“No, look how small it is.” I twirl it between my fingers. “It has to open a cupboard or a drawer.”

“A drawer where?”

“Where would your uncle expect you to look?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He takes it from me, examines it, then gives up and closes it in his fist. “You think he left me some… evidence, some clues?”

“Why else would he go into the trouble of leaving you this? He knew that would be the only time you’d be alone with the lawyers. Bet there were lots more people when they opened his will.”

He nods, his gaze distant. “The timing,” he says. “They killed my uncle and then tried to kill me, too. It’s as if they knew I’d receive this now. But that’s—”

A phone is ringing somewhere below our feet. Storm dives for his jacket that has fallen off us to the floor and fumbles for the pocket.

“Hawk,” he growls. He connects the call. “What do you want?”

I fight a smile. His hair is standing on end, and that growl is hot, and… God, I shouldn’t be thinking of that now. Not with everything he’s been telling me and the mess this is. I’d give anything to clear this up, particularly if it means keeping him safe—but what does it have to do with what’s happening?

“Yeah, so what did the triad say?” Storm sits up straighter, his gaze sharpening, and I suck in a breath. “What did—she didn’t? Shit, Hawk, you sure about that?”

Then he grabs me, drags me to him and kisses me hard. “It’s gonna be fine,” he whispers. “You didn’t kill anyone. They just want the money.”

“I didn’t?” I shake my head, my eyes burning. This can’t be true. Too good to be real.

He turns to the cell phone. “Hawk, tell her.”

“Hey, Raylin.” His voice trickles over the phone like warm toffee. “You there? Things aren’t as bad as we thought. My contacts already asked. The triad says they only want to have back the money owed to them. Nobody died at any shooting you were involved in. Plus, you’re with Storm now, and they don’t want to that kind of trouble. Jordan enterprises vs. a triad? Not what they’re looking for.”

My throat is closing up fast. I can’t speak.

“Oh and the shooting back at Boca Raton? That wasn’t about you, sugar. In fact…” He sounds intrigued, and a bit miffed. “In fact they said they know nothing about it.”

Jesus.

Storm extracts the cell from my numb fingers and stands up. “Thanks, man, I owe you one. Yeah, a bit fat one, okay. Bastard. I only—”

For the second time this evening, he doesn’t finish what he was about to say, because the glass door to the balcony crashes with a deafening noise, and the next thing I know Storm jerks and drops back on the cushions, clutching his arm. Blood trickles through his fingers.

Holy shit. Guess the reprieve is over.

Another bullet smashes through, hitting a painting with a thunderous crash, and I pull Storm down, to the floor. He drops in an ungainly heap, his face white.

“Stay here,” I tell him. “My turn to keep you safe.”

Chapter Eighteen

STORM

“Ray, no,” I manage through clenched teeth. Fuck, my arm burns like it’s on fire. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“He’s right outside,” she whispers and pulls something out from under the sofa. It’s the gun Hawk gave me, I realize. Damn, my ears are buzzing. “Quiet.”

Another bullet smashes into the wall, passing so close to my head I swear I feel it. I grab her arm and start to crawl backward, but she slips through my fingers like water.

And she rolls away and starts shooting, breaking the balcony doors the rest of the way.

Fuck it all to hell. Blood runs down my arm, warm and plenty of it. Not good. Need to move. Need to do something.

More glass shatters before I can move and grab her, pull her away from this mess. Bullets hit right and left, and I hiss when another line of fire forms in my leg.

Ow, dammit.

I drop to the floor, barely swallowing a howl as the floor meets my brand new wounds, and drag myself across the floor to Raylin. We need to get out of here, call someone, fuck is Raylin hurt? I’m gonna just—

The door to the suite bangs open, and security guys spill inside, guns drawn. My prepaid cell is making tiny pissy noises, and I realize the line is still open, with Hawk on the other end, and I fuzzily wonder if he’s the one who alerted the hotel security or if the sound of the shots and glass shattering was enough.

The two guards move through the apartment, and Ray is pointing at the balcony. They circle toward it.

Need to move. I shift on the floor, but my leg and arm burn like a mother even with the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Ray.” I reach for her, but even if she’s almost there, she’s too far, and my world is turning dark at the edges. “Damn…”

Need to stop the bleeding before I pass out. Can’t afford that, even if no more shots have been fired and the guards are checking, guns drawn on the ready.

Like Raylin is, still lying belly-down on the floor, scanning the door and balcony. Looking out for me. Putting her life on the line to protect mine.

Jesus. One thought keeps playing in a loop in my sluggish brain: you know, back at the beach house, when she looked like she knew how to use a gun?

Well, she does—and now I know why.

Meanwhile… Fuck, I’m dizzy. Why…?

Oh yeah, bleeding. Shit. I clamp a hand over the wound on my biceps and groan between my teeth. Fucking hell, it feels as if my bone is shifting in my flesh, trying to push out.

Broken bone, my mind whispers.

The hell, who cares? Need to check on Ray. I struggle to lift my head that suddenly weighs about a ton, and she’s right there, beside me. When did she move?

“Storm,” she says, and her voice is the best sound in the world. It’s low and warm and concerned, free of pain. Which she’s unharmed, and a weight lifts off my chest. She puts her hand over mine. “Let me see that wound.”

So I let her, let her roll me on my side and check my leg. Sure it hurts like hell when she presses her hand over the wound there, and I wonder just how screwed I am this time, but fuck, it doesn’t matter.

Not if she’s here with me.

***

Hawk has taken over, directing the security, the police, the doctor and nurses as they stream in and out of the suite.

He can’t help it, it’s in his nature—as it is in mine, and between us and Rook, we have always fought for the top. But now? Now I’m damn glad he’s taken control, because my brain has taken a hike and is desperate to shut down for a while.

Not that I’ll let it. Apart from the shooting and the guy the police arrested—wounded in the chest, from Raylin’s bullets, but he’ll survive, it seems—there’s still the whole mess with my uncle and the will and the fucking key to resolve.

Find answers now, finish with the triad business, put those after me behind bars—then sleep. When it’s all said and done. It’s my mission, and it’s what’s keeping me going.

That and the doctor putting stitches in my arm and then my leg. The local anesthetic is working, so that I only feel the pressure and tugging as he patches me up, but my whole body hurts too much to relax.

A good thing at this point.

“You need to go to the hospital, have an x-ray done on your arm. I don’t like the way it looks. You’ve also lost a lot of blood,” the doctor is saying, her face creased with concentration as she puts away the needle and thread, and a burly nurse steps in to bandage everything. “You may feel a little dizzy for a few days. Don’t drive, and I’d recommend bed rest for a day or two, until you regain your strength. And take the antibiotics I’m prescribing you.”

Yeah, right. “Sure.”

She gives me a long look that means she can see right through my lie. Must be a doctor thing. “I mean it, Mr. Jordan.”