad to see Ashe. Ashe had been a little wild, a little reckless back in the day. Taylor had wondered and even worried a bit about him over the years. Maybe not as much as he should have, but he had been very glad to see Ashe was okay.

He circled back to the safer ground of Will’s earlier comment. “Anyway, he’s not my type. Now. But it was college. I didn’t have a type.”

“Sure you did.”

Taylor’s smile twisted, but okay. Maybe. “He was different. I was different.” He shrugged.

“What happened?”

It was a fair question, given that Ashe was sort of their client, but Will had never shown any interest in Taylor’s romantic attachments before. In fact, he’d always been studiously not interested.

Taylor said, “It wasn’t like you and Madonna. We weren’t childhood sweethearts.”

“Yeowch.”

“Just sayin’. It only lasted a year. There weren’t any plans for a future together. I knew I’d be going into the DS.”

“What was Ashe planning to do after college?”

“He hadn’t decided. I was four years ahead of him.”

Will’s brows rose. “You’re kidding. I thought for sure he was older than you.”

“Nope. Anyway, I graduated, went into the DS as planned, and that was that. My first posting abroad was Japan.”

No further explanations needed. Will knew all about Japan. Come to think of it, given the messy nature of some of his romantic entanglements, no wonder Will didn’t want to know more than he already did.

Will said, “I see. How did the pledge of eternal fealty come about?” His tone was light, but yeah, there was a faint edge.

Taylor controlled his impatience. He wasn’t enjoying this, but he did not want secrets between himself and Will. Even if the truth was liable to confirm some of Will’s misgivings. “Ashe wasn’t out before he met me. I mean, neither of us were. Officially. But he hadn’t ever been with anyone. He was…emotionally vulnerable in a way I wasn’t.” Taylor met Will’s bright and curious gaze. “I did care for him, but I wasn’t in love. He was.”

Painfully so. He didn’t like remembering. Even now.

“I see.”

Taylor said—he needed Will to understand this, “It wasn’t just something I said. I meant it. About being there for him if he ever needed me.”

“I know you did,” Will said. “You never say anything you don’t mean.”

Well, that was maybe an exaggeration, but it was true he didn’t make promises carelessly.

They turned their attention back to their meals. To Taylor’s relief, when Will spoke again, he was back to business.

“You know, we probably need to think about bringing a cyber security expert on board sooner rather than later. All the top firms offer cyber security now.”

Truth. Gone were the days when firewalls and antivirus software could keep a company’s secrets safe. In their technically reliant society, cybersecurity risk was growing exponentially, driven by global connectivity and usage of cloud services to store sensitive data. Increasingly sophisticated cyber criminals meant the risk to organizations, both large and small, was steadily on the rise. While there were no national laws overseeing data breach disclosure, every state had their own data breach laws, with California leading the way since 2003. If they were really going to be a world-class contender, they were going to have to take a serious look at providing cyber security.

Frankly, something Taylor had zero interest in.

He didn’t say that, of course. What would be the point? They were all in now. No turning back. Not professionally. Not personally.

He said instead, “Who do we know looking to make a career change?”

“Let me think. Lousy hours, lousy pay, lousy benefits. Who wouldn’t jump at that?”

Taylor grinned because they had both jumped at that.

Will met his eyes, smiled in wry acknowledgment. “I don’t know, but the market is only going to get more competitive for prospective employers. We should put feelers out.”

A tiring thought. Taylor nodded, his thoughts circling back to their meeting that day. “Webster’s IT team manager got pretty defensive at the suggestion that cyber security should be its own department.”

“Predictable.”

“Nobody wants to think the threat could come from within, but that’s the truth.”

“Yep.”

Will’s cell rang. He checked it, and his face went blank. Of course, that very lack of expression was a tell to someone who knew him as well as Taylor.

“Who’s that?” Taylor asked, just to turn the knife a little.

“No one important.” Will put his cell down and met Taylor’s gaze steadily.

Taylor’s grin was crooked. “I guess Bradley’s back from parts unknown?”

“Probably.”

Taylor let it go. It wasn’t Will’s fault that his ex-boyfriend couldn’t seem to come to terms with Will having moved on. Or at least, it wasn’t completely Will’s fault.

Riley, Will’s German shepherd, was beside himself with joy when they finally walked through the Craftsman bungalow Taylor had restored with periodic help from Will.

“Hey, Riley. Hey, boy,” Will said wearily. It had been a long-ass day. And tomorrow looked to be even longer.

They shrugged out of their jackets as the dog ran circles around them, whining his complaints about the hours they were keeping. It turned out their work schedule was hard on the whole family.

“I’m going to take him for a walk on the beach,” Will announced.

Taylor, sorting through the mail, looked up, studying him. Will’s attention was on Riley, and his expression seemed remote.

And honestly? Taylor didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Assuming there was anything going on there besides fatigue.

“Sure. Watch yourself.”

Will nodded, hesitated, then called to Riley, who slid magic-carpet style on the hallway rug in his hurry to get out the front door.

Taylor went back to sorting the mail, absently listening to the front door close, Will’s deep voice checking Riley’s enthusiasm, the jingle of Riley’s tags, and Will’s footsteps growing fainter.

There wasn’t much of interest in the day’s post. Not even many bills, thanks to the loan from Richard. There were a couple of Christmas-card-shaped envelopes, one from his insurance company and one with David Bradley’s return address.

Taylor scowled at Bradley’s machine-precise cursive, propped the envelope against the coffee machine, where Will couldn’t miss it, and turned his attention to their phone messages. Not much excitement there either—mostly those annoying “Hello? Hello?” spam calls.

No question life was quieter now that they were civilians. But that wasn’t a bad thing. In fact, knowing odds were good they’d both live to make old bones was one of the best things about their sudden career change. And landing the Webster Fidelity account was a huge coup. It was the kind of thing they had been talking about since they’d opened shop.

So why this sense of almost…letdown?

He shook off the feeling impatiently. He was just tired. They both were. Plus, red meat did not really agree with him, and they were eating a lot of red meat lately. Will gravitated to meat and potatoes when he was stressed. And yes, they were stressed. They’d be stupid not to be. Although Will was equally energized. Will had really wanted the Webster Fidelity account, and he’d worked his ass off to land it. He’d been jubilant today. Whereas Taylor…

Well, naturally he was jubilant too. He just wasn’t used to feeling out of his element, and he’d definitely felt out of his element at that afternoon’s meeting.

Besides which, if he’d wanted to work in the corporate world, he’d have taken his stepfather Richard up on one of his many offers to join the family firm.

But what was the use in thinking like this? Taylor shook off his reflections. The main thing he had wanted was for him and Will to be working together again, so what did it matter what the job was?

It didn’t.

He washed up the breakfast dishes left in the sink, showered, tossed a load of laundry into the washing machine. Will and Riley were still not back by the time Taylor finally climbed into bed. He stretched out on the king-size mattress with a groan of relief. His body was not designed to sit on its ass all day in a conference-room chair.

Absently, he listened to the wet thump of the washer, staring at the ceiling, considering Ashe’s sudden reappearance.

It was odd.

Will was right about that. But Ashe had always been a little odd. Or maybe odd wasn’t the right word.

Okay, yeah, odd. And impulsive. And kind of careless. Easy to see how he had made a bad situation worse with Mike Zamarion and his crew.

But Ashe was also smart, funny, good company, and surprisingly easygoing. Most of the time. The sex had been crazy good. Sometimes just crazy. But mostly really good. Their twelve-hour marathon of goodbye sex had been the best in Taylor’s life—up to the point of Will.

Of course, that was first love for you. Mostly on Ashe’s part, but Taylor had loved him. In his way. Admittedly, back then, his way had been pretty self-serving. So what? They had been two horny young college guys. Nobody had plighted their troth or anything.

What had Ashe been doing living in Europe?

Taylor hoped he was not making the wrong choice by insisting they could handle Ashe’s case and still deliver for Webster Fidelity. He did not want to let Will down.

Will.

That was another point of concern.

Will had definitely not warmed to Ashe. He was not jealous by nature, even if he did suffer the occasional flash of insecurity when it came to Taylor’s sexual past. It had to be his concerns about Taylor’s decision to take on additional work when they were already stretched so thin. A legit worry. It was Taylor’s responsibility to make sure Will’s qualms remained unrealized.

They were in a good place right now—it had taken effort to get there—and he did not want to jeopardize that. However, not to hold on to old grudges, but Jesus, didn’t he deserve some room to maneuver, given how much latitude he’d given Will over good old Lt. Commander David Bradley? Not to mention a few other missteps by his partner that he was doing his best to forget?

But maybe he was anticipating problems where there weren’t any. There was every possibility he’d get Ashe’s situation sorted out within a day. Certainly, before the end of the week. If there was one thing more than a decade in the DSS had taught him, it was that most problems were solved through communication. Diplomacy in Action.

He blinked sleepily against the increasing weight of his eyelids.

First thing he was going to do was find out for sure whether there really was an arson report…

He came awake when the mattress dipped beneath Will’s weight. The room and hallway beyond were in total darkness, the gap in the curtains offering a glimpse of stars and Will’s pale outline easing down beside him.

Taylor mumbled, “What time is it?”

“Shh,” Will soothed. “Still plenty of nighttime.”

Good news because sleep was in short supply these days. Even so, he was coming back to alertness, aware that it was much later, that Will had been gone hours.

Will must have had a lot to think about that evening, must have put in several miles of sandy contemplation. Or he’d been making phone calls he didn’t want Taylor to overhear.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s good.” Will kissed him. It was a soft kiss. Tender. Almost apologetic. Was Will sorry for being gone so long or for the things he had been thinking while he’d been gone so long?

“You sure?” Taylor put his hand against Will’s cheek—Will’s eyes were a gleam in the shadows.

“I’m sure.” Will kissed him again, and Taylor responded with quick, ready hunger—there were more important things than sleep, after all.

The rough velvet of their jaws rubbed against each other, the butterfly flutter of eyelashes brushing eyelashes, the warm bump of noses and mouths…and other things.

“Sorry,” Will whispered. “Sorry for being a jerk this evening.”

Taylor moved his head in negation. “No. You were right. It wasn’t only my decision.”

“A promise is a promise.”

True. But.

“Yeah, and I promise I’ll get Ashe’s problems wrapped up ASAP.”

Taylor felt Will’s mouth curve, maybe in a smile, maybe in acknowledgment, maybe thinking the joke was on Taylor. Will kissed him again, promised, “We’ll work it out together. He’s my client too.”

That was the Will he knew and loved. Taylor’s heart expanded with gratitude at being met more than halfway. He nodded.

Their mouths gentled, lingered, tasting—Will was peppermint-flavored with bourbon undertones—taking a moment to savor what they had. It had taken them long enough to get here.

Will traced Taylor’s mouth with his fingertips, slowly traced his cheekbones, his eyebrows, not exploration, more a slow and thoughtful confirmation. Taylor could feel each fleeting caress after Will moved on. Was that what they meant by cell memory? Because every cell in his body recognized Will’s touch; could not imagine any circumstance where he would not know Will from anyone else, everyone else. Even the first day they’d met, he’d had a sense of discovery, a feeling that this was what—who—he’d been waiting for.

Not that he’d waited—clearly—which was occasionally part of the problem for Will.

He nipped Will’s finger, and felt Will’s smile. Will whispered, “I really do love you.” There had been a time when he had struggled with saying the words aloud.

“I had an idea you might.”

But Will was serious, even earnest. “Don’t ever think I take you for granted.”

Until that moment, the thought had never occurred to Taylor, but okay.

Will lowered his head, and they kissed again. Taylor shoved up the soft cotton folds of Will’s Henley to stroke the hard, muscular planes of Will’s naked back, slid down over Will’s hips to the opening in his sleep pants, arrowing in on soft skin, hard muscle. Will groaned, reciprocating, tugging at the band of Taylor’s boxers, dragging them down, stopping as Taylor’s gulp of pleasure turned to protest when elastic band met rigid cock.

Will muttered breathless apology, still plucking clumsily at the thin cotton, and Taylor started to laugh, lifting up, allowing for less perilous access. The heady scents of body-heated flannel and imminent sex rose with him. The bedclothes floated up, ghostlike, as Will laughed too, breathlessly, wriggling to free himself from his pajama bottoms, which he did in a couple of desperate heaves.

They landed back in each other’s arms, their cocks rigid and swollen, and the laughter dried as they humped against each other, hips grinding, backs laboring, shivering and shoving against each other in that desperate struggle for release.

Always the same, always different.

Their mouths fastened once more, the kiss deeper, hotter, tongues twining, suddenly starving for each other, eating each other alive.

Taylor arched into Will’s thrust, and they found their rhythm—practice made perfect—push-me-pull-you-ing into each other’s touch, feverish with the need for connection, urgent with the necessity for the most intimate of intimacies.

Will groaned against his ear, a hot, moist gust of pained delight. Taylor pulled him closer, arms wrapping tight, licking Will’s throat, nibbling beneath his chin, moaning half-hearted remonstrance when Will sucked him back on the side of his neck, hard, wet suction that would leave a mark for sure.

Bodies writhing, cocks rubbing, muscular chests pushing against each other, moving together with the ease of practice, sex not any less pleasurable for being a familiar and reliable source of comfort and release. Will nuzzled velvety kisses against Taylor’s throat, bent his head to tongue Taylor’s nipples, reached down and took Taylor’s wet-slick cock in his hand. It didn’t take more than a stroke or two before Taylor arched, seeming to light up, his body taut and trembling, crying out.

“Jesus. Will…”

“Christ, Tay,” Will groaned from deep in his chest, and sudden wet warmth spread between them.

Taylor closed his eyes, feeling that pulse of warm seed spilling from him, waves of sweet, soft relief washing away the earlier tension and strain.

They lay there for a few moments, shattered, dazed, not minding the hot stickiness gluing them together. Just one of the things that glued them together. When they stopped twitching and trembling, they shifted a little, getting more comfortable, still cradling each other as they tumbled into their separate dreams.

Chapter Three

“In addition to increasing employee accountability, we’ve encouraged our staff members to consciously foster an environment of loss prevention…”

Was there anything more boring than department-head meetings?

Will resisted the temptation to look at his phone as yet another Webster Fidelity manager rose to defend at length why their department did not need some outsider analyzing their security risk and offering unnecessary advice.

The fact that CEO Harvey Reid had kicked off this already very long meeting by reassuring everyone present that American Eagle was not out to “get” anyone, that they were being hired as a preventative measure and solely in an effort to keep up with changing times, seemed to have no effect on “the team.”

It didn’t help that Taylor had not made the meeting.

In fairness, Will hadn’t thought he would. He appreciated that Taylor wanted to be there.

But Taylor’s absence underscored the fact that American Eagle had two consultants and WF had five locations, from San Diego to Yreka, each needing to be personally visited and assessed for possible security threats so that separate and specific contingency protocols could be created—oh, and that Harvey Reid wanted it all done before Webster Fidelity closed for the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

Maybe they shouldn’t have gone into the Private Eye biz after all, because when Will considered the list of services they ostensibly offered their clients, he felt a kind of alarm he had never experienced either in the Marines or in the DSS.

Whose bright idea had this been again?

Oh, right. His.

Also in the column of things he was not thrilled about was the realization that he was going to have his work cut out acting as a buffer between Taylor and Todd Kohl, WF’s pompous and pugnacious head of security.

Kohl was in his forties, short, pudgy, with thinning red hair which he tried to disguise by sweeping it forward in a swoop of bangs that looked like a donkey’s forelock. His favorite things in life appeared to be his impressive-sounding gun collection—wasn’t that a weird thing to mention when first being introduced?—and hunting monster elk. He had never served in the military, and seemed a little defensive about it. In fact, Kohl seemed a little defensive about everything, starting with why CEO Harvey Reid had felt it necessary to hire American Eagle.

Kohl and Taylor were going to be oil and water. Or maybe oil and firewater. Maybe it was just as well Taylor was missing this meeting.

It was clear there would be plenty of other interminable meetings ahead.

Will’s phone vibrated on the wooden conference table like a knock-knock-Fate-calling! moment, and ten pairs of disapproving eyes turned their laser beams his way. Thinking—hoping—it might be Taylor, Will reached for his cell and saw David’s contact profile photo flash up.

His gut twisted in nervous response, which just the thought of David gave him after Paris. Not David’s fault, but the memory of what Taylor had suffered during those forty-eight hours half killed Will. Remembering Taylor’s mocking smile at dinner the night before—and the sight of that Christmas card strategically positioned against the coffee maker…oh, hell no.

He did not have the energy for that.

He rose, nodding apologetically to Reid, and stepped into the hallway. The truth was this meeting was for Webster Fidelity employees, to give them a chance to vent their frustrations and fears. He probably shouldn’t have been present anyway.

On the elevator ride to the lobby, he checked his messages, but other than the now two messages from David, there was nothing of interest. Meaning no word from Taylor yet.

What part of keep me posted did Taylor not understand?

Will reached the lobby, nodded at the portly security guard, who promptly sucked in his belly, and went out through the revolving glass door—which, by the way, needed to be changed out for a ballistic-resistant high-security revolving door.

It was a gray day. The air felt dull and heavy, tainted with smog and car exhaust. A couple of strands of wan white Christmas lights spanned the width of the street, and that was about it for striking a festive note. Spring Street, in the heart of Los Angeles’s financial district, was known as the Wall Street of the West with good reason. It was also a historic district with over ten buildings designated Historic-Cultural Monuments by the Los Angeles Cultural Heritage Commission. A lot of the original Beaux Arts facades remained virtually intact, making the district a popular shooting location for production companies filming period pieces. There were no film crews present that day, but a number of Asian tourists with cameras and a walking tour led by a guy in a fedora passed him as he phoned David back.

David picked up within two rings. “Will, good to hear from you.” David greeted him in that deep, sexy growl of a voice. “How are you?”

