“Truce?” I hold out my right hand.

“Truce.” He takes it and gives it a manly squeeze.

The elevator doors open and I step on and Graham follows. I direct a raised eyebrow toward him, but he merely shrugs. We are both silent until the elevator stops on the lobby floor.

When I step onto the marble tiles, Graham’s right there with me. He nods to the night doorman and exits to the street.

“I sometimes forget you even have a prosthetic,” Graham says. “You manhandled the clown like a pro. I mean, it was pretty awesome seeing you zip-tie his wrists with one hand. That’s a good move.”

“Thanks.” I accept his unstated apology and offer the explanation I wouldn’t give before because I didn’t like my integrity questioned. “I like your cousin a lot and I should’ve stayed, but the situation got the best of me and I felt like it made more sense to go home and come back in the morning.”

“Which one’s yours?” he asks, nodding toward the row of cars on the street.

I point to the black machine down the street.

“Nice.” He whistles. “I’ll walk you to it.”

Because I’m too tired to argue, I allow him to follow me to my car. The lights turn on as I near, the internal sensors reading the signal the key in my pocket is emitting.

“Audi A8. Is this the five-hundred-horsepower version?”

He skims a hand over the top of the hood, respectfully not touching the actual metal but following the slope with his hand.

“Twelve cylinders, five hundred horsepower, all-wheel drive,” I confirm.

“Upgraded wheels,” he says, with approval. “I like the open spokes. I’ve been thinking about buying a car. I’ve never had one in the city. Parking’s a beast. You have problems with that?”

“Part of the deal,” I answer. “You take the good and bad, but what the hell, so you have to walk an extra block or two. Worth it.” I knock my hand against the matte-black steel.

“Custom painted? I didn’t see the matte black as a version on the website.”

I give him a rueful grin. “A friend of mine has a matte-black Ferrari F430. It was smoking hot. Had to copy it.”

“No shit.” His eyes light up. “You drive it?”

“Yeah, it’s a tight ride.”

“Have you seen the 2010 Lotus Exige Stealth? It’s matte black with a high-gloss stripe down the middle. Only thirty-five units made and none in the US.”

“Haven’t seen it,” I admit. “But that friend I mentioned is a big car buff. He might have. Hell, he might own one.”

He gives me a speculative look. “You’re not just a security guy, are you?”

Graham is looking for assurance that I’m good for his cousin, and so I share a few details to make him feel better. “I’m not. I’ve got money in the bank. I own that townhouse where my office is located, free and clear. Bought it with the inheritance I gained control of when I was twenty-one, and I only drained a portion of it. I’m not part of the super-rich here in the city but I’m not ever going to have a problem making rent or putting food on the table.”

He nods. “I know it’s rude, but Natalie’s got some money now—from her books and given her circumstances—” He spreads his hands out.

“You want to make sure she’s not being taken advantage of,” I finish.

“Right. She’s gone through a lot.” We both look up at her apartment. “She deserves to be happy. Anyway, I’ll let you go so you can take care of business.” He nods toward my leg and then turns to leave.

“Before you go, Graham, you should know that the security in your building is for shit. I wouldn’t let either of my sisters live here.”

He spins back. “What do you mean? It’s got cameras in the lobby and a twenty-four-hour doorman. No one gets upstairs without signing in or being okayed by a resident.

“Trust me. This is my business and I do it well, which you know or you never would have hired me. There are only two sets of cameras. One in the lobby and one set in the elevators. There are none on the individual floors and none in the stairwells. The day doorman is more interested in how his hair looks than who comes and goes. The locks are so flimsy that I was able to use a bump key to get into her neighbor’s apartment.”

His jaw hardens and juts out in a familiar pose that I’ve seen on my television screen on Sundays. Narrow-eyed and determined, his look means someone’s going to get an ass kicking. “I can see I’m going to have a long talk with the property management company.”

“You do that, but unless they okay additional security measures, my recommendation is to sell your pricey penthouse for a profit and move into some place that has better protection. You’ll need it too. If you don’t have women already sneaking in at all hours trying to get a piece of Oliver Graham, most eligible bachelor, you will, and this place will make it easier for them to get you in a compromising position. It’d sell more than a few tabloids. Good luck if you’re trying to have a serious relationship. Is a new girlfriend going to believe that a random woman broke into your apartment?”

He’s still scowling when I drive away.

At home I send a text to Natalie, hoping she’s not too pissed off when she wakes up. It’s a toss-up which part of my body hurts more. Reluctantly I climb into the elevator, which I rarely use but was the primary reason I bought this particular townhouse. At the top floor, I stagger out. I drop my pants and ease down on the edge of the bed.

My left thigh looks swollen. I could use a good rubdown, but it’s three in the morning and the only people I could call to give me a massage at this hour would be delivering the standard happy ending. And my dick only wants one woman right now.

As I ease the rubber sleeve down and the sock, doing the same to my arm, the relief of having the artificial limbs off is tremendous. I flop back onto the bed to enjoy the air circulating around my body. I miss her already and I feel stupid for leaving. Of all people, Natalie’s the last person who would judge my appearance. She seemed disappointed I was fit and attractive, I remind myself. Fatigue sets in. I should shower tonight to avoid too much swelling from the heated water in the morning. It makes it hard to get the prosthetics on. But my body has turned leaden and my eyelids drop down and then I’m out.

The sun streams through the unblocked windows a few hours later, jolting me awake. I slept poorly. My skin is itchy from not showering and my bed feels curiously empty. I remember waking up after surgery. The pain was intense everywhere—not just around the surgical sites. The phantom pain everyone warned me about took me off guard. As time went on, that pain eased to a dull ache, until it just felt like I was missing something. Wearing my artificial limbs helped, and like Natalie, if I was distracted, it was easier to shove the pain aside.

I’m feeling that curious dull ache again. Like I’m missing something vital.

I hop into the shower and clean up. Drying off, I view the wreckage of the night before. The prosthetic is still in the jeans with the boot around it. I don’t want to hassle with it, so I scoop up the mess and toss it in the corner. There are advantages to having a thick wallet and one of those is having more than one prosthetic. I pull the other carbon fiber foot and socket out of the closet and throw it onto the bed next to the arm I discarded last night.