“You just hit Andrew Whittaker,” Raven said, and Rebecca Collings flinched.

“I did not.”

“With your sign.” Raven nodded toward the man in the expensive suit as he hurried away with the woman who had shown up. Neil, the head security guard, glanced over his shoulder and seemed to zero in right on her as if he’d be back later to take care of the situation.

Of course he would.

Becca knew the rules Springside Energy had provided. They could assemble. Chant. March.

They could not leave flyers on cars. Or use chalk on the cement. Or lipstick on the sliding glass entrance.

And they absolutely couldn’t approach or speak to anyone coming in or out of the building. She wasn’t even sure how the crowd had swelled and swarmed toward the woman when she’d arrived.

Becca had tried to stop them. Honest, she had.

She looked down at her protest sign as if it would have the DNA of who she’d hit. No way it could be Andrew Whittaker. Not that she’d ever met the man, but she felt like she knew exactly what kind of man he’d be just from reading his ridiculous blog posts, Internet articles, and interviews.

And of course she’d recognize him. The guy wasn’t shy in front of the camera, and just because he was the most handsome man in the entire state didn’t mean what he wrote about his company was true.

“It couldn’t be him.” She examined the end of her sign, which was just a yardstick from her garage. Did it have a spot of blood on it? Andrew Whittaker’s blood?

The man and his family owned and operated Springside, and pure mortification streamed through her.

“Ma’am.” A huge man appeared at her side, making her visibly flinch and setting her pulse into an irregular rhythm. “I’m going to need the sign, and you need to come with us.” He held out his hand, the black sunglasses on his face almost as dark as his skin.

With slightly shaking hands, she passed over the yardstick with a piece of poster board taped to it. So the protest had come together last minute. The quality of the signs didn’t determine the worth of the message.

“Why do I need to come with you?” She glanced at the slightly smaller bodyguard behind the first man.

“We have a few questions.”

They weren’t cops. At least she didn’t think they were. She ran her hands over her head, wishing her frizzy hair would lie as slick and flat as Raven’s, who stood a few feet away. Pure anxiety flowed from the dark-haired woman who believed in the same causes Becca did.

Raven lifted her chin and stepped to Becca’s side. “You can ask them here.”

Sunglasses barely moved his head in Raven’s direction. “You assaulted a man on our property. The authorities have been called, and I need you to come inside while we wait for them.”

Becca’s legs trembled, but she stayed standing. “All right.” The words could barely be heard, and she started walking.

Raven jumped in front of her. “You can’t go in there.”

“I’ll be fine,” Becca said with more confidence than she felt. She eyed the building like it was a monster, with all that glass glinting down at her like sharp teeth. “I’ll call you tonight.”

Raven wore a look of panic, but she didn’t try to stop Becca again. The air conditioning inside the building was a welcome change from the insufferable heat outside. The lobby smelled like lemonade and roses, completely unlike what she was expecting. Everything sat in its place, and she’d be hard-pressed to find a speck of dust.

The security guard led her down a hallway and through a door, with the second man behind her. She didn’t like the sandwich-y feeling, but she couldn’t do much about it.

“Wait here.” The guard indicated a tiny ten-foot-by-ten-foot room, and Becca entered it without question. The door closed behind her, the click so final Becca felt it all the way down in her stomach.

The Whittaker’s had money, and she had no idea what would happen next. As it turned out, only time passed. Becca didn’t wear a watch, and she wasn’t quite sure where her phone was at the moment. But it felt like quite a long time was just slipping through her fingers.

The air conditioning blew through the vents overhead, but there was no music filtering through the building—at least not in this room. She sat in a hard chair, with a small table in front of her, and nothing else.

The more seconds that passed, the more frustrated she got. Did this Andrew Whittaker think she had nothing better to do than wait for him? Surely he wouldn’t come in. Maybe the police were taking his statement and then they’d come talk to her.

“Calm down,” she whispered to herself, wondering if solid walls had two-way mirrors in them. This room had no windows, no mirrors, and only the door. No cameras in the corners. She could talk to herself freely.

“They can’t arrest you,” she said. “The Whittakers have money, but they’re not cops.”

She glared at the door, but it still didn’t open. Did they think she just had unlimited time on her hands?

“Well, you do,” she said to herself. She’d finished up her freelance consultation with the State Wildlife Division, and she didn’t have anything else lined up yet. Thus, the impromptu protest this morning. At least it got her out of the house, right?

Still, sitting in this silent room was a form of torture Becca never wanted to experience again. Her impatience swirled through her, driving her emotions toward the breaking point.

So when the door opened, Becca jumped to her feet. “It’s about time,” she said to the men entering. “You know you can’t just keep me here.”

The two security guards came in and took positions in the corner of the room, allowing space for another man to enter.

Andrew Whittaker.

Becca sucked in a breath that tightened her chest. Her heart zinged around inside her chest at the nearness of him.

He exuded power from his shoulders though the suit had been replaced with a black polo that stretched nicely across his chest. Maybe she’d had to wait for him to drive home and change his clothes.

Or his driver, because Andrew Whittaker didn’t seem like the kind of man who did anything without an entourage.

She cut a quick glance to his security detail, a flash of pride at her assessment striking her bloodstream and giving her some confidence.

“The door wasn’t locked.” Andrew gestured to her chair. “Please, sit.” He spoke in an even tone, perfectly political and polite. Professional all the way to the very last cell of his body. This was the Andrew Whittaker he allowed other people to see, and Becca squinted at him, wondering if she could get close enough to him to find out the real dirt.

She gave herself a little shake, hiding it by stepping over to the chair she’d burst out of. She sat and folded her arms, her insides quaking and this the only way she knew how to keep herself from saying or doing something she’d regret later.

Andrew exhaled as he sat too, and Becca couldn’t see any evidence of his injury. “I’m sorry,” she blurted anyway, immediately wishing her mouth would just stay shut. Apologizing was practically an admission of guilt, like she knew she’d done something wrong and needed to make it right.

Andrew cocked his head slightly. “For what?”

She cut a glance at the security guard standing a few feet from her. “I…don’t know?” Now that she looked at him a little closer, his nose looked a little puffy, and he definitely had a skin-colored bandage on his right temple. Maybe she’d had to wait so long so someone could dye the bandage to match his skin.

He gazed at her evenly, which she found absolutely unnerving. Somehow, she managed to stare right back. She might not have his millions. Or his finesse. In fact, she wanted to reach up and smooth down the frizz she knew stuck up from her scalp. But she’d gnaw off her own hand before she’d allow herself to do that.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked, lifting her chin. If he didn’t have such beautiful eyes—green with a lot of brown in there—it wouldn’t be so easy to look right at him.

Andrew did the strangest thing—he tipped his head back and laughed.

Confusion raced through Becca at the speed of sound. And it brought with it all the wonderful undertones of his laughter, infusing into her soul and making her want to be alone with him while they walked down the street, or maybe into the theater, him laughing at something brilliantly witty that she’d said. Then he’d kiss her and they’d get in a fancy limousine.

She startled at the strange, fantastical paths her thoughts had just taken.

“No,” Andrew said, around a mouthful of chuckles. He sobered and looked right at her again. Past all her defenses. Past the protest signs and the prickly personality. “I’m here to offer you a job.”