“Good,” Will said. “Actually, great. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, David.”

“It’s a busy time of year. How’s your better half?”

That was David having a little joke because he did not consider Taylor to be Will’s better half. Not in any way, shape, or form. They all knew he believed Will had made a serious mistake in choosing Taylor over him. And as much as Will liked David, that made it hard to stay friends.

It was a shame too, because Will shared interests with David that he didn’t share with Taylor—and since when was there a law that a gay man couldn’t have a close same-sex friend?

“Taylor’s fine.” Will remembered Taylor was currently in Carpinteria with his college boyfriend, and suddenly couldn’t think of anything to add.

David chuckled, a warm, friendly sound. “That’s a little terse. I won’t ask. How’s the new business venture?”

David was a perceptive guy. Maybe too perceptive. Will admitted, “Things are different in the private sector, but we’re figuring it out.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute. We should catch up one of these days. In fact, that’s why I called. I’m having a little Christmas party this weekend—just a few good friends, nothing extravagant—and if you and MacAllister don’t have any plans, I’d love you to come. You could spend the night. The guest room is ready and waiting.”

Uh, yeah. That room was going to have a long wait, because this get-together was never going to happen. Will could imagine Taylor’s reaction to learning of David’s invitation. His ears rang just thinking about it.

“It sounds like fun,” he said regretfully. “Unfortunately—well, no, actually, fortunately—we just landed a huge contract, and we’re going to be working right through the holidays.”

David responded, and Will heard the disappointment but not the words because all at once he registered a silver Honda Accord parked across the street. The driver held a pair of binoculars, and the binoculars were trained in Will’s direction.

His first thought was this might be some security threat to Webster Fidelity, but even as the possibility formed, he remembered noting a silver Honda Accord following him off the freeway and onto Spring Street.

Granted, Honda Accords were one of the most popular cars in LA County, but Will was trained to recognize potential vehicle surveillance, and while he was a few months out of practice, he wasn’t that much out of practice.

Nor was it the first time he’d been tailed in the past month, though it was definitely not Stuart Schwierskott behind those field glasses. It might be another operative from Schwierskott & Associate.

“If you ever need to talk,” David was saying.

“Thanks, David.” Will was no longer listening. “Have a Merry Christmas.” He disconnected, turned, and went back inside Webster Fidelity.

Through the tinted glass windows, he observed the driver of the Honda Accord for a few seconds. There was too much traffic and street activity to get a good look, but he had the impression the driver was male, middle-aged, and probably Caucasian. Frankly, not much of a guess given that middle-aged Caucasian males dominated the security industry.

He didn’t want to leap to conclusions. This guy was not necessarily a pro. Even if he was, there were plenty of people inside and outside this building. Will was not by default the target of surveillance. In fact, a nondescript guy in a nondescript car was not by default conducting surveillance, even if he was holding a pair of binoculars. He could be another tourist, a location scout, a jealous boyfriend.

If he could get a look at the car’s license plates—

In the midst of this thought, the driver of the Honda Accord pulled away from the curb and merged into the flow of late morning traffic.

The meeting with Webster Fidelity’s department heads was followed by another, briefer but equally dull meeting with an alphabet soup of top-tier executives, which was followed by lunch with Todd Kohl, head of security.

And if all that wasn’t enough of a recipe for indigestion, all Will had heard from Taylor since he’d left for Ashe’s Carpinteria beach house that morning were a couple of cryptic messages promising to keep Will updated. Updates promising updates were not actually updates, in case MacAllister didn’t know it.

Anyway, Kohl’s ego had taken a bruising over the hiring of American Eagle. Webster Fidelity did not have an actual Chief Security Officer—that role would be taken on at least temporarily by American Eagle—and Will spent a fair bit of time and money on a nice lunch and a lot of schmoozing.

Midway through the meal he realized there were going to be a lot of lunches like this in his future, and nearly lost his appetite.

Kohl was never going to be their ally, but not having him as an enemy would be a good thing. Will wasn’t sure he had achieved that objective by the time he and Kohl walked out of Nick and Stef’s Steakhouse, but détente had to start somewhere.

By four o’clock he was on the freeway headed back to Ventura, trying to decide whether to phone Taylor or not—and feeling aggravated over his uncertainty—when he noticed a silver Honda Accord lurking several cars back.

“Are you for real?” Will muttered, eyes on his rearview mirror.

He amused himself for a few miles by speeding up and slowing down, and each time, the Honda surged forward or fell back, always preserving a safe distance behind a wall of cars that made it impossible to make out the driver or license plates. Of course, it was always possible this manoeuvring was not maneuvering at all, was merely coincidence, but that was not very likely.

Will considered getting off the freeway and then getting back on just to be sure he wasn’t letting his imagination run away with him, but if he did, the tail would almost certainly know he had been made, and Will would lose whatever element of surprise he had.

Assuming he had any.

He thought it over and then, instead of phoning Taylor, phoned Stuart Schwierskott.

A few weeks earlier, Schwierskott & Associate, a Southland private investigation company, had been hired to conduct surveillance on him and Taylor. Schwierskott had followed them to Oregon, though Taylor had made him almost immediately.

In return for their keeping quiet about his botching the job, Schwierskott had told them everything he knew about who had hired him, which turned out to be pretty much nada because Schwierskott & Associate had been hired by a third party, Gently, Fallis & Landreth, a legal firm better known for their schlocky TV ads than their ethics.

Will had tried to get someone from Gently, Fallis & Landreth to roll over on their client, but with no luck. It just wasn’t as easy to get results without the weight of the federal government behind them.

Besides, as the weeks passed with no further threat manifesting—not even signs of continued surveillance—he and Taylor had been inclined to dismiss the incident as a case of mistaken identity.

It wasn’t like they didn’t have plenty of other things vying for their attention.

Anyway, Schwierskott, the associate in Schwierskott & Associate, owed them for not letting his old man know he’d faked most, if not all, of his surveillance reports, and Will decided to call in that marker.

“Schwierskott,” said the voice on the other end.

“Hey, Stuart, remember me? Will Brandt?”

“Brandt?” Schwierskott’s voice shot up an octave. “What are you calling me here for?”

“I don’t have your home number.”

“My…” Schwierskott’s breathing sounded like someone starting to hyperventilate. “Why are you calling me at all? I thought we had an agreement!”

“We do,” Will assured him. “So long as you continue to cooperate.”

“Cooperate how? Continued cooperation wasn’t the agreement.”

“It is now. Who at S&A is currently handling the surveillance on us?”

Schwierskott gulped audibly. “No one!”

“Eh’nt!”

“W-w-what was that?”

“That was the Wrong Answer buzzer,” Will said. “Try again.”

“It’s true,” protested Schwierskott.

“Stuart, I hate to threaten a forty-year-old man with telling his father on him—”

“I told you the truth. They yanked the account from us.”

“Who did?” Will asked.

“Gently, Fallis & Landreth. They cancelled their contract about a week ago. They were upset about what they called our lack of results.”

Will considered this grimly, watching the Honda Accord speed up to match his unconscious acceleration. Usually it was MacAllister who didn’t trust coincidences. In Will’s experience, coincidence happened. But really, what were the odds here?

“Who’s the contact person over at Gently, Fallis & Landreth?”

Schwierskott said indignantly, “How should I know? I never dealt with them. That’s front-office stuff.”

“Wait a minute,” Will said. “You’re telling me you got back from Oregon and you didn’t have any curiosity about what was actually going on? And you call yourself a PI?”

“Uh, I call myself a private investigator,” Schwierskott said huffily. “And maybe I’m not comfortable sharing that information with you.”

“I don’t know why not. I don’t care what you call yourself.”

“Hardy har har.”

“Look, Stuart,” Will said, “I’m asking for a favor. Professional courtesy, remember? There’s something hinky going on here, and by now you must know that yourself.”

Schwierskott was silent.

“If they’re no longer your client—”

“Dina Shey,” Schwierskott answered abruptly. “She’s who you want to talk to. But be prepared. She is a frosty bitch.”

“Thank you,” Will said, and he meant it sincerely. “I appreciate it.”

“Sure you do.”

Will glanced again at the Honda’s miniature reflection. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. No lie.

He said slowly, “Stuart, do you do any freelancing?”

“Me?” Schwierskott sounded startled. “Uh, well, yeah. I could. Sure. Sure, I do.”

Will considered. He was taking a chance. Schwierskott was kind of a screw-up, and even if he wasn’t—even if Oregon had been a fluke—MacAllister was liable to lose his shit if he ever found out about this.

Schwierskott was saying quickly, eagerly, “You want me to follow up with Shey? I could take a run at her. I’d be—”

“No,” Will cut him off. “No, I’ll handle that angle. This is something else—and you’ll deal directly with me and only me. Got that? Don’t call the office. I’ll give you my personal cell number.”

“Okay, sure.” Schwierskott sounded less certain. “This isn’t some kind of shadow op, is it?”

Will managed not to hoot at the idea of bringing Schwierskott in on something like that. “No. This is not some kind of shadow op. This is a completely routine investigation. Rockford 101. But it’s potentially sensitive. It requires discretion.”

“My middle name,” Schwierskott assured him.

This was probably a mistake. He was probably going to regret it. He was definitely going to regret it if MacAllister ever learned of it.

Will ignored the little warning voice in the back of his head. He said, “I need a complete background check on a guy named Ashe Dekker.”

Chapter Four

He had forgotten the house until it rose out of the mist like something remembered from a dream.

Nestled among the avocado orchards in the Carpinteria foothills, the Mediterranean-style mansion offered endless blue ocean vistas and inspirational glimpses of sun-gilded mountains. Not the kind of place you expected to be overrun with squatters, although the library, exercise room, and master bedroom sauna must have made a nice change for them.

There was a tall iron gate at the bottom of the grapevine-covered hillside, but it was standing wide open when Taylor passed through just before eight o’clock.

He drove up to the wide empty courtyard, got out. Though he could see the ocean, the air felt dry and warm, winter sunlight edging everything in gold. Bees hummed industriously in the yucca and scarlet bougainvillea trailing down the stucco walls.

Taylor spotted Ashe sauntering down the wide, shallow, blue-tiled steps, red coffee mug in hand, and raised a hand in greeting.

Ashe wore some kind of embroidered white tunic shirt and something alarmingly like harem pants. “Morning!” he called.

Taylor called back, “Morning.”

“Still punctual as ever.” Ashe reached him, handed the mug to Taylor. “How was your drive?”

“Quick and easy. Thanks.” He eyed Ashe thoughtfully. Ashe’s blond hair was mussed, and there were gray shadows under his eyes. Rough night? Taylor raised the mug, sipped, and felt his eyebrows hit his skull. “Wow. What’s in there?”

“Tequila, Kahlua, coffee.” Ashe grinned. “Like we drank back in college.”

Taylor gave a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I don’t really do Mexican coffee for breakfast these days.”

“Ah, come on. Live a little.” Ashe nodded toward the giant urns and columns. “Did you want to come inside? Or is this supposed to be strictly business?”

Huh?

“Sure. In a minute. Can I take a look at where the fire started?” Taylor took another swallow of Mexican coffee, decided better not, and followed Ashe, who was already striding down the drive toward the three-car garage.

“I take it there’s no live-in staff or caretaker now?”

“No.”

Taylor didn’t see any sign of security cameras or sensors. “What about a security system?”

“No. Mom didn’t like them. She believed the security company would use their cameras to spy on her.” Ashe grinned at Taylor, and Taylor grinned back because he remembered Ashe’s mother had been a character.

He also remembered that Ashe had been very close to his father, and that his father had died Ashe’s first year at UCLA. He remembered holding Ashe after he got the terrible news, and going to the funeral with him. Things he had not thought about in ages.

He said, “But the gates would have been locked?”

“I have no idea.” Ashe’s lip curled in scornful amusement. “You think you’re going to look for fingerprints or signs of a break-in two years later?”

“No. But just for my own information, I’d like to understand how they got access to the house. And how they managed to live here for two years without, apparently, raising any alarms.”

“Zamarion’s story was that my mother invited him to live here as a guest before she passed away.”

Okay. Not trespassing so much as a holdover tenant situation? That would definitely make it a case for the courts. At least this piece of it.

“Any possibility that’s true?” He couldn’t quite read Ashe’s expression.

Ashe stopped walking. “No. Zero. Mom was terrified of guys like Zamarion.”

“Guys like Zamarion?”

“Hippies.”

“Ah.” Taylor said, “Was Zamarion able to produce any kind of documentation to support his claim?”

“Of course not.” Ashe’s harsh laugh ricocheted off the pale stucco walls and brick. He glanced at Taylor’s coffee mug. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

“Better if I don’t.” Taylor smiled apologetically, handed the steaming mug to Ashe, who made a face, then took a swallow.

“Hair of the dog.” Ashe continued walking.

“Right.”

Ashe’s lashes flicked up. He smiled with his old charm. “Uh-oh. You’ve got your big brother face on.”

Taylor opened his mouth, but Ashe abruptly returned to the topic at hand. “Oh. Get this. Zamarion tried to claim Mom intended to leave the house to him.”

Taylor frowned. “Was there a will?”

Ashe flushed, said darkly, “There was a will!”

“What does that mean?”

“That the will disappeared by the time I got here.”

“Wouldn’t your mother’s lawyer have a copy?”

“No.”

“But—”

“You think I’m lying?” Ashe demanded. “That’s beautiful.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to get the facts straight. I’m on your side. But I can be of more help if I know exactly what we’re dealing with. So even if you have information that you think strengthens Zamarion’s case or weakens yours, it’ll be better if you tell me up front.”

Ashe snapped, “He broke into my mother’s house after she died, turned the place into a rathole, and lived here with his derelict friends until I came home and discovered what had happened. That’s the whole story.”

“Okay, Ashe,” Taylor said, his tone conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

Some of the hurt drained from Ashe’s face. His gaze, a much paler, cooler shade of blue than Will’s, fell. He nodded, sighed. “I get that you have to ask these questions, but I’m tired of nobody believing me. I can’t understand why everyone is willing to give so much leeway to a lowlife like Zamarion. I thought if anyone would know I was telling the truth, it would be you.”

Ouch.

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again. “I really am.”

And he really was, but he also couldn’t help remembering that, at least in the old days, Ashe and the truth enjoyed what one might call an open relationship.

They had reached the back of the three-car garage. A good portion of the terracotta walls was scorched and blackened. Taylor squatted down to better examine the burn marks. Modern stucco was naturally fire resistant, which could explain the lack of any significant damage. A couple of empty yards of stone drive separated the back of the garage from the thick stone perimeter walls where winter brown vines formed a dense net. The vines showed no signs of having caught fire.

Ashe said, “The firefighters figure they used a couple of wooden crates to climb over the wall, then stuffed the crates with gasoline-soaked rags and set them on fire. It was drizzling off and on that night, but even so, if I hadn’t come home early, the whole structure could have gone up in flames, including the house.”

Taylor nodded thoughtfully. “Did you say an arson report was filed?”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t say, or no, an arson report wasn’t filed?”

Ashe seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “There was no arson report.”

“Why?”

“I asked them—convinced the fire department not to request an arson investigator because I wasn’t going to make an insurance claim anyway.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was afraid!”

Taylor hung on to his patience. “Afraid of what?”

“I was afraid—I knew—I’d come under suspicion.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe not a place Taylor wanted to find himself, but somewhere. He kept his tone even. “Why would that be?”

“Because the house is underwater. It’s mortgaged to the hilt, and it only appraised for two thirds of the amount owed on it. Put that together with the problems I’m having with these squatters, and someone—the sheriff’s department—is liable to think I decided to burn my way out of a bad financial situation.”

Taylor was silent.

Ashe must have read his silence as condemnation. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t try to set my house on fire. Jesus. I get that you have to be objective in your line of work, Taylor, but you know me.”

Yes. Yes, he did. Or had at one time. But one of the brutal lessons of law enforcement was discovering that no one could completely know another person. Hell, you couldn’t even know for sure what you yourself might do in every single possible scenario. For better or for worse, people—even the people you thought you knew best—could surprise you.

You could surprise yourself.

“Okay.” Taylor sighed. “Let’s go inside, and you can tell me everything you know about Mike Zamarion.”

As it turned out, they didn’t talk much about Mike Zamarion.

Partly that was because it seemed all Ashe knew was that Zamarion was a “scary dude” trying to steal his house. Partly that was because Ashe had a second—or more likely a third—Mexican coffee.

“Did I get it wrong?” Ashe asked. “I got the feeling you and Brandt are together, but you’re the only one wearing a wedding ring.”

By then they had adjourned to the library, where Ashe was rifling through desk drawers in search of whatever documents he seemed to think would help prove his case to Taylor.

It was a room Taylor remembered disconcertingly well because he and Ashe had once fucked on what appeared to be the very same black and scarlet Persian rug lying before the field stone fireplace.

Fun times. His back twinged just thinking about it.

Anyway, it was a wide, comfortable room paneled in golden oak. There were several tall, arched windows overlooking the garden of cacti and succulents, and a couple of ceiling-high bookshelves at either end of the room. Not that many bookshelves and not that many books for a room known as the library. But Taylor recalled none of the Dekkers were much for reading. For sure Ashe’s amusements ran in a more sporty direction: tennis, swimming, sex. His parents had made good use of their memberships to the nearby racquet and polo clubs. They’d enjoyed less athletic activities too. Drinking, gambling, driving too fast. Those last three had been the combination that ended Ashe’s father.

“We’re not married,” Taylor answered. Engaged sounded pretentious—and it wasn’t like he and Will had set a date—but they were certainly committed to each other. Will had given him a ring. He felt married to Will. Maybe he should just give Will a ring and they could call it done?

Although maybe there was something to be said for formalizing that commitment.

Or maybe it said something that they couldn’t seem to get around to formalizing their commitment?

