“The gardener I saw…”

“… was no gardener,” he finishes for me. “Someone must have seen us on the beach and reported it, then the vultures came around to investigate the rumor. I should have seen it coming.”

Reporters? Why would anyone report seeing us? It’s not like I’m anyone famous or anything. This is so weird.

I want to ask Storm about it, but he looks pissed, mouth a thin line, a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and when he takes a step back, his knee starts to fold beneath him.

Both Hawk and I reach for him.

He lets me wrap my arm around him and stops Hawk with a lifted hand.

A hand that’s still wrapped around the gun.

“Whoa.” Hawk lifts his hands. “Easy there, buddy. Put that down.”

“Maybe we can chat later,” I mutter. “We should be on our way.”

The feel of Storm’s hard body pressed to mine feels ungodly good, steadying me as much as I’m steadying him, and I try to ignore it. To ignore how the mere touch of his skin on mine both calms and excites me.

He clicks the safety on and points his SIG down. “Are you sure the place is clean?”

“The police are sweeping the grounds as we speak. I’ve called a car for you. Safer that way.” Hawk shrugs those broad shoulders. “If you’re ready to head home, that is.”

“That’s fine,” Storm grates out.

“We can drop this little lady anywhere she likes.”

I stiffen, and Storm’s arm tightens around me.

“She’s with me,” he says.

“Come on, man.” Hawk gives a long-suffering sigh and wipes his massive hands down his thighs. He’s taller and wider than Storm, a Viking of a man. “She’s the reason you almost got shot again, isn’t she?”

I hang my head.

“What the hell did those guys want?” Hawk goes on, tilting his head to the side. “The shooters. Shooters, dude. What the hell?” He turns and nails me with those light eyes. “What did you do, girl?”

“That’s none of your business, boy.” Fighting back is my instinctive response, and besides, who the hell does this guy think he is? I’ll be damned before I let over six feet of muscle call me a girl, because he’s taller. And wider. And stronger.

Damn. Storm is all that, too, and he’s never looked down at me like that.

“Let’s go.” Storm starts walking toward the exit, pulling me along. “She didn’t do anything, Hawk. Just got unlucky. Like me.”

“Does that mean you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“That you’re suffering from delusions of persecution.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Course you do.” We step out, into the driveway and the police car parked haphazardly there. “I looked this shit up when you vanished. Come on, Storm.”

“Know what?” Storm turns toward his friend, still holding on to me. “Fuck you. You think I’m delusional? Go to hell.”

Uh-oh.

“Fine. You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t be so goddamn grateful, it’s embarrassing.” Hawk sighs and rubs his eyes. “Oh, and if you need to talk to your best friend, you know where to find me. I’m also heading home, tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you around.”

***

I fully expect the police to interrogate us as to what happened and who the shooters were, but Storm takes one of them apart, tells him something and we are free to leave.

Hawk is leaning against a huge black bike, arms folded over his chest, looking bored, while Storm leads me to a shiny limo.

“How did you convince them?” I hiss at him as he opens the car door for me. “And where the hell did you get a car like this?”

“It’s Hawk’s,” Storm says, as if that’s self-evident.

“His?” I glance back once more at the guy who’s now straddling his Harley and pulling on leather gloves. “He looks like a biker.”

Storm snorts. “He does, doesn’t he?”

And doesn’t reply to any of my questions.

The seats inside are soft white leather. There are foldable tables, like in a plane. The driver is separated from us by a dark glass pane. I turn away from the flashing lights of the police cars parked alongside.

Every muscle in my body is tense and on edge. I might be unhurt and the shooters gone, but something’s very wrong.

“Okay, Storm.” I square my shoulders. “What’s going on? Better start talking.”

“Bossy.” He isn’t smiling, though. He’s sitting as stiffly as I am, staring down at the gun that’s still in his hand. “This isn’t how I pictured us talking.”

“Talking about what? About Hawk?”

He glances up, brows arching. “Not about Hawk, no.” He taps the glass partition, and the limo rolls away—away from the mansion, away from the beach where I found refuge for a few days. Where I thought I might be safe for a while.

“Now…” He puts the gun on the seat beside him and rakes a hand through his messy hair. “How about some wine?”

Wine? Is he serious? “How about some answers?” We roll down a long street, flanked by mansions and more mansions. It’s cool inside the limo, and a shiver runs over my skin, raising goosebumps. “Why would anyone be hanging around the house, taking photos? Does it belong to Hawk? Who the hell is he?”

“I said this isn’t about Hawk.” He presses a button on the partition and a door slides back. Lit blue, a cooler appears, filled with wine bottles. “Champagne?”

What is he playing at? I just stare at him, his warm blue eyes, the face I’ve caressed and kissed, and don’t know what to think. He lifts two fluted glasses from the cooler, lowers my table and places them there. Then he grabs a bottle and unscrews the wire, then pops the cork with a soft crack. He fills the glasses with bubbly wine, spilling some outside.

It’s not the movement of the car, which is smooth as if it runs on air. No, for the first time today his hands are shaking. His expression is guarded, closed off.

“I don’t want any,” I whisper, the cold inside me turning to ice.

He gulps his down, then shrugs and lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks some more. “I wish he’d stocked up on some Scotch.”

Christ, I can’t take this anymore. “Say it. Whatever it is.”

He lowers the bottle, which I can’t help noticing is considerably emptier, and grunts. He leans back and scratches at his cheek.

This is bad, I can tell.

“Ray… I haven’t told you everything. I don’t think it changes anything, but you may disagree.”

Really? “You said you’re not a criminal.”

“I’m not.”

Okay. Good. “Then what is it? Did you lie to me about those accidents? Were you the one behind the wheel? The one who hit the other car? Was it—?”

“Whoa, whoa.” His eyes widen. “No. I haven’t lied to you. I just haven’t told you everything.”

“About what?”

“About me.” He rubs his eyes with his fist. “About who I am.”

“Who you are.” What. The. Hell. I wish I could pace around. Instead I grip my hands together. “Your name isn’t Storm, is it? I just knew it. You lied to me all along.”

“Dammit, Ray. I told you, I haven’t lied. This is what everyone calls me. My real name is Troy, but nobody has used it since my parents died.”

“Troy.” I try to contain my anger. I fail. I’m so disappointed—and I set myself up for it. How many times have I told myself I was insane to believe this was true? “Well, nice to meet you, Troy. So awesome that you trust me enough to tell me. I mean, we’ve only been fucking for, what, four days now? Or is it five?”

“Raylin—”

“No.” I’m so done with this. And here I was, thinking I could trust him. I tap on the glass. “Stop the car.”

He grabs my arm. “Hear me out, dammit. My name is Storm. Has been since I was six. But yeah. I was born Troy. Troy Jordan.”

I jerk my arm free and he lets go, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

Troy Jordan. “And why couldn’t you tell me this earlier? Anything special about your name I should know? What’s the frigging big deal?”

His eyes widen again, and it’d be funny if I wasn’t so pissed.