Beck made it home before midnight, letting out a sigh of relief as he tossed his car keys into the dish next to the door and laid his jacket on the table to take to the cleaners the next day. It had been one long, crazy evening, and he was ready to shower off Annabelle’s perfume, forget all the groping and fondling she’d done to him, and spend his weekend hoping Byron Lockhart III didn’t show up on his doorstep to punch him out.

“Tink?” he called.

He wasn’t surprised when there was no response. The cat could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. The styrofoam carryout container in Beck’s hands might be his savior.

The stop at Annabelle’s had resulted in a drink and her trying to seduce him. He’d dodged that bullet as gracefully as he could and managed to get her out to dinner at Flat 1776. The place had opened only a few weeks ago and was booked months in advance, but Kershaw, one of his old college buddies and part owner, had done him a solid. Thank God he’d had the sense to set the whole thing up before the auction—the nine p.m. reservation had saved his bacon. They’d enjoyed a lovely four-course meal and Annabelle had nearly drunk herself under the table. She could now tell all her friends at the country club she’d eaten at the hot, new 5-star restaurant in town with her runway-model/former-football-star boy toy.

Begging off from returning to her place afterwards had been much easier than he’d anticipated, but she’d already texted him.

Sexted him was more like it. He hadn’t even made it out of her long, winding driveway when she’d sent him a picture of herself in sexy lingerie and asked him to come back.

No way in hell.

As expected, Tink was on Beck’s pillow, face buried in the covers. He no longer made up his bed because it did no good. The cat—a stray who had shown up on his doorstep just before Christmas—always undid his work.

He opened the container with the leftovers from his meal and waved it in front of her nose. “Look what I brought you.”

She peeked one eye open and gave him a scornful look, then tucked her head back down.

Hello, cold shoulder.

“Your loss.” He set the container on the floor near the bed, knowing she’d eventually come around. “I’ll leave it here for you, and remember, tonight was for a good cause, not because of work.”

She burrowed farther down.

After his shower, he found the container licked clean and Tink had moved over to her side of the bed. He got in and turned on ESPN. Once he was caught up on the various scores of his favorite teams, he picked up the book on criminal sociology from his nightstand. The shower had done some good to clear his head, but he still couldn’t get the sight of Annabelle in her lingerie out of his mind. She might be divorcing Byron, but it still seemed wrong to know she liked pink satin…it was like seeing the Pope in his skivvies.

Sometime later, a loud noise woke him with a jerk.

ESPN hummed in the background and the book lay open in his lap. Tink was curled next to him, having forgiven him. But at the noise, she came to attention.

Bambambam. Tink hurled her chubby body off the bed and Beck sat up, rubbing his eyes. The bedside clock showed it was nearly one a.m. Who the fuck was at his door at this time of the morning?

God help him, it was probably Theresa, or one of his other siblings, needing a handout. He hadn’t heard from any of them in over six months now, and then it had only been Corey texting him for bail money.

Or worse than his criminal family, it might be Byron Lockhart coming for his balls.

Bambambam. A man yelled his name.

He never slept in anything, so he threw on sport pants and headed for the door.

“Just a goddamn minute,” he shouted back. “I’m coming.”

His townhouse was in a decent neighborhood, but, as he hadn’t recognized the voice, he still checked the peephole before opening the door.

What he saw made him pause before deactivating his security system. Two uniformed cops stood on his doorstep.

“Beckett Pearson,” one called through the door. “This is DC Metro. Open the door.”

What the hell?

Beckett flipped on the porchlight and unlocked the door. Cool night air met his bare chest. “What’s going on, fellas?”

“Beckett Pearson?” the taller of the two asked. The guy behind him had his hand on his weapon.

Shit. Byron must be really pissed…

“Yeah, I’m Special Agent Pearson.”

“Mr. Pearson, please turn around and put your hands on top of your head.”

“What?”

In the next second, cop number two pulled his weapon. “On your knees!”

“Whoa.” Beck raised both hands. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake.” The bigger cop waved down his sidekick, taking out his handcuffs and motioning for Beck to turn around. “Mr. Pearson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Annabelle Lockhart.”