Nah. It was more about the expense and hassle. The very idea of trying to organize a wedding was daunting, and he knew Will felt the same. Assumed he did. Since he hadn’t pushed the idea either.

He compromised with, “But we’re together.”

“I see.”

Probably not. This wasn’t something Taylor usually gave a lot of thought. He figured one of these days, when the time was right—when they had some time—he and Will would make it official.

He said, “What about you? Anybody special?”

Ashe stopped digging through the desk drawers for a moment. His smile was twisted. “I wondered if you were ever going to ask. Yeah, I have someone. His name’s Josip. We’ve been together five years. Off and on.”

“Same as Will and me.” Well, not the off-and-on part. He and Will had been apart, yes, but never in their hearts. Corny as it sounded, he really believed that.

“Where’s Josip now?”

“He couldn’t get a travel visa.”

Hm.

“Where are you living in Europe? What do you do now?” Taylor asked.

“Croatia. I’m a director.”

“Director of?” He was thinking in terms of corporations, financial institutions, his new reality. A reality dominated by Webster Fidelity.

“Films. Movies. I direct films. I make movies.”

He couldn’t understand why Ashe’s eyes were suddenly bright and glittery, why he so abruptly sounded upset. “I had no idea. Wow. Good for you.”

Ashe said bitterly, “You don’t remember I was studying film in college? Do you remember anything? Do you ever think of me?”

“Well, of-of course,” Taylor was so startled, he actually—to his chagrin—stammered a little. “Of course I remember. Of course I think of you sometimes. I always hoped you were doing well, that you were happy and…things were good.”

“But you couldn’t be bothered to find out for yourself?”

What. The. Hell?

He said helplessly, “Ashe…”

Ashe laughed, shook his head. “I’m being an ass. Don’t mind me. You were my first love, so obviously it had an impact.”

“It had an impact on me too,” Taylor said. “It’s not like I was—am—so much older than you. I know I was sometimes oblivious. Maybe self-centered—”

“Insensitive, overbearing.”

Taylor fell silent.

“I’m kidding,” Ashe said quickly. “You were a kid. We were both kids. I don’t hold a grudge. I just wish it had meant more to you. You were one of the most important relationships in my life. I wish it had been that for you too. But that’s not realistic. I know.”

“It was an important relationship in my life as well. You were important to me. I was glad to see you last night, and I’m glad for the chance to help. I’m…sorry for any hurt I caused. Hopefully, helping you out now makes up for some of that.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Ashe said. “Can you just forget I said all that? You’re right about the Mexican coffees for breakfast. They’re a bad idea.”

Taylor refrained from comment, said instead, “Okay, well, I think I’ll go check in with the sheriff’s department. See what they can tell me.”

Ashe had gone back to searching the desk. “Don’t believe—” He broke off, saying, “Hey, look what I found!” and lifted out a Ruger LCP. “This was my dad’s.”

Taylor was not afraid of guns, not even after being shot, but something in the way Ashe handled that piece prickled the hair on the back of his neck.

He said without emotion, “I’m surprised your squatters left it.”

Ashe, still examining the pocket pistol, shrugged. “Missed it, I guess. They didn’t steal as much as you might think. That’s the funny part. But I guess that’s because Zamarion thought—thinks—he’s going to get it all anyway.”

He weighed the Ruger for a moment and then aimed it at Taylor’s face. His hand wasn’t quite steady. He smiled.

Time seemed to stop. Taylor could hear the wind moaning down the chimney, hear the clock ticking across the room, hear his heart thumping hard and steady in his ears.

“Remember teaching me to shoot?” Ashe said.

“I remember,” Taylor said. His mouth was dry, spitting the words out like bits of gravel. “We used to practice at the Beverly Hills Gun Club. Could you not point that at me?”

“It’s not loaded.”

Yeah, actually, that fucking gun was loaded. When you knew weapons as well as Taylor did, you could tell just from the heft of someone picking up a piece. It was loaded all right. But he knew with sickening certainty that if he said so, Ashe would fire at him just to prove a point.

He said in a flat, no-nonsense voice, “Put the gun down, Ashe.”

Ashe shrugged, lowered the Ruger. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Taylor resisted the desire to relieve his feelings by punching Ashe in his vacuous, glassy-eyed face. He said, “I was shot in the line of duty a couple of years ago. It…leaves an aftertaste.”

Ashe whistled. “You’re kidding. I’m really sorry. What was that like?”

“I don’t remember much about it,” Taylor lied, “but it’s not an experience I want to repeat.”

“No, I guess not. Obviously, I didn’t know.”

Until that very moment, Taylor had taken it for granted Ashe didn’t know, but something in the way he said it made him wonder.

Maybe Will had been right to question how Ashe had known where to find them. Maybe Ashe had been keeping track of Taylor through the years. It seemed unlikely, but some people did that—tracked their exes through social media, kept tabs through friends of friends. Clearly, Ashe had some unresolved feelings toward him, so maybe.

If that was the case, Ashe pointing a gun at him hadn’t merely been a dick move, it had been sadistic.

“Sure.” Taylor headed for the door, saying, “I’ll let myself out.”

Ashe followed. “You’ll keep me informed, right?”

“You bet.”

They walked down the long, tiled hall, out through the wood and iron door. The sunlight was almost blindingly bright, the air sweet. A seagull sat on the edge of one of tall blue urns, cranking its head this way and that, the better to see them.

Ashe said, “I don’t think I even thanked you for this, for trying to help me.”

“It’s okay.”

Taylor started down the wide front steps. From behind him, Ashe called, “I hate being here alone at night. I’m always afraid they’re going to come back. Like the Manson family.”

There was a grim thought. Taylor turned back to face him.

Ashe said, “But then that’s the same reason I don’t dare leave. In case they’re waiting for a chance to move back in.”

“I’ll try to locate Zamarion today,” Taylor promised. “I’m pretty sure we’ll manage to work something out.”

“You were never short on confidence,” Ashe agreed.

Taylor grimaced. “No. I just knew how to fake it.”

Ashe shook his head. Blurted, “You know, you could come back here tonight. If you wanted.”

Taylor hesitated. Ashe’s fear touched him, but he didn’t want to come back to this house. It wasn’t just having a gun pointed at him or Ashe’s drinking or his troubling passive-aggressive comments. He wanted to see Will, talk to Will, get Will’s take on the situation. He wanted to sleep in Will’s arms, listen to the reassuring beat of Will’s heart, and take a moment to appreciate how very lucky they were. How lucky he was.

At the same time, the whole point of this was to help Ashe. And if Ashe was truly afraid?

But then Ashe made it easy for him. “One last night together. For old times’ sake?” His smile was sort of sly, sort of hopeful.

Taylor said, “What about Josip?”

“I won’t tell Will if you don’t tell Josip.”

Taylor smiled, shook his head. “Thanks. But I think we better let our last goodbye stand.”

Ashe laughed. “It was a record breaker. Wasn’t it?”

Taylor smiled again, continued down the steps.

Ashe called after him, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

* * * * *

Ashe was right about one thing.

Down at the Carpinteria sheriff’s station, they did indeed think Mr. Dekker had, at the very least, toyed with burning down his mother’s house for the insurance money.

The interesting part was nobody blamed him.

“It’s a hell of a situation,” Lt. Don Capaldi told Taylor. “He needs money, but because of this lowlife loser, he can’t sell the house.”

Capaldi was a genial-looking fiftysomething with thinning gray hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and warm brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“How is it that Zamarion and the others managed to take possession of that house without anyone noticing?”

“We did notice,” Capaldi said. “The whole valley noticed. But he and his girlfriends had been living there with the old lady for several months before she passed away. Zamarion claimed she was leaving the house to him, that it was in her will.”

This was at odds with Ashe’s story, but Taylor was not entirely surprised. It had seemed unlikely a tribe of hippies could have moved into that house and lived there for two years without anyone noticing.

“What about the will?” Taylor asked.

“There is no will.” Capaldi smiled grimly at Taylor’s expression. “Exactly. Mrs. Dekker died intestate. It seems like there had been some rift with her son, which is why, I guess, it took him so long to come back. If his trust fund hadn’t run out, I don’t know that he would have come back at all. I don’t know that he’d have cared about the house or who lived there. But now he needs to sell the place, and Zamarion is standing in the way.”

Hell. It was all starting to add up.

Or was it?

“But since there’s no will, wouldn’t the house automatically go to Ashe?”

“Yes. Correct. Well, technically, the estate is in probate, but it’s all going to go to Dekker. The main asset is the house, from what I understand. If Zamarion still had possession of the property, it might be more complicated, but rightly or wrongly, he and his family were evicted.” Capaldi cleared his throat. “Anyway, the most he can do is sue for wrongful eviction and destruction of private property, but I can tell you that he’s not likely to find a sympathetic jury in Carpinteria.”

“But you said Zamarion is standing in the way of Ashe selling the house.”

“That’s right. Because when you sell a house, you have to declare if there are any liens or claims against it. Well, Zamarion is claiming that there was a will naming him as the sole beneficiary, that Dekker destroyed it, but that he, Zamarion, has a copy of one of the original drafts. He’s supposed to have hired some shyster lawyer to stop any attempt to sell the house. That’s the rumor anyway.”

“I…see.”

“I don’t know if it’s true. And of course, I’m no lawyer. But I sincerely doubt anyone or anything is going to court. Zamarion is just a nuisance.”

“Just a nuisance? Then you don’t think he tried to run Dekker off Toro Canyon Road?”

Capaldi sighed. “I don’t know if he did or not. Zamarion is an unsavory customer. But we can’t do a whole hell of a lot with a single pair of skid marks and no witnesses.”

* * * * *

It was after eleven in the evening when he finally made it home.

The kitchen light was on, the house otherwise dark and silent. Well, not entirely silent. Riley came to greet him, tags jangling, tail wagging.

“Hey, Riley.” Taylor knelt, murmuring to the dog.

No sign of Will, though. Which was to say, there was every sign that Will was home but had already gone to bed.

Well, not already, because it was late, but not that late. Usually they tried to stay up for each other. Usually they came in together.

Taylor considered the rather heavy silence as he patted Riley.

If Will was really that beat, he didn’t want to wake him, but it was disappointing. He had wanted to talk over the day with him, talk over the things he had learned, the things he was still trying to figure out, the things that worried him. A lot of things were worrying him.

But Will had probably had a tiring day himself—made more tiring by the fact that Taylor hadn’t been there to shoulder his half of it.

He was guiltily conscious that, as weird and frustrating as his day had been, he was sort of relieved he hadn’t had to sit through another round of meetings at Webster Fidelity.

Was Will sleeping? Because the house had a listening quality to it.

No. Will would not be lying there…what? Sulking because Taylor hadn’t made it to any of the day’s meetings? Because he hadn’t made it home for dinner?

He moved quietly around the house, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, checked the fridge for something to eat, tried to decide between a bowl of granola and an English muffin, and gave up.

He turned off the stove light, picked his way down the pitch-black hall—nearly falling over Riley, who thought this was a great start to a new game—and felt his way through the dark and deadly silent bedroom to the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, he relieved himself, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, turned on the shower, and stepped into the humid warmth.

All at once he was very tired and feeling…let down.

Not a good day.

Sure, he’d had worse, but still. Not a good day.

And if Will really was lying in that room pretending to sleep, nursing some unknown resentment like a goddamned adolescent, the day was about to get worse. For both of them.

But no.

Will was not a goddamned adolescent. He was the guy carrying the can while Taylor was busy doing whatever the hell he imagined he was doing. He was no longer sure of anything. Beyond the fact that Ashe was probably—probably?—emotionally unstable and lying about pretty much everything.

He braced his hands on the white subway tile, hung his head, letting the hot water sluice over his head and shoulders, slowly inhaling, slowly exhaling.

Distantly, he heard the pop of the shower door, felt a gust of cool air.

The heft of an erection smacked against his buttocks, jarring him from his hazy thoughts. Taylor growled low in his throat—warning, not protest. He didn’t resist, didn’t fight when he was pushed flat against the slick, warm tiles, pushed so hard, his heels came off the floor.

Hard, soapy flesh and wet, wiry hair ground against his ass.

Will’s hand fastened on his shoulder, holding him in place, and his mouth traced the down bent line of his neck, kissing his flushed, wet skin. Taylor made another sound, softer, comforting. Will buried his face in Taylor’s wet hair, not speaking, seemingly just breathing him in, and Taylor lowered his head, shivering, when Will kissed the nape of his neck.

He closed his eyes, conscious of the intimate smell of Will’s soap, the heat radiating between them, the tension of Will’s hard, muscular body pressing into him. Will’s left hand still gripped his shoulder as Will reached down to knuckle wide Taylor’s butt cheeks.

Taylor swallowed, muscles tensing as something slick and stringy—shampoo?—drizzled down his crack. The flick of fingernail against his hole sparked red lights behind his eyelids, flared along his nerves.

“Tay…” Will’s voice was tense and low, somehow working its way beneath Taylor’s skin, into every nerve, every cell, and Taylor’s breath hitched, sped up, waiting for the moment when Will’s cock pushed into him, and all the while Will’s hot mouth brushed the back of his neck, lingered, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind his ear.

“Here,” he whispered, so softly, the word was almost lost beneath the rush of water. Anticipation sparked a thrill in the pit of his belly.

Funny how he had never liked this until Will. Never let anyone do what he let Will do, never gave what he instinctively offered Will.

Why was Will hesitating? What was he waiting for?

Taylor’s hands flexed against the tiles, his cock filled and hardened. He pushed back, restless, longing. “Yeah, come on, Will. Let’s do it.” He bent his right leg, canted his hips, and the snub head of Will’s cock poked, poked, shoved in, filling him with that familiar pressure, that intimate burn.

Taylor took in a lungful of moist, steamy air, dizzyingly conscious of Will’s powerful body covering his, Will’s hot breath against the back of his neck, his own harsh breath misting against the wall of the shower.

That sensation of being penetrated, filled, united… Was sex ever just about sex?

Will gasped, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Taylor moved again, impatient.

Will drew back, pushed into him, each thrust scraping across Taylor’s nerves, sending them vibrating like a tuning fork. He groaned, wanting…what? More? Always more.

Will’s hand slid across his soapy skin, wrapped around his cock, and Taylor bit his lip, pushing into that solicitous grip, let his head fall back, resting on Will’s shoulder. Will’s knuckles banged the tiles, found the rhythm. His hips pounded Taylor’s buttocks.

Taylor shook down to his bones, the hard weight filling his ass, the frantic heat of Will’s hand, slightly off-kilter as he bounced off the wall. The showerhead rained down on him, and Taylor gasped, drowning in sensation as a tingling, explosive energy gathered at the base of his spine.

Will’s grunts sounded desperate, wounded, against his ear. They wavered on the edge, teetering, and then Will let go of him for an instant, his hand closed around Taylor’s balls, teased, tugged, and Taylor felt a kind of ferocious detonation, like triggering a mechanism. They plummeted into the desperate freefall of release.

Taylor was still shuddering, his asshole clenching and unclenching at the fierce pleasure of orgasm, smashed against the streaky tiles as Will shook against him, as they spiraled back to sanity together. It seemed to take great effort to lift lashes. He stared down at their bare feet, at suds and spunk swirling around their toes, spilling down the drain.

Chapter Five

Taylor was shouting from down the hall, “Brandt, do you have any idea where my goddamned briefcase is?”

Will expelled a much put-upon breath, threw his head back, yelled, “It’s at the office. I’ve been using it.”

Silence but for the ominous tick-tick-tick of rain over the sink window.

Today’s drive to Encinitas was going to be a bitch.

Taylor appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing jeans and a still unbuttoned white shirt that offered an enticing view of ridged abdominals, cut pectorals, and taut nipples. How was it he could want to strangle Taylor one minute and go dry-mouthed with desire the next?

“Damn it. I was even there last night.”

It took a second for the words to register. When they did, Will felt almost shaken with the mix of relief and guilt that washed through him. “You were at the office last night?”

“Yeah. For a few hours. Do we have another briefcase somewhere?”

“My old one’s at the office too. Sit down and have some breakfast, MacAllister.”

Taylor considered, sighed, headed for the coffee machine.

Will glanced at him, glanced away. He had already been feeling ashamed about the night before. He didn’t think he’d hurt Taylor—Taylor was as resilient as a jack-in-the-box when it came to sex—but Will had been rougher than he was comfortable with in the cold light of day. Especially knowing in his heart that a lot of his aggression had been fueled as much by frustration as lust.

Taylor hadn’t seemed to mind a little roughness. But Taylor wouldn’t recognize he was out of his depth if the fucking ocean closed over his head. Will was disgusted with himself for giving in to feelings that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with control.

Why the hell hadn’t it occurred to him that Taylor had gone to the office? It was the most obvious explanation. Why had he leaped to such a dramatic and dumbass conclusion? In fact, he hadn’t even reached a conclusion. It had all been speculation and suspicion over one too many glasses of bourbon.

He studied Taylor’s downturned face. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Taylor blew on his coffee. “Hm?” He glanced up. Winked. “Fine.”

Will’s face warmed. His heart felt heavy. What a way to treat a guy you loved more than life. A guy you trusted with your life.

Taylor must have misread his expression. He said, “Sorry about yesterday. How did the meetings at WF go?”

“Like you’d expect.” Will shook his head. “Kohl, the head of security, is going to be a never-ending thorn in our side.”

Taylor’s lip curled. “The guy who introduced himself by showing you his gun collection software app?”

“That’s the one.”

Taylor hid a smile in his coffee mug.

Will said, “Do you feel like we suddenly grew up and had to get real jobs?”

Taylor’s laugh was wry. “Yeah. I do.”

Will sighed. “Are you going to be able to drive down to the Encinitas site with me?”

