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He tilted his head in acknowledgement, and a shiver of fear ran through her.
“You know what I do, Luke. I have connections. Is there something I can help you with?” She’d acknowledged the possibility that he was in trouble when he first told her that he would leave before morning. She’d pushed it aside because she’d wanted this, and all the rules and honor and justice had faded under the sweet spell of lust.
Now, though…
Now, she studied him, watching his face as she pressed the point. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he reached for her hand. “I swear to you, Sara, there is nothing about my obligation or your job that intersect. But I must go. And I cannot tell you why.”
“Will not, you mean,” she countered, and was impressed when he nodded. “All right, then.” She let her shoulders rise and fall. It wasn’t as if she had the right to press. He’d been honest from the beginning, and she had no claim on his personal business. “Will you do me one favor, then?”
“If I can.”
She slipped out of bed, still naked, then moved to stand in front of him. “I’m going to go take a shower and get ready for work.” He glanced at the clock, and she laughed. “Why not? I’m already up. Will you please go while I’m getting ready? And whatever you do, don’t say goodbye.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
She drew a breath, telling herself that was for the best, then turned toward the bathroom. She paused at the door and allowed herself one backward glance. Then she stepped inside, closed the door, and sank to the floor as she hugged her knees to her chest.
When she heard the subtle click of the front door closing softly, she forced herself to her feet, turned on the shower, and told herself that it was time to begin her day.
* * *
“Nice digs,” Tucker said as Doyle parked the Catalina in front of Luke’s sprawling Malibu house. It boasted three stories, backed up to the beach, and took up at least half a city block.
“We’re not here forArchitectural Digest. If you’re gonna start waxing poetic about his damn kitchen, you can wait in the car.”
“That was one time, and I was in the middle of a remodel,” Tucker said as he slid out of the car. “And like it or not, that Viking range and oven was sweet. Too damn much on my salary, but sweet.”
“Spare me,” Doyle said as he started up the sidewalk that led through a manicured front lawn to the entrance. Tucker caught up with him, and Doyle used the knocker to rap hard on the carved wooden door. A moment later the door opened, and Doyle found himself staring at a short, round man who wore his butler’s uniform with infinite dignity.
“I’m sorry, Ryan,” Melton sniffed. “He’s not home.”
“That’s Agent Doyle to you, and his absence would break my heart if this were a social call. Since it’s not, I’ll just ask you to step aside.”
“I’m not sure—”
Doyle spread his arms and grinned. “Melton, man. It’s me.”
“That,Agent, is the problem.” But he didn’t press another argument. Just stepped aside and ushered them in.
“Seriously nice digs,” Tucker said, then held up his hands as Doyle shot him a hard glare. “Just saying.”
“It’s a house. There’s marble and glass and art and furniture.”
“You really need to broaden your perspective,” Tucker said, earning him another glare.
As Melton frowned, Doyle headed up the stairs, his partner right behind him.
The floor had a study and a bedroom. The study was locked, and Doyle didn’t bother asking Melton to let him in. Not only would the butler surely decline until Doyle had a warrant, but Doyle knew too well that Luke wouldn’t leave anything obviously incriminating lying around. This trip wasn’t about gathering evidence so much as it was about reacquainting himself with an old friend.
Tucker entered first and Doyle followed into the sparsely furnished bedroom that had only a huge bed, a dresser, a fireplace, and a wall of bookshelves.
“There’s never a coffin,” Tucker quipped. “What happened to tradition?”
Doyle ignored him, heading instead to the ledge above the fireplace where several antique photos were prominently displayed. His gaze roamed over them before stopping at one that made his stomach clench. Four men standing in front of a copse of trees on a brightly sunny afternoon in the mid-1800s. Not that the photograph said as much, but Doyle remembered the day. A day when the four men in the photo had been the closest of friends.
Doyle, Luke, Nicholas, and Sergius.
