“Fuck.” Storm’s hand moves to my cheek, my jaw, so gentle. “I’m sorry, Ray.”

“She didn’t really know what he did. He fed her lies for years, about selling second-hand cars, and she never questioned him. I never questioned him.” My breath is stuck in my throat. “She trusted him, and it got her killed. I trusted him, and I’m on the run for my life.”

Most of this is true.

“Hell. This is fucked up.” His hand moves to my hair, tugging. I love the slight sting of pain. It allows me to take another breath.

A good thing, too, because I’m far from done.

“Dad changed after that. You’d think he’d stop conning people, that he’d decide to take up a legal job. Set his son straight. Set me straight. Make sure Mom’s fate wouldn’t befall us.” He opens his mouth to speak, and I rush to finish, before I lose my nerve. “He changed for the worse. He started drinking and gambling what little money we had. And then he had to get loans to pay of his debts, and the idiot got involved with the mafia.”

His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. “The Mob?”

Does it matter which one? “Triad.”

“Chinese mafia. Which group?”

“Black Dragons.”

“Motherfucker.” His hand tightens in my hair, and I wince. Immediately he lets go and strokes his hand down my face. “So he owes them money?”

“A lot.” I nod. “He owes them a couple million, and they think I have the money. They think I’ve stashed it somewhere. And I don’t have anything.”

His hand falls away. Shadows pass behind his eyes, darkening them. “Shit.”

Yeah. Exactly. “These are dangerous guys. And they’re after me.”

He gathers me closer, puts both arms around me. But we both know what comes next. I wait for it, but he’s silent, resting his chin on top of my head.

“Now you see,” I whisper.

“See what?”

Fresh years well up in my eyes. “Why I should leave.”

“Goddammit, Ray. I said I’d fight for you. And I will.”

I’m too shocked to speak. Is he for real?

“We’ll find a way out of this,” he goes on fiercely, and yeah, his heart beats strong. No lies. He believes it. “Together. Fuck the world and its unfairness. I won’t let these thugs hurt you.”

Finding such money would be impossible, so… “You’ll run away with me?” I whisper, incredulous.

“If that’s what it takes,” he says, softly this time, and I lie in stunned silence, waiting for his words to sink in.

Even if the rest of my life remains the same—fraud with danger and always on the run—at least I have this.

And it means the world to me.

***

Later, we go down to the kitchen, and he toasts the defrosted baguettes in the oven while I cut up the cheese and ham. We keep our conversation to the weather. Another storm is approaching, the wind banging at the windows and stirring the ocean. A safe topic.

We haven’t spoken a single word about my revelations in the bedroom upstairs and his response. Maybe he’s already changed his mind. Maybe he just realized the danger.

I wouldn’t blame him. And I don’t know what else to do. Telling him the truth was as far as my plan went. Now it’s up to him to throw me out or not.

I watch him pull out the toasted baguettes from the oven with a pair of mitts. I just can’t… This is surreal.

Hey, Storm, I have paid hitmen from the Chinese mafia after me. I owe them a few million dollars.

Excellent. Now let’s make some sandwiches, drink coffee and talk about the weather.

Holy crap, this is screwing with my head. Dropping the knife on the table, I shoot up from my chair and head out.

“Ray!” I hear dishes clattering and a curse, then he’s right behind me as I open the door. “You okay?”

I push the door and step outside, coming to stand by the pool. I’m shaking. I don’t know what to do with myself. I thought I knew what to do next. What I should do. I had my plan, but I don’t want to go.

Storm’s frowning at me from the doorstep, one hand clasped to the back of his neck. His eyes meet mine, and I turn away, toward the sea, a blue reflection beyond the fence.

I want to trust him. I need reassurance. I need him to promise he’s with me.

And that scares me to death. Who am I anymore? Since when do I need someone to stay with me and look after me? Not to abandon me.

Stupid, Ray.

“What’s going on?” he finally asks, and I know he’s approaching me. “Ray, talk to me. Is there someone else after you?”

“No.” I gasp when his arms wrap around me. “I swear.”

“I believe you.”

Again. Just like that. “Suspicion can save your life.”

He says nothing, his arms tensing minutely. “I agree. But I’m not suspicious of you. I told you.”

He did. His words are still ringing in my ears, warming up my heart.

Trust him, Ray.

Trying. I’m trying.

“I told you I was in a car crash four months ago,” he says and turns me in his arms, then drags me back until we land on a chaise-lounge, him lying on his back, and me sprawled on top of him. He laughs at my squeal of surprise. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Strangely, I am. I’m sort of straddling him, my knees drawn up at his hips, my breasts mashed to his hard chest, my head resting on his padded shoulder. “What about the crash?”

“I’m not sure it was an accident.”

I tense and try to sit up, but his arms lock around me, keeping me plastered to him. “Please, stay.” His heart booms. “I like having you here, like this, in my arms. Makes me feel everything will be okay.”

So I settle back down, inhaling, drawing in his scent. “I like it, too.” And I’m curious as all hell. “So… not an accident?”

His hands move up and down my back, and it feels so good my lids grow heavy. “The police said it was. That the other driver was drunk. He came out of the blue, on an empty highway, and smashed into us.”

“And wasn’t he drunk?”

“We don’t know. Nobody knows. He crashed into the side of our car so hard we skidded across the highway. He should have been knocked out, but he obviously wasn’t. He drove away.”

“You’re shitting me.” I look up at his face, not drowsy at all anymore. “He just drove away?”

“Yeah.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “We were in my car. Normally I’m the one driving. But that day I let a friend drive because I had to go through some documents on the way. My friend died on the spot. It would’ve been me on any other day.”

A chill hits me. “That’s crazy. But it might have been a coincidence. All of it.”

His lips flatten into a thin line. “That’s what everyone says.” He frowns, gaze fixed somewhere over my head. “They say the same about the bullet, and the explosion.”

“What?” Now my eyes are bugging out of my head. “What are you talking about?”

“About nine months ago, I met up with a couple of old friends of mine in a bar. Our new tradition, since I returned home. We went there every Friday night. So that night, we met up like always, when a bar fight breaks out. Before I know it, bullets fly in our direction. One grazed my hip. Another my head.”

Jesus. “Where?” I reach up, and he guides my hand to the side of his head. Under his thick hair, I feel it. An upraised line. “Oh God.”

“My friends threw me to the floor, and we waited it out. No more shots were fired. Nobody was caught.”

“Shit.” I lower my hand, shaken. “That’s…”

“Crazy?” He chuckles, but it’s dry. “I know.”

“And the explosion?”

“Six months ago. In a restaurant. Apparently a gas stove exploded. Tables and chairs flew, mirrors and glasses broke.”

“Let me guess: for some reason on that day you sat further from the kitchen than usual?”

He shakes his head. “A guy toppled over me. I hit my head pretty hard on the floor, but he took the brunt of the explosion instead of me.”

I smile, my face a bit numb. “You’re lucky. I mean, in spite of everything.”