Taylor’s smiled faded. He looked apologetic. “I’ve got a lead on Zamarion. I feel like I need to follow through on it. He’s a guy who moves around a lot.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Will. I’m trying to get this wrapped up as fast as I can.” Taylor was up from the table again, going to the counter to shake granola into a bowl.

“I know. How’s the case coming?”

Will watched curiously as Taylor got milk out of the fridge, poured it into the bowl, carried the bowl to the table, and sat down.

Knowing him as he did, Will couldn’t help thinking Taylor was considering how much to tell him. It didn’t do a lot to soothe his unease.

He waited as Taylor dug his spoon into the cereal, stirred the oat clusters around, and said finally, “You were right. Ashe wasn’t being completely honest with us.”

Will resisted temptation, saying only, “How so?”

“Well, to start with, Zamarion probably did have permission to live on the estate. There’s even a possibility Ashe’s mom intended leaving the property to him.”

Now that was news. “You’re kidding.”

Taylor gave a brief shake of his head. “No. Ashe and his mother were estranged. I haven’t been able to discover the details. Whatever her intentions may have been, there doesn’t seem to be a will, so Ashe legally inherits everything.”

“That sounds pretty cut-and-dried.”

“As far as it goes.”

“Sounds far enough to me. So why isn’t that case closed? It’s going to end up in court, right?”

“Maybe. I’m not even sure there’s enough doubt to warrant a lawsuit.”

“Is there enough to warrant our continued involvement?”

“I think there is. I think, putting aside missing wills and squatters’ rights and a whole lot of hearsay evidence, Ashe is genuinely terrified. Of who or what, I’m not quite clear on.”

“Zamarion would be the obvious answer.”

Taylor frowned. “Yeah, presumably. He sounds like a rough customer. But I talked to the lieutenant at the sheriff’s station in Carpinteria. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it was obvious he thinks Ashe lied about someone trying to force him off the road. And about chickening out of setting fire to his own garage for the insurance money.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Will muttered. “And we’re still involved in this clusterfuck why again?”

“Because none of that changes the fact that I promised to help him. He needs help.”

“Christ almighty, Taylor. How the hell much do you think you owe this guy?”

“I think I owe him keeping my word when I give it.”

“Even if he’s lying to you?”

“Yes. Even then.”

This wasn’t really coming as a surprise to Will, but it was still exasperating. “Great. Okay. How long do you plan to spend trying to figure out what’s keeping your old pal up at night? Because I can handle Encinitas on my own, but after that we’ve got four more locations all over the state and eight days to complete those surveys. I can’t do it on my own.”

“I know that.”

“So?”

Taylor said, “I’m asking for twenty-four hours. Forty-eight at the most. If I can’t get this wrapped up by Friday, then I’ll tell Ashe we’re out.”

That was fair. And yet… Will regarded him for a long moment. He shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Taylor hesitated.

“You don’t like this any more than I do.” Will was sure of it now. “What’s going on?”

Taylor said reluctantly, “Ashe pulled a gun on me yesterday.”

“He did what?”

Taylor winced. “Cool it, Brandt. He was fooling around.”

“Fooling around with a goddamned gun?” Will was sputtering with rage, and Riley scrambled out from under the table to see where the threat was.

“He claimed the pistol wasn’t loaded.”

That really didn’t make it any better, as Taylor, of all people, ought to know, and Will proceeded to share his thoughts on the matter.

“Jesus Christ, Brandt. You think I don’t know all that?” Taylor snapped when Will finally had to stop for breath.

“I don’t get it,” Will said. “What the hell hold does this asshole have over you?”

That, as he should have known, didn’t go over well.

“I already told you what hold this asshole has over me,” Taylor shot back. His face was white, his eyes greener than a pit viper. “And if you don’t believe me, you can go to hell. What hold do you think he has, Brandt? You think I’m starting up again with my college fuck buddy because I just don’t have enough assholes in my life?”

Two things were immediately clear to Will. First, Taylor had a few residual resentments of his own. Secondly, Taylor was every bit as uneasy and worried about this situation as he was.

“You’re right,” Will said at once. “That was out of line.”

“It sure as hell was. When I think of the bullshit—” Taylor swallowed the rest of it so fast, he made a choking sound.

But Will knew what he’d been about to say, and his face turned as red as Taylor’s was white. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t—I really didn’t mean what you thought I meant.”

“Oh, the hell you didn’t.”

“Taylor, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then let’s not.” Taylor rose, picking up his cereal bowl, and carried it to the sink. He turned the taps in a brief blast of water, and said without turning around, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Will you keep me posted today? I don’t mean a couple of phone messages—”

It seemed that once again he had said the wrong thing. Taylor swung away from the sink. “If you’re not happy with phone messages, take your damned cell off Do Not Disturb. Comprende?”

Will put his hands up in a Don’t Shoot gesture.

Taylor gave him a final glare and stalked out of the kitchen. Riley wagged his tail, watching him, then turned to Will.

Will said, “Tell me the truth. Is my head still there?”

Riley grinned, tongue lolling.

* * * * *

The news wasn’t a whole hell of a lot better at the office.

“What in the name of God is that?” Will stared in horror at the gold-painted…bird? covering most of the lobby wall.

Euphonia said doubtfully, “It’s our logo, right? The American eagle?”

“That’s not an eagle. It’s a…a chicken. A giant golden chicken.” Or maybe a vampire bat? No, a bat would have ears. Maybe a dragon? He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the menacing-eyed monster chicken swooping down from the ceiling, talons stretched toward prospective clients.

“It might be a little overwhelming,” Euphonia agreed diplomatically.

“A little? It’s the whole wall.” Will shook his head. “We were better off with the lovebirds and parasols. Get the painters back in here. They’ve got to fix that. If MacAllister sees it, he’ll hunt them down one by one and shoot them.”

Euphonia smirked, but was back to business a moment later. “Is Agent MacAllister coming in today?”

“I doubt it.”

“Because these were delivered first thing this morning.” With an apologetic look, she handed over two identical, fat, official-looking envelopes with the return address of US District Court, Central District of California, Western Division.

Subpoenas.

Great. Because life wasn’t complicated enough right now.

Will retired to his office, now a restful shade of cloudy blue-gray, and opened the envelope. Inside was a subpoena to appear at deposition.

Well, well. It looked like Mikhail Bashnakov—The Technician—was finally going to face justice.

That had been a long time coming. So long, in fact, Will had almost forgotten the court case was still pending.

He wondered if he and Taylor would be seeing Kelila Hedwig in a courtroom someday soon.

The good news was they did not need to appear until after the New Year, so in theory, it would not interfere with completing the surveys for Webster Fidelity. They could enjoy their holidays in peace.

Yeah, right. Webster Fidelity had them on an electronic leash, and that’s how it would be from now on.

He picked up the phone to call Taylor, then decided this news could wait. Instead, he tossed the subpoenas in his desk drawer, told Euphonia he’d probably not be back that day, and headed out for Encinitas.

Rain poured down, flooding the freeway. In the distance, streaks of flashing light turned the pewter-edged clouds a bruised black and purple.

Will kept an eye out for the silver Honda Accord—for any sign of a tail—on the four-hour drive to the Webster Fidelity jobsite, but there was no indication he was being followed. And as sure as he’d been the day before, he found himself now wondering if he really had simply made too much of a coincidence.

There was no word yet from Stuart Schwierskott, so he tried phoning Dina Shey at Gently, Fallis & Landreth again. To his surprise, his call was put through.

“Dina Shey,” stated a cool, melodious voice.

“Ms. Shey, nice to finally speak. This is Will Brandt, one of the men you hired Schwierskott & Associate to run surveillance on.”

Shey didn’t miss a beat. “I would say what a surprise, Mr. Brandt, but given that you’ve left us thirteen messages over the past weeks, I’d be lying. What can I do for you?”

“You can start by telling me who hired you to hire Schwierskott & Associate.”

“You’re a former federal agent, Mr. Brandt. I’m sure you’ve heard the term attorney-client privilege before.”

“You’ve presumably passed the bar, Ms. Shey, so I’m sure you’ve heard that if a client initiates a communication with a lawyer for the purpose of committing a crime, the attorney-client privilege typically doesn’t apply. Likewise, the State of California allows attorneys to disclose information learned from a client that will prevent death or serious injury.”

She chuckled with apparent good humor. “Rule 3-100B Confidential Information of a Client: A member of the bar may, but is not required to reveal confidential information relating to the representation of a client to the extent that the member reasonably believes the disclosure is necessary to prevent a criminal act that the member reasonably believes is likely to result in death of, or substantial bodily harm to, an individual.

“Do you have any proof that my client—currently unknown to you—is planning a criminal act likely to result in death of, or substantial bodily harm to, yourself or another individual?”

“No. I don’t have any proof.”

“I didn’t think so. Well, it was lovely chatting—”

Will said quickly, “Ms. Shey, I don’t know you, but you’d have to be a special kind of cold-blooded not to care if your actions, or lack of action, resulted in real harm to someone else. I’m asking, as one human being to another, is that who you are?”

Shey was silent.

“Maybe you don’t know it, but you’re on the side of the bad guys,” Will said. “Is that really where you want to be?”

Another stretch of silence. Then, “Do you realize what you’re asking?” There was no humor in Shey’s voice now. “I could lose my license.”

“I’m not asking for anything more than a name. That’s it. I just want to be sure that I or my partner aren’t going to get shot walking out to our car one night.”

“I have no idea.”

He expected her to hang up—he thought she intended to hang up—but she stayed on the line.

After a long pause, she said, “My client asked that surveillance be terminated. Which is what I instructed Schwierskott & Associate to do.”

“Did your client request that you initiate surveillance through another firm?”

“No. My client determined that you and Mr. MacAllister no longer posed a threat.”

“Posed a threat…”

“Correct. And that is all the information I’m willing to share. You and your partner can walk to and from your cars in safety. No one is following you.”

She hung up.

He stopped for gas and a restroom break in Carlsbad, and sure enough, when he walked out of the mini mart, he spotted a silver Honda Accord parked on the other side of the lot.

Will pretended not to see the car, making a production of checking his coffee and adjusting his sunglasses. As soon as he got in his Toyota Land Cruiser, he yanked open the glove compartment, grabbed his compact binoculars, and turned them toward the Honda Accord.

Despite the rivulets of rain trickling down his windshield, he had a perfect view of the Honda slinking out of the lot. He studied the rear license plate. “6 Golf Tango X-ray 534,” read Will. “Got you, you son of a bitch.”

He pulled out from the pumps, parked beside the tire air station, and phoned the office.

“American Eagle,” Euphonia greeted him pleasantly. “How may I direct your call?”

“Nee, who at the DMV owes you a favor?”

“Here we go.” She sighed. “Is this why you hired me?”

“You know why we hired you. Come on, I’m serious.”

“Who doesn’t owe me a favor?” Euphonia retorted.

“I need someone to run a California license plate. And, if at all possible, I need it fast.”

“Plate number?”

“6 Golf Tango X-ray 534.”

Euphonia repeated, “6 Golf Tango X-ray 534?”

“Correct.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She hung up.

It took four hours to complete his survey of the Webster Fidelity jobsite. By then it was three o’clock, Will was starving, and he stopped for a late lunch at a little pub called the Regal Seagull.

He was drenched in the quick jog from vehicle to building. Shoving through the glass door outlined in Christmas lights, he heard the blast of “All I Want for Christmas is You,” and it was Hark! I bring you not-so-great tidings. Lt. Commander David Bradley sat on his own at a table near the bar.

Maybe it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, the way his luck was going. Encinitas was about half an hour from San Diego, and San Diego was home to several Navy, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard bases.

David glanced up from the menu, spotted Will, and his face lit up. He half rose. “Will!”

What could Will do? Frankly, he was irritated with a situation in which he felt guilty just engaging in the normal, courteous social behavior. Of course, he was glad to see David. He liked David. He went over to the table, and they hugged hello.

“This is a surprise,” Will said.

“You can say that again. What are you doing down here? Why didn’t you let me know you’d be in the area?”

David was a big, handsome moose of a guy. Six-plus feet of well-toned muscle. He had a silky dark beard, smiling brown eyes, and a deep voice that still gave Will a little tingle at the base of his spine.

Will said, “Webster Fidelity is a client. I’m down here doing a security survey for them.”

David looked puzzled, but then his face cleared. “Right. The global security consulting business. How’s that working out?”

“Business is good,” Will said, with about as much enthusiasm as he could summon after a day of interviewing employees, analyzing assets, and making a preliminary identification of what security measures had to be highest priority.

David’s smile was sympathetic. “This was MacAllister’s plan?”

“This is all on me,” Will said. “I dragged Taylor into it.”

“Well, come and join me,” David invited. “Unless you’re meeting clients?”

“God no,” Will said. “About the clients, I mean. Yes to lunch. I need a burger and a beer.”

He got them both within a matter of minutes, along with David’s easy, and frankly charming, company. They were of a similar temperament, which Will had always considered one of the strengths of their relationship, but that day he couldn’t help wondering if he and David weren’t maybe too much alike. Would they maybe have bored each other eventually? Taylor could be mercurial, mulish, and downright maddening, but no question, life with him would never be dull.

David had been overseas at CFNK at Busan Naval Base, and they talked about his trip and the current precarious situation with North Korea. Will finished his burger, declined a second beer, admitted he should be heading home, and his cell phone rang.

Taylor.

Christ, it was like he had a built-in sensor where David was concerned.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Will said, relieved to hear no hint of the morning’s ire in Taylor’s voice. “What’s up?”

“I just had a phone call with Mike Zamarion. He says he wants to talk to me.”

“That’s a good sign. Maybe this will be cleared up by the end of the week.”

Taylor gave a funny laugh. “Or maybe not. He’s asking me to bring twenty grand and meet him on Carpinteria State Beach at seven o’clock at lifeguard tower number eleven.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Will said.

“I’m not bringing twenty grand, no, but I do want to hear what he has to say.”

“What makes you think he’ll tell you anything if you don’t have the money?”

“My knowledge of human nature?”

“Try again.”

“I think he wants to talk. He’s an opportunist, sure, but just from the hints he dropped, this is a guy with a story to tell.”

Will checked his watch. “Look, I’ll do my best to get back in time to go with you. I’m still in Encinitas.” He glanced at David, who was watching attentively, and realized, awkward or not, he could not risk this looking like anything but the accidental meeting it was. “I ran into David when I stopped for lunch.”

“Of course you did,” Taylor said. “Well, don’t let me rush you, but it would be nice to have some backup.”

“You’re damn right I’m going to back you up,” Will said. “If you have to leave before I get back to the office, I’ll meet you at the beach. You said lifeguard tower eleven?”

Taylor said briskly, “Be there or be square,” and hung up.

Will reached for his wallet and rose. “Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

“Lunch is on me,” David said. “I had no idea MacAllister was so insecure.” His expression was sympathetic.

Will felt a flash of irritation. “This isn’t anything to do with that.”

“No? I have to say, from my end, it kind of sounds that way.”

It occurred to Will that the moment had come to draw a line in the sand. He liked David a lot, but he loved Taylor.

“He isn’t insecure, generally speaking. But in fairness to him, you haven’t made any secret of the fact that you’d like to get back together. That you think it’s a possibility.”

“In fairness to me, I can’t make that happen without cooperation on your part.”

“That’s true. But we both know—all three of us know—that what you and I almost had together was something we both thought might be serious.”

David stopped smiling. “Yes,” he said. “I believe we had something special together. But I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to realize that you and MacAllister have something pretty special too. I don’t think there’s any getting in the middle of that, and I wouldn’t try. I’d like to stay friends, but if you don’t think MacAllister can handle it—”

“I think he can handle it, so long as he’s confident everyone’s on the same page.”

David raised his brows but said nothing.

Will said quietly, “I hurt him in Paris. That can’t ever happen again.”

“You can’t be blamed for what happened in Paris. Nor is there a likelihood of those circumstances ever being replicated.”

“He doesn’t blame me. He knows none of it was deliberate or even in my control. But the pain I inflicted? Never again. So long as I have the power to prevent it, nothing will hurt him like that again.”

David’s dark brows rose. “That’s very admirable. I don’t know how realistic it is. People do hurt each other. But I can see you mean every word. I only hope MacAllister appreciates what he has in you.”

Will’s mouth curved without humor. “One thing he wouldn’t appreciate is me telling you any of this, and it’s the last time I discuss him with you. But I feel it’s only right to let you know that if I did offer mixed signals or seemed divided in my feelings, that was a mistake. I know exactly who and what I want, and that’s Taylor and our life together.”

“Message received loud and clear.”

Will nodded. “Thanks for lunch.”

“My pleasure,” David said. His smile was rueful. “Next time we’ll try to arrange it so MacAllister can join us.”

His cell phone rang while he was merging onto the I-5 N. Traffic was always a snarling mess this time of the afternoon, and the heavy rain made it that much worse. Will was starting to fret he would never make it back to Ventura, let alone reach the office before Taylor left.

Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been cause for sweat beading his hairline or warming his underarms, but he’d had a sense of foreboding ever since Ashe Dekker walked into their office, and it was a feeling that grew stronger by the day, stronger by the hour.

AMERICAN EAGLE appeared on his screen. He pressed to accept.

“Nee. Anything yet?”

Euphonia said crisply, “License Number: 6 Golf Tango X-ray 534. Make: Honda Accord. Registered Owner: Anne or Michael Zamarion, 3000 Foothill Road, Carpinteria, California.”

Will blinked, stared unseeingly at the gleaming roadblock of cars in front of him. “Say again?”

Enunciating clearly, she repeated, “The car is owned by a Michael Zamarion.”

Chapter Six

“I thought you’d call last night,” Ashe said. His laugh was strained. “Hell, I thought for sure you’d come by.”

He pushed away from the front door frame, walking down the long hall, bare feet soundless on the distressed hickory wood floor. Taylor stepped out of the rain, followed him, conscious that he was leaving wet boot marks on the hardwood floors.

