Then, we got a bite.

He wrote Ally.

It wasn’t much of a letter, most of it scratched out and unreadable. But there was a postage stamp. The smug bastard had given us a clue. He was ready to be found. He wanted to come home.

So I contacted a couple friends—one in customs, the other in private investigating—and we tracked him down. And I told Ally, who had damn near stalked me for months, showing up at my office daily and annoying the ever-living shit outta me, to go get her boy. And never, ever let him go. A love like that—one birthed out of pain and courage and friendship—was so rare to find. And those two had it. They just needed a little help in keeping it.

I look back at Tucker as we round the top of the banister and give him a smile. What we have is real. Tucker’s love for me is solid and true, and always has been. No one can take that away from us. Not Ransom, not Justice, not even me. And as much as I don’t deserve him, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t fathom my life without him in it, keeping me rooted in love whenever I try to float away.

My gaze darts to Ransom, who trails a few steps behind us, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pressed into a straight line. It was easy to be attracted to him, easier than it should have been. He’s the promise of excitement and youth. He’s that rush of exhilaration from standing right on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched and eyes closed. He’s that punch of adrenaline that rushes my heart so rapidly that I feel high. Weightless, yet covered in sensation that prickles every inch of my skin.

Ransom makes me believe I can fly, but it’s Tucker who keeps me tethered to the earth. Sometimes I can’t tell which is worse.

We stop at a rich mahogany door with the word Reflection engraved in beautiful script on a stainless-steel placard. “What’s this?” I ask.

“Ally wanted to do something with the rooms . . . create specific themes for them. This is the Reflection room. We’re pretty booked right now, so you lucked out.”

He fishes a key tied with a ribbon bow out of his pocket and unlocks the door. And as we step inside, I know exactly how this particular room earned its name.

The space is bathed in muted colors—gray, taupe, nude. Colors that would calm the minds and invoke peace, and allow the couple a chance to contemplate on their relationship. However, it’s completely decked out in mirrors from top to bottom, the main ones seemingly focused around the bed. So while a couple may reflect on their love for each other by day, their naked, twisted bodies will be reflected by night.

It’s as if Justice is trying to tell me something. And for someone who has never relied on subtlety to get his point across, I’m kinda pissed that he took this opportunity to try it out.

I turn around to tell him so, when I realize that I’m not the only one musing over the bedroom’s double entendre. Actually, the message seems to be very clear, and the way Ransom is eyeing the mirror situation directly over the bed, he’s just as uncomfortable with what this represents. And what this means for him.

“Your room is down the hall,” Justice says to the younger man. He waves Ransom toward the hall and I’m tempted to follow when Justice stops at the doorframe, training that cold, icy stare at me. I can almost feel the temperature in the room plummet. “My place in ten.”

Then I’m left with my husband, wondering what the hell Justice could want that would demand my attention so suddenly. And what the hell he and Ransom could be talking about right now.

Under normal circumstances, I would have shown up at the guesthouse where Justice lives at least five minutes late. Ten if I was feeling feisty and wanted to piss him off. But knowing that he’s alone with Ransom, and considering our conversation over the phone about open marriages, I can only imagine what conclusions are being made. I know that Justice won’t divulge any details, but would Ransom? If he felt it would benefit him in some way?

“Ten minutes, eh?” Tucker muses from behind me. He’s closer than I expect, close enough that his warm breath stirs the hair at my nape. “I can think of a few things we can accomplish in ten minutes.”

He brushes the hair from my shoulders and presses his lips against the back of my neck, a move that has successfully made me dissolve into warm honey on many occasions. I’ve always craved physical affection from Tucker—yearned for it like a starving child. Now it just feels like a distraction . . . an annoyance. My husband’s touch is annoying me. And that’s a serious problem.

“Later,” I say, shaking him off. “We’ve been traveling all day. I feel gross.”

I escape to the bathroom to freshen up and to put even more distance between us. When I reemerge, I find Tucker on the balcony that overlooks the courtyard. The sparkling turquoise, negative edge pool is surrounded by couples in plush loungers, talking, laughing, sipping fruity libations from the newly installed in-pool bar. Such a vast difference from a year ago, when only fragile, disparaged women frequented the estate. These people are here solely by choice. Not out of desperation.

“Wanna take a dip after your meeting?” Tucker asks without looking at me. His voice is level, as if he can’t feel the tension crackling between us, but I know he does. He’s a smart man.

“Sure,” I tell him, knowing damn well that won’t happen. I tell myself it’s because I’m working and can’t afford the luxury of lazing around the pool, but even my own denial reeks of guilt.

I kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll be back, suggesting he order up some drinks and food. I even recommend some of Riku’s specialties before anxiously dashing out the door and away from the whispered judgment of those mirrors in the Reflection room.

Just as my hand retreats from the cool hardness of the doorknob, I hear a husky chuckle from behind me.

“Your friend . . . has a way with innuendo,” Ransom drawls. I take a deep breath before turning around to face him, only to find that he’s half dressed and looking more luscious than I remembered. I open and close my mouth a half dozen times before speaking.

“Uh, yeah. He’s a riot. Forget something?” I ask, lifting a questioning brow, my eyes roaming his taut frame from the soles of his sneakers to the earbuds that dangle onto his bare, tanned shoulders.

He looks down at his low-slung (seriously, how can he be wearing underwear?) black basketball shorts and shrugs. “Thought I’d get in a workout. Too hot to wear anything else.”

He’s right, but I can’t help the pang of possessiveness that urges me to demand he turn his sexy ass around and go put on a shirt. So what if all the women here are married or in serious committed relationships? They’re not dead. Take me, for instance. I was so very alive when I spread my thighs for Ransom and took him inside me, mummified him in my warmth and wetness, and made him a permanent memory on my soul. Actually, I can’t remember feeling more vital than that night I spent with him, crying for God yet worshipping him. And that feeling has only been amplified with every stolen moment since.

So, no, Ransom isn’t mine to feel ownership of, or mine to boss around and tell what to do. But he’s mine, goddammit. And sharing isn’t an option.

“Heidi?”

I blink, abandoning my fervent reverie, and look back up at him. He licks his lips, goading me, tempting me, and smiles. “I said, going somewhere?”

“Justice,” I rasp, my voice splintered. I clear it and press on. “I need to speak with him.”

“About me?”

I answer with a frown. “No. Why would I? Did you . . . say anything to him that would invite any questions?”

He snorts and looks away before shaking his head. “No. I haven’t. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Even though I’m sure he’s being honest, I feel the need to reiterate just how dire his confidence is. “Good. Because, if that got out—if someone found out about . . . us—it’d hurt us all.”