“Do you really want me to list the enemies he made over the years?” Speaking of Ajax.

The voices lowered and although she could hear they were still in deep discussion, she couldn’t make out any of their words. If she weren’t frozen with fear, she’d have crept across the room and pulled back her door a fraction to listen, to try and ascertain exactly what these men were planning, but maybe it was better if she didn’t know anyway.

Could she be charged as an accessory to a crime if she’d heard them planning it?

But they weren’t planning anything yet. It sounded like they thought someone had murdered Mr. Lombard but hadn’t any idea who that someone was.

Should she call the police? Tell them what she thought the Deacons were up to? She dismissed the idea almost immediately because yeah, she could just imagine what Ajax would do if he knew she was even contemplating such an act. Deciding it was better to be ignorant, Billie leaned across her bed and grabbed her earphones off the bedside table. She tucked Baxter under the sheets with her, popped her music in her ears and tried to forget about the fact that at least three big, bad bikers were currently plotting revenge in her kitchen. Maybe it was just a nightmare. Maybe if she fell asleep she’d wake up in a few hours and find everything back to blissful normalcy.

Sleep didn’t come easily. The soft lyrics of her favorite band did nothing to ease her nerves, and it was only at six o’clock in the morning, when she finally heard Ajax and the other man leave, that she let out the breath she felt like she’d been holding for hours. Baxter jumped down off her bed, trotted across to the door and whined to be let out. She sighed and climbed out of bed, knowing if she didn’t oblige there’d be a puddle on her bedroom floor within minutes.

She crossed the room and opened her door a fraction. Baxter shot out and down the corridor, but Billie waited a moment and listened. Was Travis still here? If so, hopefully he’d finally retreated to bed. Bed? Her mouth went dry and heat curled low in her belly at the thought of Travis and bed in the same sentence. Disgusted with herself, she pushed the thought aside and stepped into the corridor only to come face-to-face with the devil himself, his permanent three-day growth far more appealing than it ought to be.

He caught her in his arms as she crashed into him. “Is there a fire somewhere?” he drawled, his illegally sexy voice washing over her as he smoothed his thumbs over her hips.

For one second her body rejoiced at the touch of his fingers through the thin cotton of her pajamas and the thrill of being this close to Travis Sinclair shot through her body. Then, thank the Lord, logic and common sense showed their heads again. She lifted her hands, palmed them against his solid chest and shoved him. “Get your hands off of me.”

He barely moved, but his lips twisted in a cocky grin as he shoved the hands that had just been on her into his pockets. “Someone got out on the wrong side of the bed.”

“To get out on the wrong side, I’d actually have had to go to sleep,” she snapped, “and there were loud intruders in my house making that impossible.”

She glared at him, waiting for an apology or a flicker of unease in his eyes at the knowledge that she’d been awake and listening to their conversation. Of course, neither came.

Instead, Travis shrugged a shoulder and said, “I’m going for a shower. Care to join me?”

Yes, yelped her hormones—at an image of Travis naked with a bar of slippery soap in his hands and hot water sluicing over his even hotter body. “What?” She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of that image.

“Aren’t you Australians all about saving water?”

Argh. The man was a menace. Not rewarding his ridiculous (and tempting) question with a reply, she stormed past him. “Excuse me, I have to go let Baxter out.”

As she headed down the corridor and into the kitchen-slash-living area, the sound of Travis chuckling, and then the water in the bathroom turning on made her blood boil. It was bad enough that he’d moved in uninvited and brought his undesirable associates into her home, but flirting with her and being so suggestive was downright unacceptable. She opened the door onto the courtyard to let Baxter out and then, as he ambled over to the tiny garden area and lifted his leg, she went back into her bedroom, ignoring the sounds of the shower in the bathroom across the hall. Her gym clothes were on and her sneakers tied up in record time.

“Baxter,” she called as she stepped into the courtyard and closed the door behind her. He trotted over to her, his behind swishing excitedly despite the fact that he had a short stump instead of a tail. Billie bent down and clipped the leash on his collar, unable to resist scooping him up for a quick cuddle. He might be small, but his soft fur against her cheek offered a comfort she needed at that moment.

“You’re adorable, you know that?” she whispered to the top of his little head. He made a whimper in response, and she put him back on the cobbled floor, clutching his leash in her hand like a lifeline. “Come on, let’s go.”

She let herself out of the gate and then locked it again, noting that the lock didn’t look damaged or compromised, indicating Travis did know how to break and enter without leaving a trace. She shuddered. Or maybe the Deacons had a key. Yes, of course—Priest would have had one. Did this knowledge make her feel better or worse?

Trying to ignore the sick feeling in her gut, she started down Bourbon Street, hoping her daily walk with Baxter would help rid some of the pent-up energy in her body that seemed to be multiplying every second she spent in Travis Sinclair’s company. Had it really been less than a day since he’d waltzed into the gallery, claiming it as his own?

At this early hour of the morning, the French Quarter was pretty much deserted except for the street cleaners sweeping up last night’s shenanigans, homeless folks in the alleys and the odd drunk asleep on the sidewalk. Usually she didn’t even notice these things—instead looking up at the gorgeous old buildings, wondering which ones were haunted and admiring the beautiful architecture so different from anything in her hometown—but today she couldn’t help seeing New Orleans through Travis’s dark-colored glasses. The loathing in his voice when he spoke about this town, its streets and its people echoed in her mind like a song she hated but couldn’t get out of her head. Her skin crawled and her stomach revolted when she dodged a puddle of vomit on the ground. What did she love about this place?

But then she walked past the gallery that sold the famous Blue Dog paintings and she remembered. She’d come here because of what it stood for and the freedom it gave her to be who she really wanted to be. She was the happiest she’d been in a long time here, finally being true to herself and going after her dreams. Here the people accepted her for who she was, not who they wanted her to be. The thought that some mean, rough, tough bikers might rip that all out from under her feet made her blood boil.

If she had any sense she’d up and leave, cut her losses—such as the hefty security deposit she’d put down—and run, but buildings like this didn’t come up every day in the French Quarter and she couldn’t bring herself to walk away. What would she tell all her artists? And really, what did she have to lose?

Travis Sinclair might be wreaking havoc with her body, he might have set her on edge with his threats of eviction and his intimidating presence, but she would not let him ruin this place for her.

He would not rob her of her essence, which she’d only recently reclaimed.

Feeling determined to go about her business as if it hadn’t just been invaded by bikers, she continued on her walk, soaking up the eclectic beauty in the streets of New Orleans, refilling her mind bank with all the things she could throw at him when he tried to fill her head with his crap.