He leans on his elbows. “Our tech team decrypted some of Arroyo’s computer files. Pictures.”

There’s sudden pressure in my chest, as if something hard and cold is caught in there. I slide onto a stool when I feel my legs shake. “Of . . . ?”

“There were cameras in the dressing room at the club, Sam,” he says, his eyes dropping from mine as his jaw tightens.

“The . . .” But then I get what he’s saying and I feel my eyes widen. “The dressing room?” I say, my breath catching. “Oh, God. Pictures of . . . us?”

He moves around the counter toward me, apparently no longer needing the barrier between us. “I’m sorry.”

“But I don’t . . .” I cringe at the thought of Blake seeing pictures of me naked in the dressing room after the little stunt I just pulled at the pool. I can’t even make myself ask if that’s what he saw. “Why would he . . . ?”

“We don’t know for sure, but there were some shots of a girl who danced there. She apparently went missing about two months ago, a few weeks after we pulled Nichols out, but she remembers her.” He pins me in his intense gaze. “This girl had loose family ties, just like you, and it was a while before any of her friends reported her missing. It’s starting to look like your boss might be involved in trafficking more than just drugs.”

The blood runs out of my head, and the lights seem to go suddenly dim as the room spins. “Oh, God.”

“We’re looking for anything that will tell us where that girl disappeared to. We’re going through the information we’re pulling off Arroyo’s computer as it’s decrypted, and we’re combing through the pictures of the other girls to see if any of them might be missing as well. But, Sam . . .” He cringes. “There were notes on his desk. They appear to have been about you. It looks like he might have been negotiating with a buyer.”

“For me? He was going to sell me?” I drop my face into my hands when spots form in my eyes and my whole head starts to buzz.

“I didn’t want you to know the full extent of what he’s done. I didn’t want you to know the danger you were in. But Arroyo is evil incarnate, Sam. And it’s not just the missing girl and Weber. He’s hurt thousands of people. He needs to be taken off the street, and you’re the person who can do that. All you have to do is tell the court what happened that night.”

“Will you be able to find that girl?” I ask, my face still in my hands. I can’t help thinking of Sabrina from the shelter. I can’t imagine she could ever be whole after what happened to her. If Ben did that to someone . . . or worse, I want to kill him.

“We’ll work with the FBI and try to put the pieces together.”

A wave of dread surges through me. “She’ll already be ruined by then.”

“We’re doing everything we can, Sam,” Blake says.

All I know is I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. I rip my face out of my hands. “Let me to talk to Ben.”

Blake fixes me in a narrow-eyed stare. “No. That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

“If he’s got Jonathan and he knows where this girl is, maybe he’ll tell me something that would help us find them.” Even as I say it, I know how stupid it is, but I feel so helpless.

He slides closer and his hard expression softens into something sympathetic. “Sam, he’s gone to great lengths to keep anything incriminating hidden. And I think you’re forgetting he tried to have you killed to keep you quiet. He’s not going to tell you what happened to Jonathan or that girl because you ask nicely.”

Everything inside me pulls into a hard knot. “I wasn’t planning on being nice.”

“No, Sam,” he says with a shake of his head and a little bit of a wild look in his eye. “You’re not talking to Arroyo.”

“I’ve got to do something!”

Blake grasps my shoulders gently. “Just help us put the bastard away.”

I close my eyes and breathe a slow breath to stop my shaking. After a minute, when I can speak, I open my eyes and look up at him. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want.”

For a several beats of my racing heart, he doesn’t move. But finally, he lifts a hand and sweeps the hair off my face with a finger, tucking it behind my ear. His finger continues its gentle path along the line of my jaw. It’s only when his thumb brushes over the scar on my cheek that I realize it’s damp with tears. He slowly leans closer, so I can feel his breath on my forehead. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says. “That’s my first priority. But I’ll find Jonathan. I promise. And we’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”

I’m shaking again, but this time it’s not from rage. I lay my hands on his chest, knowing I should push him away. But I feel the beat of his heart, almost as fast as mine, and it makes me want to pull him closer instead.

He steps back and his gaze locks on mine, those blue eyes pleading for something, but I’m not sure what. Before I can sort it out, he spins for the stairs and disappears.

It’s a long time before I can move, but finally I stagger to my room. And as I lay on the bed, trailing my fingers along the lines that Blake’s fingers took, there’s one thing that’s suddenly crystal clear. I still don’t trust him, but he’s not the enemy.

I’m just not sure what that makes him.

AFTER TOSSING AND  turning most of the night, I wake up early, and no matter how hard I try to go back to sleep, I can’t. I finally give up and slip out from under the sheets. I go to my window, looking out over the city below as it wakes to a new day, just as the door to the bathhouse swings open. Blake steps out in gym shorts and a T-shirt with a towel hanging from around his neck. He tosses the towel on a lounge chair and strips off his shirt, then dives in. And then he swims like a pro, muscles rippling under taut skin.

Is he working out? Does he work out every morning? I’ve never been up early enough to notice, but that would explain the body.

I watch him for longer than I mean to before ripping myself away from the window and slipping on a pair of shorts under my sleep shirt. I follow my nose to the coffeemaker.

Coffee—the sweet nectar of life. Just focus on the coffee, not the scorching hot half-naked guy in the pool.

I close my eyes and take a long swallow, then refill my cup. And I focus on my coffee until I’m standing in front of the window, focusing on Blake. As he pulls himself up to sit on the pool edge, defined pecs and biceps flex under black tribal ink that wraps around the left side of his torso and over his shoulder, stopping just above his elbow. He stands and turns to grab his towel, and I miss my mouth with my next sip, dribbling coffee down the front of me.

“Damn,” I hiss, setting my mug on the table and grabbing a napkin to dab at the stain on my shirt.

The French doors downstairs open, then close, and I brace myself for Blake to appear at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t. And the next second, I find myself slipping silently down the stairs to the floor below. I stop short of the corner and poke my head around. In the middle of the room, near the pool table, Blake is moving through the air as if gravity doesn’t exist. He steps and turns, kicking and punching through a Kankû-dai, never once losing his balance or his focus.

His hair is tousled, as if he toweled it dry, and he’s unshaven. The look totally works for him. My eyes trail down his cut abs to a dark blond happy trail that disappears under the low slung waistband of gym shorts that are still damp, clinging to his lower body in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and leaves little doubt that he’s perfect in every way.

I close my eyes with a shudder as I recall the way my body fit perfectly into the curve of his, and the way his body responded when mine was pressed against it.

When the shudder passes and I open my eyes, I find he’s stopped moving . . . and is staring at me. It’s only then that I realize I’ve moved out from behind the wall and standing on the bottom stair, in full view.