“I didn’t have anything to report last night.”

Ashe threw a bleak look over his shoulder. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Taylor smothered a sigh. “Ashe.”

“Forget it. It’s just lonely here.” He glanced back again, but now he was smiling. “It’s haunted, you know. The house. Lots of ghosts. Including yours.”

Taylor quelled his rising impatience. “Ashe, we need to talk.”

“Sure. Did you want coffee?”

“Coffee would be great. But just coffee. I’ve got a lot to do today.”

Ashe shivered. “Is it cold in here, or is it just me?”

Now that he mentioned it, it was cold. It felt like a window was open somewhere and a rainy wind was blowing through the house.

“It’s December. Even in California, that’s cold,” Taylor said.

Ashe said nothing, so he probably had not been referencing the weather. Taylor followed him into the long airy kitchen with its vaulted ceiling and incredible views of the fog-shrouded ocean.

“Do you still take sugar?” Ashe asked, pouring coffee into red mugs.

“No. Not usually.”

Taylor was not one for beating around the bush, but he was finding this difficult. Not just awkward—painful. He watched Ashe going through the motions. Maybe not drunk, but clearly hungover.

What would Will do? Will would get it over with.

Taylor decided to get it over with. He said, “Part of the trouble I’m having in locating Zamarion is his legal address was changed to this one almost three years ago.”

Ashe didn’t respond.

Taylor tried to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice. “I don’t understand why you lied to me. I spoke to Lt. Capaldi at the sheriff’s station, and he said Zamarion was living here while your mother was alive. A bunch of squatters didn’t invade this house after it was left empty. Zamarion, his wife, a friend, and the friend’s baby were already living here. They were maintaining the house and garden for your mom in return for room and board. And it seems like they even took care of your mom once she got sick.”

“That’s their story!” Ashe glared at him.

“Sure, but it seems to be corroborated pretty thoroughly. I talked to a lot of people yesterday. Friends of your mom, neighbors, the mailman, the kid who delivered her groceries, the lady who did her nails at the beauty salon—”

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that!”

Taylor hung on to his restraint. “I’m not completely sure what you are asking me to do.”

Ashe cried, “Did you bother to notice that Zamarion has a prison record, or were you too busy investigating me?”

“Yes. I noticed he’s got form, including a conviction for manslaughter.”

“What does that tell you?”

“That he can be a violent guy.”

“Exactly! That is exactly right!”

“Ashe.” Taylor stopped. Tried for a reasonable tone. “He did his time, and there’s no indication that he’s been in any trouble with the law since. I don’t know what happened regarding your mother’s will. It’s clear you don’t think Zamarion has any right to this property. And I guess that’s understandable. But unless the two of you can reach some agreement, it seems like that’s a fight that has to be made through the courts. From what I heard yesterday, there doesn’t seem to be any doubt you would win that battle.”

“Yes! That’s what I said. So why are you lecturing me?”

Taylor sighed. “Because being angry about Zamarion coming for your inheritance doesn’t give you the right to harass him or try to set him up.”

Ashe scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“No!” But Ashe seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

“Here’s what I think. I think you’re in a hurry to sell this property. I think you want to get back to Josip and making movies. Zamarion is standing in the way of that. And I think you decided the best way to deal with a ‘lowlife’ like him was turn the law on him by accusing him of things like threatening to kill you, trying to run you off the road, and setting fire to this house. He’s already got a record and a reputation.” Taylor shrugged.

“You are so wrong.”

“Honestly? Nothing would make me happier. I don’t like feeling manipulated. Or used.”

Ashe gaped. “Used?”

“Yes. You presented me with a portrait of a bad guy, told me you were afraid for your life, and set me loose. I think you hoped I’d eliminate your problem for you.”

This was the part that most troubled Taylor. The suspicion that Ashe had thought Taylor might push Zamarion into doing something that landed him back in prison—or worse.

Ashe’s hands were shaking. He dropped the coffeepot, which shattered, spilling glass and coffee over the counter and floor.

He screamed, “I am afraid for my life!”

The dripping silence following that shriek was almost as loud as the scream itself. As protests went, it was pretty convincing.

“Yes, I’m trying to fight fire with fire, you’re right. And I’m sorry if you feel used.” Ashe’s eyes filled with tears, and his voice got choky. “But for fuck’s sake, Taylor, you’re the only person I know who could deal with something like this. Maybe he didn’t try to set fire to the house, but he did try to run me off the road. He did threaten to kill me. Not once. Three times. He is going to kill me. But he’s smart. He’s been through the system. He knows how it works. He knows how to play it. So no one believes me. Even you don’t believe me. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to die.”

Taylor wavered. He had walked into that house convinced he was being manipulated, but now he wasn’t so sure. Ashe was frightened to the point of near hysteria. He wasn’t faking it. He also wasn’t denying he had lied again and again.

Now what?

The thought must have been there on his face to read because Ashe said hopelessly, “Taylor, if you won’t help me, I’m dead. It’s that simple.”

Maybe it was that simple. Probably not. He kept coming back to the heart of the matter: he had promised to be there if Ashe ever needed him, and it was pretty damn clear that Ashe needed someone. Taylor seemed to be it.

He watched Ashe cry, mopping feebly with a paper towel at the coffee dripping off the counter onto the floor. Ashe shook his head hopelessly, wiped his face on his shoulder, mopped at the coffee some more.

“All right,” Taylor said grimly. “I have a lead on Zamarion. I’ll try to talk to him. If that doesn’t work… I don’t know. One thing at a time.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Taylor.” Ashe dropped the sodden paper towel on the floor, came to him, put his arms around him, and Taylor stood motionless. He felt sorry for Ashe. He was also repelled by him. Not an attractive combo. He let Ashe hug him, then carefully disengaged, trying not to look like he was backing away.

“Okay. It’ll be okay. I’ll let you know what happens. In the meantime, stick close to home. And don’t be afraid to call the sheriff’s if something spooks you.”

“I won’t. And I have my father’s pistol.”

Taylor’s heart sank.

“Right. But you don’t want to pull a weapon unless you’re prepared to use it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll use it,” Ashe said. “When the time comes.”

It took Taylor all morning and part of the afternoon to locate Mike Zamarion.

He finally tracked him down through his former parole officer from a youthful felony assault and battery conviction, which led to the parents of Anne Zamarion, which led finally to Anne herself.

“Who are you?” Anne questioned when Taylor finally managed to get through to her at the North Hollywood art supply store she managed.

“My name’s Taylor MacAllister. I’ve been hired by Ashe Dekker to see if some agreement can’t be reached with Mike over the house on Foothill Road in Carpinteria.”

“What agreement?” demanded Anne.

“That’s what I’d like to figure out. It’s better for everyone if this can be resolved without the expense and stress of a court case, don’t you think?”

Silence on the other end.

“What did you say your name was?” Anne asked.

“Taylor MacAllister. My company was hired by Ashe to see if some compromise can’t be worked out.”

“Taylor…MacAllister?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll have Mike call you back.” She disconnected.

Taylor was doubtful about ever hearing voluntarily from Mike, but about an hour later, as he was sitting in a North Hollywood Starbucks, drinking coffee, watching the rain bounce off the green umbrellas on the small patio, and wondering if there was any other fucking Christmas song besides Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” his phone rang.

The profile of Unknown Caller popped up.

“MacAllister.”

A raspy voice said, “This is Mike Zamarion. I hear you’re trying to find me.”

“I am,” Taylor said. “Can we meet?”

“Not so fast. What is it you want?”

“Just to talk. Ashe hired me to see if there was maybe a friendly way to resolve this situation.”

Zamarion laughed. There was a lot of ambient noise in the background, like he was on a cell phone while driving. “I doubt that!”

“What is it you doubt?”

“A peaceful resolution.”

Taylor asked patiently, “Why’s that?”

“Because your boyfriend is a fucking sociopath, in case you didn’t know it.”

Taylor didn’t answer. He’d had a number of enlightening phone conversations that day. Zamarion’s former parole officer actually thought pretty highly of him. She believed that Zamarion was a victim of environment, bad temper, and bad luck. He was apparently, among other things, a talented artist, and had things gone a different way, could have had a very different life.

Which kind of went without saying.

Anne Zamarion’s parents also seemed to believe that, despite a fondness for booze and broads (Taylor’s words, not theirs), Mike was a good-hearted, talented guy that Fate just seemed to have it in for. They believed Mike’s manslaughter conviction was a great injustice.

Taylor, liking to know who and what he was dealing with, had read the court case, and wasn’t convinced. He thought Zamarion was probably smarter than the average bear, but also probably more prone to violence.

Zamarion said, “He destroyed that will, you know. Alice wanted me and the girls to have the house. He didn’t care until he ran out of money. He sure as hell never cared about Alice.”

“Families are complicated.” Taylor had good reason to know.

Zamarion snorted. “Greed isn’t. He wants what he wants, and he doesn’t care who he has to hurt to get it. Which you—” He broke off.

“Okay. How do we resolve this? Because let’s be honest. You’re not going to get that house. You can make life difficult for Ashe, and maybe that’s your goal, but you strike me as a practical guy. Maybe we can reach some arrangement which actually brings benefit to you and your family.”

Zamarion began to laugh. It was kind of unnerving. “Are you for real?”

“Yes.”

“You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

“Suppose you fill me in?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

Taylor opened his mouth, but he was suddenly aware that he didn’t have a fucking clue. Something was going on here that he didn’t understand.

The windy silence between them stretched, and then, startlingly, Zamarion hung up.

“What the hell?” Taylor stared at his phone.

He thumbed through his Recents, found Unknown Caller, and tried phoning back. The cell rang and rang.

Nobody home.

He thought about calling Will—that was his default—but Will had enough on his plate today. No point rubbing in the fact that the partner who should have been sharing the drudgery of that survey was busy wasting time they didn’t have.

He thought about ordering a sandwich to-go, wondered what the hell he should get Will for Christmas, considered his quickly dwindling options for getting hold of Mike Zamarion.

His cell rang. Unknown Caller was back.

“Bad connection?” Taylor asked.

“You have no idea.” Zamarion’s voice dipped.

“What?”

“If you want to know what’s really going on, bring twenty grand in cash to lifeguard tower eleven on Carpinteria State Beach. If you’re not there by seven o’clock, don’t bother showing up at all. This is your one and only chance.”

“You’re dream—”

Zamarion disconnected again.

“Shit.” Taylor glared at his cell screen and saw that while he had been speaking to Zamarion, Ashe had phoned.

He muttered his exasperation, checked his messages.

Ashe’s recorded voice sounded contrite. “Hi, Taylor. I should never have involved you in this. Can we just forget the whole thing? Don’t try to contact Zamarion. It’s not worth it. I don’t want to live with knowing something happened to you because of me.” He gulped audibly. “Let’s just… Consider yourself fired, okay? And…why don’t you come by for a drink tonight. For old times’ sake. Say seven o’clock?”

Taylor groaned. Behind the long counter, the baristas eyed him doubtfully. Taylor put his hand up in a don’t-mind-me gesture, and phoned Will.

Whereupon his day went from bad to worse.

Lunch with David Bradley? Seriously?

Not that Will was lying. Will did not lie. Even when it might have made life easier for both of them. But of all the fucking gin joints in all the fucking world, did he really have to walk into a restaurant where goddamned Lt. Commander David Bradley happened to be eating lunch? It wasn’t even lunchtime!

Was the universe trying to tell them something?

To make it worse, Will had sounded so guilty and nervous and apologetic.

Was that how Taylor made him feel? Was he the bad guy here? Because he really, honestly hadn’t thought there was a bad guy, just bad luck.

It kind of took the heart out of him, thinking that maybe Will was starting to feel beaten down and misjudged. Especially since Taylor had been thinking he was doing such a good job of letting go of the past. God. The last thing he wanted was for them to start that kind of bitchy, barbed interaction so many couples seemed to devolve into.

Was that where they were headed?

Maybe once he’d sorted out Ashe’s problems, and the gauntlet of Webster Fidelity was behind them, he and Will could sit down and just…talk. Like they used to. Before they’d left the DS. Before everything got so complicated.

Before it was too late.

* * * * *

Will called as Taylor was leaving the office.

“I’m ten minutes out. Don’t leave without me.”

“Meet me there. I can’t afford to be late.”

Will said urgently, “No. Taylor, no. Listen to me. I heard from Stuart Schwierskott a little while ago. Ashe Dekker is not who you think he is. He’s not the guy you used to know.”

“I’m not the guy he used to know either.” Taylor lowered his phone to greet Euphonia, who was trotting across the rain-slick bridge. “You’re supposed to be parking in the lot, Nee.”

Euphonia, returning to the office to make sure all signs of the godawful gold duck on the lobby wall were eradicated before another sunrise, called cheerfully, “Good night, Agent MacAllister.”

He raised the phone to his ear to hear Will saying, “…not to mention he’s got expensive habits.”

“Schwierskott? What are you talking about? Why are we suddenly working with Schwierskott?”

“You’re not listening to me,” Will cried.

Taylor, remembering his reflections earlier that afternoon, stopped walking. He said quietly, “I’m listening.”

Rain pattered on the leaves overhead. There was a short in the Christmas lights strung around the miniature golf course, and the windmill and pagoda appeared and disappeared in red-green lightning flashes.

“Taylor, he’s setting you up. This is a trap.” Will sounded as out of breath as if he was running on foot from San Diego.

Taylor looked skyward. “Who? Zamarion?”

“No!”

“Ashe. Right. Of course.” He controlled his restiveness.

“Yes, Ashe. He’s in hock up to his eyeballs with gambling debts.”

Taylor was silent. He’d known—suspected—that Ashe was so desperate for money, he was willing to lie, cheat, and steal from Zamarion in order to sell that house. But it wasn’t likely Zamarion would be complicit in that, so how did it fit with Taylor meeting him on the beach in less than thirty minutes?

Besides, Ashe had told him not to meet with Zamarion.

“Don’t worry, Brandt. I won’t turn my back—”

“No,” Will said. “You still don’t understand. I think Ashe hired Zamarion to kill us.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

“No. Hear me out. The Russian mafia is huge in Croatia. You know that. You’re the one always talking about the Russians and organized crime. And you know who has a finger in that cabbage roll? Mikhail Bashnakov.”

“I know, Will…”

Will was still talking, stumbling over his words in his hurry to get it all out, and that desperate haste was unexpectedly convincing. Maybe more convincing than his words. “He’s coming up for trial. Bashnakov. We’re being deposed in January. What do you want to bet he’s trying to eliminate loose ends? Witnesses? I think he called in a marker with Dekker. I think Dekker hired Zamarion to take us out. Remember when we ran into Gretchen Hart before we went to Oregon? I think that’s the connection.”

“The actual witness is Hedwig. Bashnakov wouldn’t bother—”

“We’re witnesses to the attempt to take Hedwig out.”

“They weren’t trying to take her out. They were trying to take her baby.”

“And then take her out.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“The hell we don’t.”

Was Will having a nervous breakdown? Because this was the most far-fetched, Machiavellian… Well, actually, it sounded like the kind of scenario Taylor would come up with. Russian crime was something he knew a little about. Except this scenario didn’t hold together.

He said firmly, “I’m not saying you’re wrong about Bashnakov wanting us out of the way, but Ashe working with Zamarion? It makes zero sense. What does Zamarion have to gain?”

“Money. Of course.”

“But if that’s the case, why’s he asking me for twenty thousand dollars?”

“You think these assholes wouldn’t double-cross each other? Or even triple-cross each other?”

No, he didn’t think that.

Taylor said, “Either way, we need to hear what Zamarion has to say. Correct?”

A pause—because they both knew that was correct.

“Wait for me,” Will said. “Do you hear me, MacAllister? Whether you’re right or I’m right, Zamarion isn’t going anywhere. Wait.”

True. Whether Zamarion was waiting for a payoff or an ambush, he would not leave because they showed up five minutes late.

“And counting,” Taylor said tersely.

* * * * * *

There was no sign of Zamarion on the rainswept beach.

No sign of anyone.

The seaside sentinel of lifeguard tower eleven stretched up, a tall and boxy silhouette against a sagging sky.

The wet sand was cool and slippery beneath their feet as they approached, pistols at low ready, from opposite ends of the long, vacant beach. In front of them, white-capped waves crashed against the shore with a sharp crack and withdrew, shushing. The rain tasted briny. Taylor blinked the blur from his vision.

He reached the bottom of the tower first. Will joined him, saying, “Maybe I guessed wrong.”

“About?”

“Zamarion being willing to wait.” Will sounded rueful.

“No.” Taylor believed Zamarion had wanted to talk. And he’d wanted the money more than he’d wanted to talk.

Or maybe it was Taylor who had it wrong, and Zamarion was lying in the hills with an infrared scope, waiting to pick them off.

No. He could already have tried that a dozen times over, starting with their disembarking from their vehicle in the parking lot.

Taylor glanced around the mounds of soft, wet sand, switched his pocket flashlight on. The white beam illuminated a kaleidoscope pattern of footsteps. Rain puddled in the deeper footsteps, and in one pair of indentations pooled something much darker than rain.

He felt a kind of internal slump. Since he’d climbed into Will’s SUV, he’d been trying to convince himself Will was jumping at shadows, that people didn’t change that much…

“Will.”

Will turned, followed Taylor’s gaze, and turned his flashlight beam in the direction of Taylor’s. They looked at each other. Taylor glanced up at the boarded face of the lighthouse tower.

Will grunted, aimed his flashlight at the bottom step, at the water splash of darkness. He let out a soft sigh.

“Cover me,” Taylor said, and Will stepped to the side, resting both hands on the railing, aiming his SIG Sauer P229 at the doorway.

They already knew this precaution was unnecessary.

