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He hadn't far to go for his answers. No one knew more about the status of people's finances than Damen. Not only was he at the heart of England's banking community, virtually every one of the guests had funds at the House of Lockewood.
Damen had spent two full hours reviewing all the names on the guest list. He'd compared them with his personal sources as well as his banking records.
Not one of the partygoers fit the bill.
Not that Royce was surprised. Instinct told him that greed had little to do with this. This was showmanship in its truest form. A show of power, superiority, and control, coupled with the vindictiveness and rage of a twisted mind.
He knew the type well. He'd dealt with it many times, and could spot it in a heartbeat.
But it had never been this brilliantly concealed.
Which brought him back to his notes.
He leaned over the page, staring at the words he'd jotted down.
A man paid to kill. Yet one who was willing, no eager, to kill for reasons other than money, at least in the case of Breanna.
If the assassin's nature was as Royce suspected, it wasn't money that drove him. It was power. Which explained why he'd killed four other victims to taunt Breanna and hone his skills for her demise. But the particular victims he'd chosen—now that was another matter.
&nbs
p; Why had he selected those specific noblemen? What the hell did they have in common?
Royce's eyes narrowed on the page. He had the distinct feeling he was overlooking something that was staring him right in the face.
Dammit.
He was just about to start poring over the facts anew when Breanna's door opened a crack. “Royce?”
He pivoted in his chair. Breanna hovered in the doorway, looking a trifle uncertain. She was still fully dressed despite the fact that it was nearly 3 A.M.
“I thought you were asleep.” Royce frowned, rising to his feet and taking an inadvertent step toward hen “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing's wrong.” She wet her lips with the hp of her tongue, then blurted out, “You told me to ask for help when I need it, not to take on the world alone. I'm having trouble settling down. My mind is racing. I'd like someone to talk to.” A dignified pause. “If you don't mind.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, reminding himself that this was the second night he hadn't slept, that his reserves and his self-restraint were severely worn. He had long hours of work ahead of him, and being alone with her was a terrible idea, especially in light of the fact that he was still grappling with his raw, unresolved feelings for her.
He was about to say no, to point out all the reasons why he couldn't do as she asked. Then, he met her gaze, saw how much this expression of need had cost her. To turn her away would be like a harsh slap in the face.
To her, and perhaps to himself.
“I don't mind,” he replied, garnering up his notes and stepping into the room. “I'm hitting my head against a brick wall right now anyway.”
Breanna nodded, smoothing her hair in that proper way she had—a way that belied the astonishing sensuality he knew hovered just beyond reach.
Beyond everyone's reach but his.
He squelched that particular line of thought, determined to give her whatever comfort she sought.
“I built up the fife,” she told him, shutting the door and rubbing her arms for warmth. She crossed over, indicating the two armchairs she'd pulled over to the hearth. “Is this all right?”
“Perfect.” Royce waited politely until she was seated, then followed suit. “The fire feels wonderful,” he murmured, realizing even as he said it that it was true. “Just what I needed.”
A flash of guilt flickered across her face. “Y ou're cold and you're exhausted. You haven't slept in days. I feel terrible—and responsible.”
“You're not responsible; the killer is. And you've tried sending me away three times already. It's not going to work. I'm not leaving you alone. So let's drop that particular subject.”
“Very well.” Her back was rigid, her palms pressed tightly together as she stared into the flames.
