Shaking it off, I right the wooden end table in the living room and focus on the silver lining. “At least this makes cleaning the house out and getting it ready to sell easier for me.” Pretty much everything—right down to the Raisin Bran and mac & cheese from the kitchen pantry—is now trash. I need to rent a Dumpster.

“What did the insurance company say?” Sebastian asks, leaning the smashed flat-screen TV against the wall, giving me a good view of his muscular backside.

“It said, ‘We’re sorry that your uncle didn’t pay his premiums in time and have fun with this giant mess, suckers.’ ” After a moment, I look up to see Sebastian simply standing there, staring at me.

“What?” I snap, though I don’t mean to.

He gives his head a quick shake and then calmly says, “You’ll need new locks on these doors right away.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” I sigh, tossing the broken lamp onto the torn-apart couch. “I guess I’m going to hire a locksmith.”

“I can put new locks on for you.”

“You’re a bodyguard and a locksmith?”

He smirks, like there’s some sort of inside joke. “No, but I know a lot about locks.”

I’m not going to ask. Maybe it’s something he picked up in the navy. Besides, refusing his help hasn’t even crossed my mind today. Since stepping into this house in broad daylight, I’ve been nothing but quietly relieved that Sebastian didn’t drop me off and leave, that he feels the need to stay with me, for whatever reason.

A loud, abrupt holler of “Hello?” from the doorway makes me jump again.

I curse and spin on my heels to see Detective Fields stepping over the threshold, sliding his sunglasses off his clean-shaven face to hook the arm in the front of his olive-green dress shirt, his gaze taking in the destruction.

“I take it you got my message.” I left it this morning, on our way to meet the painters, just like Ian told me to. But honestly I assumed I wouldn’t be hearing from him again.

“I did.” He has an even, calm don’t-mess-with-me way about him. Almost bored. I can’t tell if he even likes his job. I haven’t seen him smile much. Then again, most people say I don’t smile much either, and I love my job.

“And?”

A piece of broken glass crunches under his shoe as he comes to stop a few feet from me, glancing at Sebastian, who keeps working away. “And I agree that it is too coincidental.”

“Have you talked to the cops who were here last night?”

He nods slowly. He’s an attractive enough guy, though ordinary looking. He’s in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair, cut with four-inch clippers all the way around. Someone you’d expect to see in a picture with two kids, a wife, and a sweater-wearing dog. “I saw a copy of the preliminary report. They have no prints and no witnesses to work from yet, unfortunately.”

“Great, so basically a dead end.” Just like Ned’s murder. Surprise, surprise. I’m beginning to feel firsthand how easy it is to get away with crime in this city.

“Not yet. They’re thinking the culprits are probably either a bunch of vandals who like to destroy homes, or someone Ned owed money to, coming to search.”

Money. Sebastian asked about Ned owing money.

Fields stretches on his tiptoes to study the hole in the wall where the vent cover was ripped off.

“I guess that would explain that, then.”

“Did your uncle ever mention anything about owing money to Devil’s Iron?” Fields asks, turning his attention back to me, in time to catch my frown.

“No. Why?” They’re still after the biker gang for this?

“I have a source that says Ned was into it large with them.”

“But . . .” I frown. Bobby told me there was nothing there. Unless the sneaky fuck was lying to me.

Fields gestures at the vents and the holes in the wall. “This, to me, looks like someone on the hunt for hidden cash in hopes of settling up a debt that otherwise won’t get paid.”

Because corpses don’t pay.

“I’ll send some guys over to feel them out,” he offers.

“Thanks,” I mutter, my anger boiling. Those assholes were supposed to be Ned’s friends. Would they do something like this?

Fields heads out with a single nod toward Sebastian, leaving me stewing in silence. What did they expect? That there’d be wads of cash hidden in the walls? Maybe there was. If that’s the case, then I guess I’m safe from a repeat visit. But if not . . .

I just want to get this over with and go back to Dakota’s.

“There’s a Home Depot not far from here. If I give you cash, can you—”

“Nope. You’re not staying here alone,” Sebastian replies quickly. He was silent during the detective’s visit—although I’m sure he was listening to every word.

I really don’t want to either, but there’s just so much to do . . . “It’s fine. The lock on the handle still works. Besides, who’s going to come back a second time? There’s nothing left to steal or break.”

Sebastian stands, pulling off his work gloves, and levels me with a look.

I rest my arms over my chest. “Are you always this bossy and paranoid? Or do you know something I don’t know, because if you do, maybe you should tell me so we don’t spend all afternoon arguing. Look at what I have to deal with.” I stretch my arms out at the mess. “It makes way more sense for you to grab the locks and me to keep collecting this shit so we can be done with this mess and I can go have a nap because I’m so damn tired of this nightmare,” I ramble on.

In three quick strides he’s over the pile of stuffing torn from the couch and on me, his fingers weaving into the back of my hair as he pulls my mouth to his.

The kiss is hard and fast, lasting just long enough to remind me of last night on the front steps before everything fell apart. “Shut up and get your purse,” he whispers. He turns and strolls out the front door.

And I follow, quietly, my senses suddenly wide awake.

TWENTY-TWO

SEBASTIAN

What the fuck is happening?

I go from hunting down a videotape with a highly sensitive, incriminating, and libelous confession to picking out paint colors and shopping for locks with the woman who used to be a potential target.

And I’m enjoying it.

Then again, I let that same potential target permanently mark my body with her hands. And I fully plan on being inside her the first chance I get.

So, this situation was already all kinds of fucked-up, even before today.

“Okay. What do you think about this?” Ivy holds up a dead bolt. “Schlage. That’s a good brand, right?”

“Not as easy to pick as some of the others.”

She shoots a sideways glance but doesn’t ask any questions, tossing it into the shopping cart, already filled with trash bags and new lightbulbs, to replace the ones that were smashed. Bentley’s guys had no reason to go as far as smashing lightbulbs. “Then I think we’re good, unless you need any other tools?”

“Nope.” Her uncle’s toolbox was well stocked, though its contents were scattered all over the garage floor.

“Okay, then. Cash register it is,” she says through a sigh. She seems to be taking this all in stride, though by her jumpiness and the look of dismay on her face when we saw the interior of the house in daylight earlier, she’s far from fine.

Ivy pushes the shopping cart down the aisle, not checking to see if I’m following.

I smile at her back. She changed out of that soft pink shirt the second we stepped into the house, switching it for a blood-red loose-fitting one that falls off one shoulder and covers that fantastic ass, and has the word FIERCE scrawled across the back.

How appropriate.

It’s that ferocity that keeps reeling me in tighter.

But I’m glad she’s also not arguing with me every step of the way anymore. She knows, or at least suspects, that what happened at Ned’s house is not complete coincidence, even though I tried to distract her with lame theories about neighborhood vandals that she saw right through. And I know that if her uncle ever made any comments about Dylan Royce to her, she hasn’t made any connections to any of this.