Taylor sprinted up the stairs, crossed the balcony in two steps, pushed open the cracked door. His flashlight beam picked out a motionless form facedown on the floor. He had a quick impression of shaggy silver hair, bulky shoulders, and a black-leather clad back with a wet and glistening hole in the center.

Funny how without ever meeting Zamarion, he had managed to form a picture of him. The truth was older—much older—heavier, and carrying a lot more wear and tear.

Taylor stepped back from the doorway and called down to Will. “He’s dead. Phone the sheriffs.”

* * * * *

The rain had stopped when they finally pulled up in the courtyard of 3000 Foothill Road. Every light in the house appeared to be blazing, though it was after midnight.

Taylor and Will had spent a long time talking to the sheriffs—and a long time not talking to the sheriffs. Will was not happy with the not-talking part, but he had acquiesced to Taylor.

“I want to speak to him first, that’s all,” Taylor said.

“You can’t get him out of this. You understand that, right?” The concern in Will’s gaze was all for Taylor. He hadn’t wanted Ashe as a client to start with.

“If he did this, I don’t want to get him out of it.”

“If he did it?” Will questioned. “Do you have an alternate theory?”

No. He did not have an alternate theory. And he was the guy known for coming up with alternate theories.

Will did not approve of keeping things from law enforcement, but he followed Taylor’s lead and kept his answers brief and largely uninformative, and for that Taylor was grateful.

He was less grateful that Will had hired Stuart Schwierskott to investigate Ashe, but he had listened in silence as Will had told him everything Schwierskott had learned about their former client. And hey, kudos to Schwierskott who, while not great at fieldwork, turned out to know his way around an intelligence report.

The most disturbing piece of information Schwierskott had uncovered was that Ashe’s boyfriend, Josip Marić—a low-level drug dealer—had died falling off the balcony of their Zagreb penthouse, a suspected mob hit.

Gee, no wonder he’d had trouble getting that travel visa. Being dead would cramp anyone’s travel plans.

If Taylor had been a guy prone to freaking out, that news would have freaked him out. But it also explained why Ashe was so terrified.

“I don’t think you should go in there on your own,” Will said as they studied the brightly lit windows.

“He has nothing to gain by harming me now.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know that. Maybe he still thinks his main worry is Bashnakov. He never struck me as the most rational guy.”

“He’s not stupid.”

Will made an if-you-say-so sound. He said, “He’s got a thing about you. That worries me. There’s a reason he was tapped by Bashnakov.”

“He was tapped because he owes the Russians millions.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes, he knew. And yes, Ashe did seem to bear him a considerable grudge. Although likely his main motivation had been self-preservation.

“I think there’s less chance of it all going sideways if I talk to him on my own. If I can make him see the advantage of being first through the door—”

Will was shaking his head. “He’s not going to roll over on Bashnakov. Anyway, he won’t have had personal dealings with The Technician. You know how it works.”

“I know.” Taylor reached for the door handle, stopping when Will grabbed his arm.

“Be careful in there,” Will growled. “I mean it. Don’t give him the benefit of the doubt—” Taylor cut him off with a kiss, and got out of the SUV.

Ashe did not answer Taylor’s knock or the doorbell.

With a sinking feeling, Taylor tried the door, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

“Ashe?”

No answer.

The unlocked door could mean a lot of things, including the fact that Ashe had asked him to stop by for drinks and a little bit of Auld Lang Syne earlier that evening. It did not have to mean what he feared: that finding himself cornered, Ashe chose the easy way out.

Not that it would be easy for Ashe. He had a strong sense of self-preservation. As indicated by recent events.

Taylor glanced back at Will’s Toyota Land Cruiser. The clouds had parted, and the full moon shone, bathing the courtyard in eerie silver light. He couldn’t see Will inside the vehicle, but he raised his hand in reassurance, and stepped inside the tiled hall.

Once inside, he pulled his weapon and proceeded down the corridor.

Despite its grand facade and 3.5 million price tag, the house proper was not even four thousand square feet. It took him less than three minutes to conduct a rudimentary search for Ashe.

There was plenty of indication he was around somewhere. An empty tequila bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, the washing machine sudsing through its cold-clean cycle, the television in the family room blasting out a local newscast.

“The body of a gunshot victim was discovered this evening by two private investigators, in a lifeguard station on Carpinteria State Beach. The victim, whose identity is being withheld pending notification of next of kin…”

The back door to the outdoor covered veranda stood open. Taylor went out, walked down the steps leading to the pool yard, and found Ashe sitting next to the burning fire pit. He was hunched forward, holding his father’s Ruger, staring at the fire.

He didn’t look up at Taylor’s approach, but he said, “That could have gone better.”

He sounded calm. Even a little wry.

Taylor’s heart stopped skipping in dread. He holstered his weapon. “Why didn’t you tell me what was really going on?”

Ashe laughed. “Really? How do you think that conversation would have gone? Hey, long time no see. If I don’t want to wind up like my boyfriend, I’m going to have to arrange for you and your boyfriend to have a little accident.”

Taylor sat down across from him. “But you know what I do for a living. You must have realized I had the contacts and resources to help you.”

Ashe gaped at him. “You can’t— Taylor, wake up. You’re so goddamned… I don’t know. Impervious.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Oh, I know. You really just don’t get it. You can’t touch people like Bashnakov. You don’t bring people like that to trial. You don’t put people like that in jail.”

“What do you think this is about, if not that?”

Ashe looked at him without comprehension, firelight flickering in his eyes.

“Hell, yes, you put them in jail,” Taylor said. “No one is above the law.”

“You and the Boy Scout.” Ashe’s voice wobbled. “You think you’re living in a movie where the good guys rush in at the last minute and save the day. You think you’re the good guys.”

“We’re sure as hell not the bad guys. We’re the guys who are going to help put Bashnakov away. And if you want to make sure Bashnakov stays in jail, give yourself up and cooperate—”

Ashe jumped up, walking agitatedly up and down along the pool. He waved the pistol in Taylor’s direction. Maybe more in illustration than threat, but Taylor tensed, pulse quickening. Guns had a way of going off.

“This is why I didn’t tell you. Because that’s your idea of a solution. Cooperate with the feds! Are you kidding me?”

“Okay,” Taylor said quickly, reassuringly. “Fair enough. I can’t be right all the time.”

“No, you sure as shit can’t. But you think you can. You always did.”

“I promise you, I really don’t. Ashe, come on. Sit down and let’s talk.”

Ashe laughed unsteadily.

“I’m on your side.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Ashe muttered. He stared down at the pistol in his hand.

Taylor continued to try and coax him to sit again. “Why don’t you give me your side. Tell me what happened tonight?”

Ashe glared. “Well, what happened tonight is you didn’t tell me you were going to meet Mike, even though I specifically told you not to. So I didn’t know until it was too late. If the asshole had just stuck to the plan, everything would have been okay. He’d have gotten his share of the money from the sale of the house, and nobody would have put two and two together.”

“Because you were known enemies.”

“Exactly! But no. He had to try and back out.”

Taylor kept hoping he was going to hear some extenuating circumstances, but with every word, Ashe was confirming the worst-case scenario: a cold-blooded murder plot.

“And that was just greed. He wanted more money.” Ashe added, “And gutlessness. He was also gutless. He was afraid there would be some big investigation if two ex-feds got killed.”

Right. Because Will would have to go too. It was a two-for-one deal. The thought of Will dying because of…because of what? Why? Because this selfish little shit thought everyone else was expendable? Jesus. He had been sorry for Ashe, guilty about Ashe, but now he was close to hating Ashe.

Still, he kept his voice even, unemotional. “He was probably right.”

“Yeah, well…” Ashe abruptly pointed the pistol at Taylor. “That doesn’t mean you get off scot-free. This is partly your fault.”

Taylor sat up straighter. He said with the calm of long experience—granted not this particular experience, “You can make the argument you killed Zamarion in self-defense. If you shoot me, it’s murder one, and Bashnakov will be the least of your worries.”

“Maybe it’s worth it.” Ashe’s voice wavered. “Maybe—”

“Maybe I’ll blow your head off if you don’t put the gun down,” Will said.

Will stood in the shadows on the other side of the pool near the stone staircase. Pretty much invisible, though Taylor knew him well enough to discern his outline among the silhouettes of rock and plants.

Ashe threw a frantic look over his shoulder but did not lower the pistol. “You can’t stop me. I’ll—”

No. Goddamn it. No, Will.

“Will, stand down,” Taylor called.

Will ignored him. “Lower your weapon, Ashe. I won’t ask nicely again.”

For such a reasonable guy, Will could be so goddamned intractable sometimes.

Ashe turned tearful eyes toward Taylor. “You couldn’t even come alone. Even now, even after everything, you couldn’t even give me that.”

Taylor said desperately, “Ashe, I’ll sit here with you as long as you want. Just you and me. Will’s going back to the car. Aren’t you, Will?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Will said.

Ashe sucked in a sharp breath. His hand wobbled, the pistol glinting in the firelight.

“Ashe, listen to me,” Taylor was speaking quickly, urgently. “There are things you want to say, and I want to hear them. Let’s talk. There’s no hurry here. No one’s coming. It’s just us.”

Jesus, he sounded like someone on a terrible TV cop show. You don’t want to do this! But Ashe didn’t want to do it. And if Will would just back off and give them space, let Taylor handle this…

“Sure,” Ashe said bitterly. “Just us. You and me and him. The time for talking was ten years ago, so don’t pretend you give a shit now. You walked away and never looked back. The only reason you care now is him. You’re worried about him.”

“No, I’m—”

Ashe swung the Ruger in Will’s direction, and Taylor launched himself forward. Ashe caught the movement, swung the pistol back toward Taylor, and Taylor heard the loud report of Will’s SIG Sauer P229.

Ashe staggered back, fired skyward, and fell into the pool.

“No no no no…” Taylor ran to the ledge of natural rock. “No.” He stared across the choppy water. “Jesus Christ, Will. I said I had this. I said…” He was suddenly, abruptly, out of breath, feeling very weird, almost light-headed as he stared at Ashe floating facedown, not moving. An inky cloud unfurled lazily around Ashe’s head.

“He was going to shoot you.” Will stood on the other side of the pool, pistol still trained on Ashe’s bobbing body.

“He wasn’t going to shoot!”

Will’s icy calm shattered. He shouted, “He did fucking shoot. At you.”

Taylor shook his head and dived into the pool.

Chapter Seven

You had to wonder at whatever data insights and advertising algorithms determined who got what catalogs in the mail.

Like Occupant receiving a brochure for Christmas in Hawaii.

Why?

Just…why?

What did people even do in Hawaii for the holidays?

Will scowled at the colorful cover of a happy, laughing couple running on white sand and splashing in turquoise water. First of all, despite the background sandcastle with the star on top, that did not look like Christmas. Secondly, that couple was just goddamned annoying in their airbrushed perfection. Thirdly…

“And when this is over, you owe me a real vacation,” Taylor said, precariously balanced in the window. “We’ll call it a honeymoon.”

Will’s heart seemed to shrivel within the cage of his ribs.

A lifetime ago.

Eighteen months, if you wanted to get technical. But a long eighteen months, and the longest stretch had been the grueling last eight days.

Was Christmas in Hawaii something Taylor would like?

Was Christmas anywhere, anything something Taylor would like?

For an instant Will was back at Ashe Dekker’s house in Carpinteria, watching Taylor working over Dekker’s drenched, bloodstained body, shivering in the winter air and cursing as he tried to resurrect him.

And then, when it was clear nothing could be done, Taylor had stumbled to his feet, fighting Will’s efforts to take him into his arms.

“I told you to wait in the car!”

“I’m not your goddamned chauffeur. Lucky for you.”

“I had this. I had it under control.”

“Oh yeah, it was going great if your goal was to be dead by Christmas.”

“You had to push him. Couldn’t let me handle it. Couldn’t trust me—”

“That’s rich coming from you. I told you that first night I didn’t want to take this job. That I thought it was a mistake. Where was your trust? You brushed me off. You kept me out of the loop. You just assumed I was jealous.”

“You were jealous. Because you don’t trust me.”

They had argued before. That was a given. But not like that. Never like that. They had nearly come to blows. Will’s brain hurt from the things they had said to each other. His heart felt bruised.

Of course, it was a different story once the sheriffs and emergency services had arrived. Taylor had been stone-cold and completely professional. He had come to persuade his friend and client to surrender himself to the authorities. Dekker, drunk and terrified, had panicked and turned his weapon—the weapon used to murder Mike Zamarion earlier the same evening, as it turned out—on Taylor. Taylor’s partner had come to his aid, and Dekker had been killed.

It was the truth, but it probably didn’t hurt their credibility that the victim had a 0.15 blood alcohol level and his fingerprints on a murder weapon.

Will blinked away the memories.

Anyway. Hawaii had to beat what they usually did for the holidays, which was work their asses off.

In fact, the last time Will could remember one of them taking Christmas off was a year ago when he’d had the flu. He’d been hoping to fly home from Paris to surprise Taylor, but that plan had gone down the drain with half a box of Fervex.

They needed a break. And here they were, unexpectedly free for the holidays, having managed to complete the surveys for Webster Fidelity in record time. Partly that was because they had worked nonstop—mostly apart from each other—after the disaster of Ashe Dekker. Partly that was because Euphonia had turned out to be a genius at organizing and interpreting their scribbled and sometimes chaotic notes and less than pristine surveys. Nee was very good, even scary good, at calling the clients and worming out the information needed to fill in the blanks.

Sure, Will could head back to Oregon for Christmas, give Taylor some space. But they had been giving each other a lot of space this last week—had barely seen each other—and things weren’t getting better. No. The strain and silence were only solidifying. And Hawaii was everything Taylor loved: sun, sand, water, and plenty of comfortable alternatives to camping.

Will frowned at the framed photo of a smiling Taylor that sat on his desk. Not many smiles out of Taylor these days.

No. Not true. Taylor smiled all the time. If the curve of lips, the crease of cheek, the flash of teeth equaled a smile. Taylor was brisk and cheerful—and hard as a slammed-shut door. But the sunlit unguarded happiness of the photo? That smile hadn’t been seen in what felt like a long time.

Not since Ashe Dekker. Goddamn him.

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. They had to do something for the holidays, after all, and sitting around in a silent house that suddenly felt too small for both of them? No. Maybe if they could get away, take a real vacation like Will had been promising forever, maybe talk things out? Maybe then they could get back to normal…

“Hawaii?” Taylor said skeptically when Will broached the idea that evening.

Will had almost lost his nerve after Taylor’s indifferent response to Japanese takeout from his favorite restaurant. It was possible he hadn’t even noticed. His conversation, per usual—their new usual—had revolved strictly around work.

Which was ironic, given how little enthusiasm either of them had for the job these days.

That wasn’t the worst of it. They hadn’t touched each other, beyond an inadvertent brush of hands or arms, since the night Ashe Dekker died. That quick, warm brush of Taylor’s mouth before he had gone to talk to Dekker.

Taylor hadn’t wanted to hear what Will had to say then—and he didn’t want to hear it now.

They had never been great at talking about their feelings, but until recently they hadn’t stopped trying.

And once they stopped trying…

“We can afford to take a little break,” Will said.

Taylor pushed his plate aside. “We took a little break for Thanksgiving.”

“I mean a real break.”

Taylor shrugged. “Thanksgiving with your family. Seemed like a real break to me.”

It was hard when he was like this. Hard to say the things Will knew he needed to say.

“I know. I mean…” Will took a breath. “I think maybe it would do us good to get away after…everything.”

Taylor’s green eyes met his, direct and unblinking, like the stare of an unfriendly cat.

“I would like to take you on a real vacation,” Will said. “Like I’ve been promising for…”

Years.

Since before Paris. Since before the High Sierras. Since before Taylor had been shot and everything had changed forever.

“I appreciate the thought,” Taylor said. “But we’re busy now, and I don’t want to waste money we don’t have.”

Finances remained a touchy subject given that they were still in hock to Taylor’s stepfather. Not that Richard gave a damn about the money—he spent that amount and more on charity dinners—but Taylor did.

“Business is as slow as it’s going to get. It’s the holidays. Plus, I talked to Stuart Schwierskott about covering for us if something does come up.”

“Schwierskott? You’re serious?”

“Yes. I’m serious. He’s looking to make a change.”

“From bad to worse?”

Will let that go. “We’re not going to never take a break again, and we need some kind of coverage, so why not give him a shot? It’s only a couple of days.” Lately Will had gotten into the habit of not arguing when Taylor shot him down. He didn’t want to risk the fragile balance between them. But there were worse things than arguing.

“Will…”

“We need some time together,” Will said. “We need to talk—”

Taylor said with unexpected, almost shocking fierceness, “What the fuck do you think there is to say, Brandt?”

Will stared, silent and stricken in the face of that restrained fury.

Taylor glared at him, then rose and went to the window to stare out at the night-shrouded garden.

Will watched him, his heart beating unpleasantly hard in his chest. He had not seen that coming, had not anticipated Taylor’s…what the hell was that even? Had never expected to see Taylor looking at him like he hated him. He almost couldn’t think past it.

His gaze dropped to Taylor’s left hand, spotted the glint of platinum. Taylor was still wearing his ring. So okay. That was a relief. It wasn’t over. Not yet. Maybe that would change in the next five minutes. He was afraid to speak. He had no idea what to say. He was never going to regret any decision that kept Taylor alive and in one piece. And even if he did regret it, he would make the same decision every time. Period. He wasn’t going to lie about it.

Taylor reached up and squeezed the back of his neck. He let out a long sigh, and turned back to Will. “I know what you’re saying, and I’m working through it, Will. Okay?”

“Since when do we work through things alone?” Will added bitterly, “Or am I what you’re working through?”

Something flickered in Taylor’s eyes. Bingo. The pain of recognition was beyond anything Will had experienced. Maybe even worse than the night he’d thought Taylor was going to die.

