With his hand on the ignition, he pauses. “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to break into your dead uncle’s house?”

“No.” Same answer I gave to the cops last night. “But there must be a reason.”

“Did he say anything to you recently, about coming into money or needing money?”

“You think this was about money?”

“Everything’s about money,” he says under his breath.

I sigh. “Ned liked to gamble but . . .” I tell Sebastian about the hundred thousand against the building and his empty accounts. “Do you think that’s what it’s about?”

“Could be. Or something he knew about that he shouldn’t. Did he say anything about any of his clients lately? Maybe someone told him something that they shouldn’t have?”

I frown. “No. Nothing he mentioned to me, at least. I told you, he wasn’t exactly the warmest guy. I have a hard time imagining someone spilling their deep, dark secrets to him.”

After a long pause, Sebastian offers, “Well, then it could be nothing.” His face is unreadable. “People in the neighborhood would have heard about your uncle’s death, and unfortunately that means that thieves would assume the house is an easy target.”

I study his face. “But you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they tore the place to shreds and smashed the flat-screen—the only thing worth stealing in there.”

He sighs, his gaze drifting out the window. “Could have been jacked up on drugs. Could have been pissed off that there was nothing there to take. Whatever the reason, you’re not stepping foot in that house without me again for now. Understood?”

“For now? What does that mean?”

He slides the key into the ignition and cranks the engine, but doesn’t answer.

I guess the bodyguard who showed his protective head last night is here to stay. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No one said you did.”

“I’m serious. I’m not paying you to do this. I can’t afford it.”

He snorts. “I never asked you to.”

Then why are you still here? “Don’t you have things you need to do? People to see?” Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he has nobody else to fill his time with. Maybe he’s a complete loner, married to his job, with no friends or family. I really don’t know him at all.

He turns to level me with a look. “Do you want me to have something else to do today?”

I hesitate, before admitting casually, “Well, not necessarily, but—”

“Then shut up and stop trying to get rid of me.” He pulls out of Dakota’s driveway.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling.

“I would reco white. A nice, crisp one, like . . .” Fausto, a thirty-something-year-old guy with slicked black hair hiding beneath a baseball cap and a heavy New York accent, pulls out a deck of paint colors, fanning them out on the dirty floor in front of me. “. . . Ghost or Ice.”

“White for Black Rabbit?” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. I spin slowly around, taking in the main room. Without all the clutter to hide the dinginess, this place looks atrocious at best. As a customer, I’d take one look in here and turn around, with thoughts of hep C screaming inside my head. Fair enough.

But white?

“As a starting off point, yeah. You can weave in some bold colors—a nice jammy red over on that wall there, an indigo or peacock blue over here. Maybe hammered-bronze ceiling tiles. Tons of possibilities. I’ll help you make your shop stand out.”

“We’re selling this place,” I’m quick to say.

He shrugs. “All right. Fine. Then leave it as a blank canvas for whoever comes in, because everyone has their own spin. Just get rid of this black. The grunge look is dead. People want a nice, clean environment.”

I chew my lip in thought. I’m always so sure of colors and design when it comes to my sketchbook and a skin canvas, but for some reason I can’t see past Ned’s version of his shop. He’d be rolling in his grave over this.

“But, hey, if you don’t want to listen to someone who actually knows what he’s talking about, then, sure, we can go with your plan and you guys can lose a boatload of money,” Fausto adds.

He’s a cocky bastard.

He sounds just like me, when I’m convincing someone that my design is better than whatever they have in mind.

I turn to Sebastian, who stands with his arms folded over his chest. The other painter already stripped the window of its shade in order to prepare all the work surfaces—filling holes, patching cracks—so the front of the store is wide open and bare. He looks every bit the guard that he said I didn’t need, surveying the street. I’m starting to think he was lying to me.

“What do you think, Sebastian?”

He turns at his name, his eyebrow pops up from behind dark sunglasses. He has no idea what I’m talking about. He’s barely paid two seconds of attention to me since we stepped in here. The flirtatious guy from last night, who had his hands on me at every chance, has disappeared, replaced with this cool, detached replica of the first day we met.

“I was going to have him paint everything black again but he said—”

“Go with Ice.” He turns back to watch the street again.

I smirk. He’s probably always listening, and watching, even when I don’t know it.

I heave a sigh. “All right, Fausto. I’m going to trust you on this.” What do I care? Ned is dead and repainting it black isn’t going to bring him back. Stripping it of all character and personality might give some closure.

Fausto claps his hands together. “Buono! I’ll get this mixed. Jimmy will stay and prep.”

I dangle the spare key on a finger and then toss it to his waiting hands. “How long do you think this will take?”

“Depending on how many coats it takes to cover the black . . .” His face twists into an exaggerated frown with his thought, reminding me of Ned. “With two more of my guys to help, give us three days and we should be done.”

“All right. You have my number if anything comes up.” I glance at Sebastian. “Ready to go, driver?”

He nods, not acknowledging my dig with so much as an eyebrow spike, now focused on Fausto. “If anyone shows up here and starts asking questions or is poking around, I want you to take down a physical description and call Ivy immediately.”

Fausto snorts. “What the hell do I look like? I’m the painter, not your fucking secretary.”

Sebastian slides his glasses off and takes several steps forward, peering down at the short Italian man. There’s a shift in the air. I can feel his dominance radiating; he somehow seems taller, stronger, his presence more ominous. I think I’m going to have to dive in between them. Sebastian can’t go breaking my painter’s arms. “This is important. I would appreciate the help.” His tone is always on the clipped side. Now, though, it’s laced with a threat.

“Yeah. Okay. Either me or Jimmy will relay to Ivy if something comes up,” Fausto mumbles, adjusting his baseball cap several times as he takes a step back.

I slip a hand around Sebastian’s arm and tug his arm. “Ready?”

He slides his glasses back over his eyes. With a hand on the small of my back, he leads me out without another word to the guys.

“What was that?”

“That was your painter being smart.” He opens the passenger-side door for me, his eyes veering to the left and right. Everywhere but to me.

I sigh and climb in.

The broom handle clatters loudly against the tile floor and I gasp at the sudden noise.

Sebastian simply props it up in the corner again without a word. I’ve been jumpy since the moment we climbed the steps out front, and I’ve done a terrible job of hiding it.

I hate that the assholes who did this have made me nervous to simply be in this house.