His mouth was so dry, he thought the words would turn to dust before he got them out. “Are you leaving me?”

Taylor’s face twisted. He shook his head. “No.”

And now it was Will turning away.

Taylor came back to the table, dragged his chair out, and sat down. He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not leaving. I’m not… I’m still…” He stopped and tried again, and the fact that he was trying again was a good sign, right?

“I can’t help feeling the way I feel. I’m not saying it’s fair. I know it’s not.”

Will nodded, expelled a breath, turned back to face Taylor.

“Okay,” he said wearily. “Where do we go from here?”

They locked gazes—once upon a time and not so long ago, they had known everything the other was thinking just by looking into each other’s eyes.

Taylor grimaced, offered a curl of his mouth that was not quite a smile.

“I guess we head to Hawaii for Christmas.”

* * * * *

A Santa in a red and yellow Hawaiian shirt and shades was Aloho-ho-hoing everyone passing through Kahului Airport on Maui.

It turned out Christmas in Hawaii was not an original idea, and the small airport was packed with holidaymakers in shorts and Santa hats. Even so, it was only a brief wait for their rental car, and then they were on the road to Kihei and the Pineapple Inn.

They’d had a couple of drinks on the not-quite-six-hour flight, and the lush scenery—luminous and sparkling from recent rain—was genuinely breathtaking, so their collective mood was cheerier than when they’d boarded at LAX that morning. Taylor, face partially hidden behind his aviators, looked…maybe not relaxed, but less rigid than he had in a week. The damp breeze through the Jeep windows whipped some color into his face, and Will began to feel a little more confident about insisting they needed to get away.

The inn turned out to be cozy, quaint, and very small—a total of four guest rooms and a little cottage—which was not a problem for two guys pretty sick of humanity at the moment. It was about a twenty-minute walk to the ocean, but that was also okay. They were surrounded by a sprawling tropical garden complete with fountains, pool, and hot tub, and, most importantly, given Taylor’s precarious mood, the whole setup was relatively affordable.

Taylor nodded in approval at their room, unexpectedly soothing with lots of verdant light streaming through all the windows, dark-wood furnishings, and classic Hawaiian leaf-patterned linens. A private lanai faced seaward, offering a stunning view of palm-tree-framed ocean.

They unpacked with their typical quick efficiency—maybe less talkative than usual, but then there was no job to discuss. Or rather, the job was to get their relationship back on track. In a funny way, Will was reminded of that camping trip from hell in the High Sierras. The trip that had changed everything between them.

Or rather, the trip that was supposed to fix everything that had changed between them.

That was the hope here, and Taylor must have shared it too because he had agreed to this impromptu vacation, just as he had agreed to camping in the mountains. At least this time they were somewhere warm and comfortable and to Taylor’s liking.

At least Will hoped it was to his liking.

“What do you think?” he asked as Taylor sat down on the foot of the bed, pulled off his sunglasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Taylor glanced up. “Nice. Very nice.”

“What would you like to do first? Grab something to eat? Check out the beach?”

Taylor gave a funny half-laugh. “Honestly? More than anything I’d like to sleep.”

They had not been sleeping much. Over the past few days, there had been a lot of lying still and controlling breathing so as not to disturb the other. Funny how you could know someone so well, you could tell the difference between their real sleep and their fake sleep.

“We’re on vacation,” Will said. “We’re allowed to sleep. Let’s sleep.”

“Are you sure? Because we’ve only got—”

“I think we’ll enjoy the rest of our time a lot more if we get some rest.” Will sat down on the bed. All at once he was so tired, he couldn’t see straight. As if it had taken all his strength to get them here. He let himself fall back on the fern and cactus print comforter, folded his arms behind his head. He closed his eyes.

After a moment, he felt the mattress give as Taylor rose, heard Taylor’s boots hitting the carpet, felt the mattress dip again. He opened his eyes. Taylor lay beside him, as straight and neatly contained as a stone effigy, and once again Will thought that he’d shoot a hundred Ashe Dekkers before he’d let anything happen to Taylor, whether Taylor ever forgave him or not.

For a moment they lay still and silent, their breathing even and regular. The sliding doors to the lanai were open, and the whisper of draperies, the rustle of the palm trees was peaceful. The breeze was a little moist, scented with exotic flowers. It did not smell like home, but it was nice.

Once, and not that long ago, Will would have turned to Taylor and kissed him, and regardless of how tired they were… But he didn’t quite dare. In fact, as much as he wanted to put his arm around Taylor, he didn’t quite dare that either. These days it was like Taylor had a force field around him, and Will was standing outside, looking in.

He was so afraid of making matters worse, he did nothing, which was probably guaranteed to make matters worse.

It was just that he was so painfully aware of the, well, error of his ways. For two years he had been taking things for granted. Everything from dismissing Taylor’s insecurities about David to turning down the Paris posting without discussing it with his partner first. And yes, he had realized he was being kind of high-handed about stuff, but he had excused his behavior because he was sincerely trying to do the right thing for both of them. But however much he loved Taylor—more than his own life, that was the truth—and however much he wanted to take care of Taylor, keep him out of harm’s way, he didn’t have the right to make some of the choices he’d made without talking it out with the person most affected by these decisions.

It was kind of ironic that this epiphany should be brought about by the one decision he didn’t second-guess, wouldn’t take back even if he could—the decision to put Ashe Dekker down. Regardless of what Taylor thought, Dekker had been about to kill him. Will had zero doubts.

He could understand and sympathize why Taylor had doubts, why Taylor didn’t want to believe his old friend had been willing to murder him, but Will? No regrets.

It didn’t mean he was happy about it, for God’s sake. He felt sick every time he remembered.

And sicker still on the nights he dreamed he fired too late.

If they could just talk like they used to…

That was the main thing he hoped for from this trip. If they could just manage to open the lines of communication again, that would be a start.

In the midst of these grim thoughts, Taylor shifted onto his side and put his arm around Will’s chest.

Taylor didn’t say anything, didn’t put his head on Will’s chest as he once would have done, but just that simple gesture closed Will’s throat, made his heart expand with emotion—not least gratitude.

They were a little groggy but definitely more relaxed at dinner. They found a place on the beach called Mama’s Fish House, with decor vaguely reminiscent of Aloha Steakhouse—lots of wood and bright-blue accents. They drank Bali Hais and Mai Tais and Scorpions—the kind of thing they ordinarily never touched—and got a little plastered. Taylor ordered the grilled Ahi baked in banana leaf, and Will got South Pacific salmon with caramelized onions, chili pepper, and avocado. They ate, drank, and watched the sun go down over the ocean.

They did not talk much, but the silence between them was friendlier than it had been of late.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Will said, and Taylor smiled faintly because they both knew all the reasons they couldn’t have done this before. Maybe they shouldn’t be doing it now since it meant leaving Schwierskott—their newest employee—and Euphonia to deal with anything that might crop up. But maybe Santa would bring them an absence of trouble for Christmas.

After their leisurely meal, they agreed they were both too much the worse for wear and phoned an Uber to take them back to their hotel.

Once back in their room, there was an unexpected awkwardness about what to do next.

Will began, “Did you want to—” He was thinking along the lines of go for a walk in the moonlight, but Taylor looked so instantly and totally blank, the words died in his throat.

His expression was probably a reveal, because Taylor said quickly, awkwardly, “Whatever you want.”

Which was clearly not how he felt.

“We could try out the hot tub,” Will said desperately, and Taylor leaped at that.

And, in fact, the hot tub turned out to be a great idea. The air was cool and balmy, the tub deliciously, bone-meltingly hot, and they had its frothy, steaming waters all to themselves. The lush garden and twinkling stars gave the night a magical feel.

Nothing like that hot spring in the High Sierras, where they had first made love.

Could you call that making love? Maybe not.

“What would you like to do tomorrow?” Will asked. “You want to go on a whale watch? Take a helicopter tour?”

Taylor murmured, “You’ve been reading the guidebook.”

“Whatever you want to do, I’m up for it,” Will said. “You want to go surfing? The big winter waves are supposed to be great for experienced surfers.”

Taylor raised his brows. “Do you surf? Because that would be news.”

“Well, no. But I wouldn’t mind having drinks and watching you surf.”

Taylor was silent for a moment. He said, “Nah. Big-wave surfing is out of my league these days. Besides, we should choose something we can both enjoy.”

“Hey, there’s nothing not to enjoy about sitting on the beach, drinking Mai Tais.”

Another pause before Taylor said almost gently, “Will, you don’t have to try so hard. I’m not convalescent.”

He didn’t mean it as a slap, that was obvious, but it still stung.

Will said, “No, but you’re not happy.”

“Are you?”

Will’s heart was pounding so hard, he wondered if it was going to explode. He had known they had to talk, he wanted to talk, but not this soon. Not before they had a chance—he had a chance—to remind Taylor of everything that was right between them.

“At the moment? No.”

Taylor’s shadow nodded as though this confirmed his thoughts.

Having admitted that much, Will couldn’t think of another thing to say. Or rather, he could only think of one thing, and he was afraid that if he said it, it would mean the end of everything.

The words came out anyway.

“You don’t want to believe it, but he was going to shoot you.”

Taylor turned his profile to him.

Will said harshly, “But even if he wasn’t, you’d have made the same choice.”

“Only I didn’t. I didn’t pull my weapon.”

“I don’t mean to protect yourself. I mean to protect me. If our positions were reversed, you’d have made the same call.”

“As usual, you’re thinking you know b—”

Will burst out, “You shot me, MacAllister. You shot someone you loved when you believed you had to, so I know you’d have shot him in my position.”

Taylor gave that little huff that indicated unwilling acknowledgment.

The minutes ticked by and Taylor didn’t reply, so maybe Will was wrong about that.

Taylor finally said, “Is there a Plan B?”

“What?” Will asked blankly.

“For tomorrow. Did you have a Plan B for how we spend tomorrow?”

Will’s heart started beating again. He had been expecting annihilation, but it seemed he had cut the blue wire after all.

“We drive to Hana. It’s supposed to be spectacular. Rain forest and waterfalls and ocean views. It takes about three hours if you drive straight through, but if you do it right, there are all kinds of hiking trails and places to swim and roadside stands. We could make it an all-day trip.”

Christ. He really was beginning to sound like the guidebook.

“Okay,” Taylor said. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

What I want? More than anything, I’d like my best friend, partner, lover back.

Instead, Will said lightly, “Your wish is my command,” and Taylor’s mouth curved politely.

Excruciating. Since when did they have this kind of trouble talking to each other?

Neither spoke for a time. Taylor tipped his head back, watching the stars, and Will watched him out of the corner of his eye.

After a time, Taylor commented dreamily, “Hey, a shooting star.”

“Aren’t you supposed to make a wish?”

Taylor closed his eyes. Opened them. He continued to stare at the sky.

Chapter Eight

The next day—two days before Christmas—they spent the morning and afternoon driving the road to Hana, which turned out to be a 64.4-mile-long very windy, narrow highway through lush tropical rainforest with passes over fifty-nine bridges—many of which were only wide enough for one lane of traffic.

Hours of wind in their hair and sun on their faces. Hours of nothing to do but drive and think and be. They stopped a few times to take photos, to hike up to see waterfalls, to buy iced coconut water and snacks at roadside stands. They didn’t talk much, but they shared smiles, helped each other across tricky patches of terrain, shared bites of their shrimp and pineapple and garlic hot dog and red bananas and hot Kona coffee over ice cream.

Anyway, it was a great day. The best Taylor had in what seemed like months. He felt almost normal. It helped that Will had quit watching him like he expected him to detonate at any moment. Better yet, Will had stopped looking so drawn and weary. The shadows around his eyes were fading, the hard line of his mouth softening. Will had needed this trip.

Maybe they both had. Maybe Will was right about that.

In Hana they swam at Red Sand Beach and lunched at the Hana Farms fruit stand and restaurant, which, they agreed, served the best fish tacos either had ever had. They were watching cars zipping along the road when a red Ferrari went roaring past, driven by a guy in sunglasses, Hawaiian shirt, and old-school Magnum PI-style mustache.

They shared a sardonic glance, and then grinned because maybe the mind meld was rusty, but it was still working.

Taylor used his chopsticks to steal a slice of glazed bell pepper from Will’s plate.

Will’s mouth quirked, he fended off another foray of Taylor’s chopsticks, and said, “Do you think we made a mistake?”

“Which possible mistake are we talking about?”

“The global security consulting business.”

It was almost a relief to hear Will put it into words. “Yes. I do.”

Will snorted. “Just say what you think. Don’t worry about my feelings.”

“I think we made a mistake.”

Will sighed. “Me too. It bores the hell out of me. From meeting clients to asset control.”

“Me too. I was thinking it didn’t matter what we did as long as we did it together.”

“But it does,” Will agreed.

“It does, yeah. I don’t know what we can do about it, though. It’s going to take two years to pay Richard back even with Webster Fidelity.”

“There’s no way we can get our old jobs back. And even if we could…”

“We wouldn’t be working together. We’d be repartnered.”

Will was watching him carefully. “Does that still matter to you?”

“What?” Taylor frowned. “What do you mean? Of course it matters to me. That was the whole point.”

“It was before. But now?”

Taylor froze. “Now? Are you saying it doesn’t matter to you?”

“It matters, yes. But if we’re not…”

“If we’re not what?”

Will seemed to gather himself. He said stoically, “If we’re not going to be together, maybe it’s not the obstacle we’re thinking it is.”

The impact of Will’s words was weirdly similar to being shot. It was hard to get his breath, he felt cold all the way through, and the pain was incredible.

Taylor said unemotionally, “Good point.”

Will swallowed, gave a little okay then nod, stared out the open window.

They were quiet and careful, almost gentle with each other the rest of the day.

They had dinner at…well, really, what did it matter? One of the big hotels overlooking one of the big beaches. The food was great, the scenery beautiful, and Taylor felt numb to the bone. The way he had felt all afternoon after he realized Will wanted out.

Not that he blamed him.

He had not listened to Will’s concerns over Ashe. He had put Will in a position where he’d had to shoot to protect him—and Will was having nightmares about that. No surprise. So was Taylor.

He could have gotten Will killed.

No wonder Will was done.

Not that he hadn’t made mistakes too, but even after Paris, even after David Bradley, even after the pursuit of Webster Fidelity when they didn’t have the resources to pull it off, Taylor hadn’t been ready to throw in the towel.

It had been such a good start to the day. Such a great morning. He’d started thinking they might find their way home. But by lunch, Will had made it clear there was no going back.

“Are you okay?” Will asked over their after-dinner drinks. “You haven’t said anything in twenty minutes.”

Taylor pulled himself together, smiled, said, “I think I need some air. Maybe I’ll walk on the beach for a little bit. I can get a cab back to the inn.”

If anything, Will looked more concerned. “You want some company?”

Not really. And at the same time, yes, desperately, because if these were the last few days of being together, being a couple, then Taylor wanted every minute. Even if it made it harder in the end.

Honestly, what could be harder than what they were facing?

Taylor shrugged. “Sure.”

They paid their bill, left the restaurant, and walked down a long, sandy flight of stairs to the beach. It looked mostly deserted. A few distant couples with the same idea—or probably, a better idea. The night was cold, the coldest night yet, and Taylor was wishing Will would put his arm around him.

He almost missed a step, realizing that Will might never put his arm around him again. Will’s hand shot out, grabbing Taylor’s arm, steadying him.

“You didn’t have that much to drink.” There was a teasing note in his voice.

Taylor laughed. At least, he tried to make the pain blocking his throat sound like a laugh.

Once again, he could see Will looking at him, trying to read him, could feel Will’s concern, his kindness. Because even if they weren’t going to be together, Will would never stop caring about him. They would always be friends. Witness good old Lt. Commander David Bradley.

Who now had a good shot at having all his dreams come true.

They reached the soft, sandy floor of the beach, and Taylor strode off. Will followed. They walked just out of reach of the waves. It was chillier by the water, but the chill was better than the numbness.

He walked toward the huge silver moon, walked and walked and walked, and then finally sat down in the sand. It still felt warm from the sunny day.

Will sat beside him, shoulder brushing Taylor’s.

They said nothing, just watched the inky flood and retreat of glittery water against glittery shore.

There was so much Taylor wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to start, and what was the point now?

He could feel Will watching him. He turned to meet Will’s gaze. The moonlight threw everything into stark relief, making Will’s eyes look black and fathomless.

“What?” Taylor asked.

Will looked out toward the waves. His mouth curved, but there was no humor.

When he didn’t answer, Taylor said, “You’re going to think it’s funny. Until today, I didn’t realize you’d given up on us.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.” Will glanced at him. “And I would never give up on us. Except…”

“Except you have.”

“No.” There was pain in Will’s voice. “What do you think this trip was about?” He drew an oddly shaky breath. “But.”

“But what?”

“Do you really think you’ll ever forgive me?” Will’s voice was quiet. “Don’t you think this is always going to be between us?”

Initially, all Taylor heard was, This is always going to be between us. Then the first part of Will’s words sank in.

Honestly, regardless of anything else, he could not have Will go on thinking that Taylor blamed him for Ashe.

“No, Will. Jesus.” Taylor looked at him, shook his head, pained at the idea. “No, I don’t think that. There isn’t— That isn’t— Forgiveness isn’t in this, isn’t part of this—”

Will nodded, turned again to stare at the restless tumble of waves, as though Taylor’s stumbling inability to explain confirmed something for him. Taylor heard his words through Will’s ears and tried again, tried harder.

“Because there isn’t anything to forgive, Will. You said it yourself. I’d have made the same choice. It wasn’t even a choice, I guess. It was instinct. I know that. And if it had been the other way around, I’d probably have had the same…instinct.”

No probably about it. Will had called it last night in the hot tub.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, that it hadn’t been a shock. They were no strangers to violence, but it was still a gut punch, thinking about it, remembering that terrible moment. He still heard that shot in his dreams.

Will asked huskily, “But?”

“There isn’t any but.”

“Yeah, only there is. And I get it. You can’t help the way you feel.”

Yes, he had said that, and it was true. And it was easy to see why Will didn’t understand. “I also said I wasn’t…that I’m still…”

Had he said it, though? He had said he wasn’t leaving. He had said he didn’t blame Will. At least, he thought he had. Had he said in plain English that he was still emotionally invested in them? That, for better or for worse, when it came to Will, even wholesale slaughter probably wouldn’t shake the depth of his feelings?

Maybe not in so many words.

Maybe not in any words.

Taylor struggled with himself and finally managed to confess the truth. “I’m trying to come to terms with it. I ignored my own instincts—and yours—and insisted we take Ashe as our client. I pushed going to the house that night. I’m not forgetting. You tried to talk me out of it. I insisted we had to give him a chance to give himself up. You didn’t want to.”

Will broke in, “It’s not that I didn’t trust you. I know you think that.”

Taylor couldn’t help grimacing because yeah. That was true. He did believe that.

Will said, adamant, “It isn’t that. I know I’ve made mistakes, that mistake, before. But that night… I love you. I can’t— It’s not in me to stand aside. I did try. But, Taylor, that night you’d have made the same call. I know you would have.”

“Maybe.” Honesty compelled Taylor to say, “Probably.” He would not have let Will walk in there alone in the first place. That was the truth.

Will let out a little breath, like that was a bigger concession than he’d hoped for.

Taylor’s thoughts were running on a separate track. “It wasn’t that I was blind to the signs. But it’s not easy thinking that for all those years, Ashe hated me; hated me so much, he was willing to kill me.”

Will put a hand on his shoulder, gripped hard. “I’m sorry, Tay.”

“I know.”

“So sorry. About all of it.”

Taylor nodded. Said again, “I know.” Adding a moment later, “Me and you. That’s the thing I can’t forget. I dragged you into it and almost got you killed.”

That was the part that made it hard to sleep, to eat, to think. He hadn’t managed to help Ashe—Ashe was dead—and he’d nearly got Will killed too.

“You didn’t drag me into anything.”

“The hell, Will. Of course I did.”

“Like I haven’t dragged you into things? Christ.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Taylor admitted.

Will groaned. “I know. Believe me, I know. I swear to God, Taylor, if you could give me another chance… I have changed. I know you don’t see it, but I have. That day I ran into David, I told him his friendship wasn’t worth losing you.”

It was probably childish that that concession meant so much.

“Is that true?” Taylor tried to read Will’s face.

“Yes. It is. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize what I was doing.”

Taylor, starting to feel uncomfortable, said, “It’s not like I ever thought you were—”

“I would never cheat on you. Never. Never betray you.”

Taylor really wasn’t that insecure. Will knew that, right? “I know that. I never thought that. You don’t have to choose—”

“There isn’t any choice,” Will interrupted. “That’s what I’m trying to say. There never has been. It’s you. It’s always going to be you. And yeah, because of the way I feel about you, I am always going to try to protect you, but I swear to God, I’m past trying to make your choices for you. These last few days…” Will swallowed. “Knowing you probably can’t forgive…”

“Will, listen to me. It’s not that. I feel like I failed. Everybody. I failed Ashe. I failed you——”

Will sounded almost shocked. “What are you talking about? You never failed anyone in your life.”

“I did, though. And I’m trying to work through it. I know I’ve been withdrawn and moody and… I’m trying. But I’m so goddamned…”

“What?”

Taylor shook his head.

“Angry?”

Taylor drew a long breath, let it out slowly. “Depressed. I guess.”

“Depressed?” Will sounded like he’d never heard the word before, and he probably never had. Not from Taylor, anyway. Neither of them was prone to overanalyzing—or any analyzing of—their feelings. Hell, when had they ever had the luxury of time to even consider what they might be feeling?

“You mean like… Why didn’t you say something? Why wouldn’t you let me help?” Will tried to pull him into his arms, but Taylor, feeling like a fool, resisted.

“Right. Because my feelings are your problem too?”

Will peered at him closely. “Hell, yes, your feelings are my problem. Aren’t my feelings your problem?”

Taylor let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I knew you weren’t okay. I knew you weren’t sleeping, weren’t eating—”

“Neither were you.”

“But I thought you were grieving. I killed your friend.”

Taylor rested his face in his hands. “If I hadn’t— If I could have—”

“Stop,” Will said. “Sweetheart, you know better.”

That soft sweetheart melted him. Taylor turned to Will, and Will wrapped his arms around him, pulled him close.

Taylor said, words muffled against Will’s chest, “I just feel like I could have—should have—”

Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

“None of this is on you,” Will said fiercely. “You sure as hell aren’t to blame for what happened.” He rested his face against Taylor’s hair.

Taylor closed his eyes and gave in to the luxury of leaning on Will. “That’s the thing, though. I was so sure this was a chance to make up for the past. To set things straight. I didn’t handle it well, back in college. He cared so much, and I was just…glad to be starting my real life.”

“Christ, MacAllister. You were both kids. What were you supposed to do?”

Taylor shook his head. Not in answer to Will. He was lost in his own thoughts. “Neither of us was really out…”

Will said, “I know. Of course not.” Will got it. Taylor had been planning for a career in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, and back then there were no gay federal agents. Or, more exactly, there were no out federal agents. It was a different world. The only people who thought things hadn’t really changed were the people who hadn’t lived through the old days.

He raised his face to meet Will’s gaze. “And it was partly because of that, our friendship meaning so much.”

“Yeah.” The understanding in Will’s blue gaze was both painful and a relief, because Will did absolutely understand everything Taylor was saying—and not saying.

“I did care for him.”

“I know you did,” Will reassured.

“He cried like it was the end of the world.” It had shaken Taylor, those hot tears and shuddering sobs. Ashe had sounded like his heart was breaking. And Taylor had all but fled. Then he’d followed that relationship up with the affair with Inori.

No wonder he’d so often been accused of being emotionally unavailable. That had been his MO. Until Will.

Will sighed, as though Taylor’s pain was a weight on his heart.

“And there was nothing I could say except…if he ever needed me, I’d be there for him.”

“And you were. You tried to be. He made bad choices. And the worst choice was thinking he could pay off his gambling debts by handing us over to Mikhail Bashnakov.”

Taylor nodded. “Yes. But it’s still…”

“Shocking. Painful. Depressing,” Will agreed. “Yeah. I see that. I’m sorry.” He held Taylor still more tightly, and Taylor rested his face in the curve of Will’s neck. Will bent his head, said softly against Taylor’s ear, “I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. But I’m not sorry we’re both here tonight. I’m never going to be sorry for that.”

Taylor whispered, “No. Me neither.”

The rain-scented breeze of island flowers, the soft, cool cotton of freshly laundered sheets, the lazy click of a digital clock beside the bed, the faint tap-tapping of old plumbing. Bliss.

When Taylor finally opened his eyes the next morning, Will said, “What if we make that ring of yours for real?”

Taylor blinked at the ceiling, blinked at Will, said rustily, “It is for real.”

Will was smiling, but his blue eyes were grave. “I mean official. Legal.”

Was Will asking what he seemed to be asking? Taylor said slowly, “You want to get married in Hawaii?”

“Well, we’re here.”

He was clearly kidding—and yet, clearly not kidding.

Okay, it was understood they would one day marry. They had never discussed the logistics, but Will knew Taylor well enough to be confident Taylor didn’t want a big fuss any more than he did.

Will said, “Did you know gay marriage has been legal in Hawaii since 2013?”

“I did not know that, no.” Taylor tilted his head, studying him. “What’s the rush?”

Will laughed. “Rush? We’ve been together five years.”

“Uh, I don’t think we can count the time we weren’t actually together as together.”

“I think it all counts. It all goes into me knowing I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Will drew in a breath. “And I’m thinking you feel the same.”

Like there was any question of that?

Taylor smiled, all his tenderness and affection right there in his face—but maybe a little exasperation too, because even though this was one of the nicest things Will had ever said to him, it was a case of it’s the thought that counts. Taylor had lived through the weddings of two siblings, and if Will imagined it was possible to pull off a spur-of-the-moment wedding, he was hitting the Mai Tais again.

“Okay. Agreed. But.”

“But?”

“For starters, I don’t know how you think we’re going to arrange a wedding in three d—”

Will interrupted, “I spent the morning phoning around, and I found a company that will marry us before lunch.”

Taylor’s heart jumped. “Today?”

“Yep, today. If you want to go for it. It’s $325 for a licensed minister, beach permit and insurance, a decorative certificate of marriage, and two fresh-flower leis.” He added, as though all those parasols and lovebirds had suddenly made him an expert, “The hard part about pulling off a wedding is arranging the venue. This entire island is a venue.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am. I’m serious. If you want them to take photos using our phones, it’s another two hundred dollars.”

“Another two hundred.” Taylor sat up, shoving the hair out of his eyes. “Okay. Right.”

“No frills, obviously, but—”

“We’re not frilly guys.” Taylor was starting to laugh. “Are you— Are you sure you know what you’re saying? Because I will not take kindly to being left at the altar.”

“No altar. Are we going for it or not?”

Taylor hesitated.

Will said softly, “I’m not pushing you. This is up to you. Say the word, and I’ll make the phone call. They said they’d hold that slot open for thirty more minutes.”

For a long moment they held each other’s gazes.

Their love, their relationship, was not perfect. It was complicated, occasionally messy, sometimes even confusing, and probably always would be. But it was the real deal. The for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part deal. Theirs was a partnership in every sense of the word.

Will’s voice was deep, a little husky, as he said, “Will you marry me, Taylor?”

Taylor laughed, a shaky, breathless laugh. He shoved the blankets aside and jumped out of bed. “Which beach?” He held his hand out to Will. “And who’s driving?”

Epilogue

It was raining.

Not hard, more mist than rain, but wet enough to keep the sun and surf crowd away. Now and then during the very brief ceremony, the sun peered through silver-edged clouds, smiled briefly, and faded out. The aqua surf hit the white sand in regular, leisurely heartbeats, and occasionally the grooms’ words were lost in the pound of waves and the cries of gulls.

“I, William, take thee, Taylor, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

Will slipped the platinum band—platinum mixed with a small percentage of lead from the bullet that had changed everything—onto Taylor’s ring finger. His hands were warm, his fingers steady, and his eyes smiled into Taylor’s.

Then it was Taylor’s turn.

“I, Taylor, take thee, William, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

Taylor reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a ring: a chrome and box elder band with a line of laser-carved pine trees. He met Will’s astonished gaze, slid the ring on Will’s left hand, and winked.

The damp wind tasted salty, but there were no tears. They were not men who cried easily or often, and surely not for happiness. The only moment of self-consciousness was as they each placed a wedding lei over the other’s head. The leis were made of ti leaves, wound with tiny, fragrant white tuberoses, and they were beautiful and festive. There were a couple of laughs, a muttered comment from Taylor, a few more clicks of phone cameras, and at last a kiss, so careful, so tender.

Afterward they had lunch at another of the big hotels, where they were serenaded by Christmas carolers clad in Hawaiian shirts. Will ordered champagne, Taylor ordered some kind of cake made with pineapple, cinnamon, and nutmeg and frosted with cream-cheese frosting and toasted coconut.

“You had a ring all ready to go,” Will teased, nudging Taylor’s booted foot with his own.

Taylor laughed and shook his head. “Yes and no. That was your Christmas gift. I picked it up yesterday at that little shop in Hana before we stopped for lunch.” His mouth twisted. “I thought it was time you wore a ring too. Of course, half an hour later you were telling me you were leaving me.”

“Not what I said. Never. And not what I meant. Ever.” Will spoke without heat, was even smiling a little. They were past the misunderstandings and miscommunications. Maybe there was something to the idea of a formal commitment. “From this day forward, buddy boy.”

Taylor said, “I guess we’re going to catch hell from pretty much everyone for running off and getting married like this.”

“Probably.”

They smiled at each other.

Later, Taylor said thoughtfully, “What are we going to do about American Eagle?”

“I’ve been considering that. What do you think about splitting off the global security consultant side of the business from the other side of the business? We could promote Euphonia to project manager and let Schwierskott handle the meet-and-greet stuff. He’s pretty good at it.”

“Uh, what other side of the business?” Taylor inquired.

“Private investigations.”

“Private… You want us to become PIs?”

“Well, think about it. What’s in our wheelhouse?”

Taylor opened his mouth, and Will said quickly, “Investigating. Investigating is what we’re good at. We’re field agents. We’re not analysts. I believe it’s a natural fit for us.”

“Do you?”

“I do.” Will smirked. “No pun intended.”

Taylor’s mouth twisted. He said, “Hm. It’s going to be hard getting a letter of recommendation from our last client.”

Will winced. “Will you consider the idea, at least?”

“Yes.” Taylor relented. “Actually, I kind of like the idea.”

“Do you?”

“I do.” Taylor’s turn to smirk.

Will said, “I thought you would.”

“But we’re not moving to Hawaii, Brandt. And you’re not buying a Ferrari.”

Will snorted. “Deal.”

And much, much later that night in their hotel room, Will held up his left hand and said, “You know, I like the etched pine trees.”

Taylor said, “It reminded me of—”

“Me too,” Will said gruffly. “It reminds me of where we’ve been and where we’re going.”

“Which is hopefully not camping.”

Will leaned over to kiss him. He whispered, “Which is together. Forever.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to say goodbye to characters I love as much—and for as long—as Will and Taylor. I think it’s one reason I kept delaying this book.

The journey of Taylor MacAllister and Will Brandt began in April 2008 when Loose Id published Dangerous Ground. The stories were intended to be quick, fun, episodic adventures, and I believe I’ve kept that promise. The boys have had a good long run, and it’s certain they will continue their adventures long after you turn the final page. Thank you for sharing the ride.

Thank you to Keren. Thank you to Kevin.

(As always, make sure you’ve downloaded the most up-to-date version of this book because in fiction, as in real life, things have a way of changing!)

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About the Author

Author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure, and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON’S work has been translated into eleven languages. Her FBI thriller Fair Game was the first Male/Male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, then the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan’s annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list). The Adrien English series was awarded the All Time Favorite Couple by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group. In 2019, Fatal Shadows became the first LGBTQ mobile game created by Moments: Choose Your Story.

She is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), an Edgar nominee, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads All Time Favorite M/M Author award.

Josh is married and lives in Southern California.

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If you enjoyed this story, try these digital titles by Josh Lanyon:

Novels

The ADRIEN ENGLISH Mysteries

Fatal Shadows

A Dangerous Thing

The Hell You Say

Death of a Pirate King

The Dark Tide

Stranger Things Have Happened

So This is Christmas

The HOLMES & MORIARITY Mysteries

Somebody Killed His Editor

All She Wrote

The Boy with the Painful Tattoo

In Other Words…Murder

The ALL’S FAIR Trilogy

Fair Game

Fair Play

Fair Chance

The ART OF MURDER series

The Mermaid Murders

The Monet Murders

The Magician Murders

The Monuments Murders

BEDKNOBS AND BROOMSTICKS

Mainly by Moonlight

I Buried a Witch

Other novels

This Rough Magic (A SHOT IN THE DARK Series)

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

Mexican Heat (with Laura Baumbach)

Strange Fortune

Come Unto These Yellow Sands

Stranger on the Shore

Winter Kill

Jefferson Blythe, Esquire

Murder in Pastel

The Curse of the Blue Scarab

The Ghost Had an Early Check-out

Murder Takes the High Road

Séance on a Summer’s Night

Novellas

The DANGEROUS GROUND Series

Dangerous Ground

Old Poison

Blood Heat

Dead Run

Kick Start

Blind Side

Other novellas

Cards on the Table

The Dark Farewell

The Dark Horse

The Darkling Thrush

The Dickens with Love

I Spy Something Bloody

I Spy Something Wicked

I Spy Something Christmas

In a Dark Wood

The Parting Glass

Snowball in Hell

Mummy Dearest

Don’t Look Back

A Ghost of a Chance

Lovers and Other Strangers

Out of the Blue

A Vintage Affair

Lone Star (in Men Under the Mistletoe)

Green Glass Beads (in Irregulars)

Blood Red Butterfly

Everything I Know

Baby, It’s Cold (in Comfort and Joy)

A Case of Christmas

Murder Between the Pages

Slay Ride

Stranger in the House

Short stories

A Limited Engagement

The French Have a Word for It

In Sunshine or In Shadow

Until We Meet Once More

Icecapade (in His for the Holidays)

Perfect Day

Heart Trouble

Other People’s Weddings (Petit Mort)

Slings and Arrows (Petit Mort)

Sort of Stranger Than Fiction (Petit Mort)

Critic’s Choice (Petit Mort)

Just Desserts (Petit Mort)

In Plain Sight

Wedding Favors

Wizard’s Moon

Fade to Black

Night Watch

Plenty of Fish

Halloween is Murder

The Boy Next Door

Collections

Short Stories (Vol. 1)

Sweet Spot (the Petit Morts)

Merry Christmas, Darling (Holiday Codas)

Christmas Waltz (Holiday Codas 2)

I Spy…Three Novellas

Point Blank (Five Dangerous Ground Novellas)

Dark Horse, White Knight (Two Novellas)

The Adrien English Mysteries Box Set (Three Novels)

The Adrien English Mysteries Box Set 2

Male/Male Mystery & Suspense Box Set

Partners in Crime (Three Classic Gay Mystery Novels)

All’s Fair Complete Collection

BLIND SIDE (Dangerous Ground 6)

January 2020

Copyright (c) 2020 by Josh Lanyon

Cover by Ron Perry

Edited by Keren Reed

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

978-1-945802-15-7

Published in the United States of America

JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

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www.joshlanyon.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.