She couldn’t sleep. Even with the warmth of Preston beside her, in the afterglow of his love confession, she couldn’t switch her mind off. She had to think about anything but that.

It was the first chance she’d had to properly analyze the events leading up to Frank’s arrest, and one thought kept racing through her mind, like a broken video on loop: something about it didn’t feel right.

She got up quietly, wrapped a robe around her naked body, and limped over to the table. By the glow of a low lamp, and ensuring Preston was firmly asleep, she opened her laptop and made her way over to Google. Frank McMahon, that was what the cop had called him.

Google sure had a lot to say about Frank McMahon. Credit card fraud seemed to be his modus operandi, followed by various internet phishing scams and identity theft. He certainly knew his way around technology, but not as the hugely successful developer he’d portrayed himself as Frank Germaine. Petty crime for the most part—not on a level with murder.

A second name kept popping up in connection to him, some kind of accomplice—a Mark Rohan, a man of unknown origin, who somehow managed to escape the five arrest warrants Frank had out against him.

M. That was the initial on that note back at the Alcott Resort, scribbled in Frank’s handwriting.

A deeper search into Mark Rohan revealed two previous arrests, one short stint in jail, and something much more alarming than either: chilling social media posts. Tick tock, one said, revenge is sweet… Another one boasted, There’s no greater feeling than knowing you’re about to come into a shitload of money.

The man clearly had a plan, and he also had a connection to Frank. Could the two have combined to result in the murder of Larry—

Wait. Larry Rohan. Ashley was ninety-nine percent sure that was his last name.

Rohan.

Did this mean Larry and Mark were related? Was Frank related? Was it all one big family feud gone wrong?

The photos on Mark’s public Facebook page depicted him as young, certainly young enough to be Larry’s son, but he listed his parents as Jean and Jacob Sinclair.

Was he Larry’s nephew then, perhaps? How often did people leave their fortunes to their nephews? And why did his parents have a different last name?

Eyes itching with tiredness and staring at the screen in such low lighting, Ashley sighed and rubbed her face. She was getting nowhere here. It was all guesswork and supposition. The only way she could get any concrete answers was to speak to Frank herself…except this wasn’t any of her business anymore. The police had control of the investigation now.

Preston made a sudden snuffling noise and rolled over, and she gazed over at him fondly.

She still couldn’t believe he’d told her he loved her. But she did believe he was telling the truth. She’d searched his face in the moments after he said it, desperately looking for any hint of a lie, refusing to accept that someone like Preston could just fall in love with her, just like that, as if she was an ideal person to love.

But she’d seen nothing but the purest sincerity, and she’d been so overwhelmed by it that she hadn’t known what to say. She couldn’t return the sentiment, at least not out loud—her own feelings were so confused and tainted by her past that she didn’t know if she could ever love again, even someone as perfect as Preston. She felt her heart pulse with something a lot like love, but she didn’t trust it, not completely. Until they were away from this mountain, back in the real world, with life and responsibilities and other people butting into the situation—until they faced that and he still made her feel loved, she wouldn’t risk giving him her heart. She’d only just finished taping it back together after the last man tore it apart.

She didn’t know what this made them now. A couple? Dating? Two friends seeing where things might lead?

What if he had other women in his life? Distractions, just waiting for him back in the city, ready to remind him of the kind of woman he could have.

Tendrils of doubt clouded her mind, and she was a paranoid idiot, but she still found herself clicking over to his Facebook profile anyway. There was nothing wrong with checking out a friend’s Facebook wall, was there?

Except they weren’t friends. At least not on Facebook. She’d never before even considered adding him, and his wall was locked down tighter than Fort Knox. She couldn’t even see his profile picture. Feeling like an idiot, she sent him a friend request and went to sign off, pausing briefly when a tiny notification popped up at the top of the screen.

It was a friend request of her own, from someone called Daniel Gold, and the only two pictures available to her were of professional, studio-lit model poses. A good-looking man, but not one she recognized. Curious, she accepted the friend request, his wall opening up to her and revealing—nothing. Those same two photos, and a join date of two days ago.

Blinking against the dryness of her eyes, she resolved to wait until tomorrow to ask Daniel Gold how they knew each other, and shut down the laptop. With a jaw-cracking yawn, she slipped off the robe and climbed back into bed, wrapping herself around the furnace-like heat of the man who loved her.

She woke up eight hours later to that man’s face buried between her thighs, sparks of pleasure making her gasp.

She was, by some weird coincidence that left her feeling keenly suspicious, sitting next to Preston for the flight home. He’d been so attentive of her ankle while helping her through the journey to the plane, glued to her side and too much of a gentleman, that she couldn’t help but swell with affection for him. It was, therefore, not her fault that she felt compelled to snuggle up to him during the flight, and he didn’t seem inclined to protest—wrapping an arm around her and tucking her into his side, periodically kissing her temple as they each passed the time with magazines and on-board TV shows, exchanging tidbits of articles and laughing together. It was so sickeningly couple-y that she couldn’t even be mad when Ashley and Cami gave her mischievous knowing glances after they had left the plane.

They stood in arrivals, bags collected, saying their goodbyes.

“And thanks for the trip, Preston,” Cami was saying, hugging him warmly. “It was…interesting.”

“Next time I’ll try to include less murder.” He pulled back, grimacing, tucked a lock of Cami’s hair behind her ear before hugging Maggie next. “Sorry things got a little ruined.”

Maggie shot Ashley a look strong enough to rival Cami’s at her most obnoxious, and drawled, “I’d say it was all worth it in the end.”

Leaning sideways, talking to Ashley like they were involved in some kind of conspiracy, Preston muttered, “You think we’re being too obvious?”

Ashley rolled her eyes and sent him off to help the other guys collect the coffee they all needed for the drive home, mild embarrassment heating her cheeks, made worse when both girls turned beaming faces on her, like proud parents who’d just watched their kid nail a dance recital.

“You look so happy,” Cami said, clasping her hands together.

Ashley gave her a look she hoped came across as somewhat stern. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Hmm.” Cami, as ever, was undeterred. She waved Ashley’s words away and pulled her into a hug. “Call me later?”

“You know I will,” Ashley said, turning to Maggie. “You too.”

Once the girls had gone to join their husbands, Ashley found herself in something of an awkward situation. Leave, or wait for Preston? What if he wasn’t expecting to see her any more today? He might’ve already headed out to his car.

Except he’d gone off to get coffee, she remembered, and it’d be rude of her to just vanish.

When he came back, coffees in hand, she smiled and accepted one from him, sipping at it as they stood around awkwardly. She could tell he wanted to say something, could sense it, standing there on edge every time he opened his mouth to drink his coffee.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but was probably more likely thirty seconds, he coughed to clear his voice and said, “Thanks for coming, Ash.”

Seriously? They were about to part ways after the intense week spent glued to each other’s side, and those were his parting words? Thanks for coming? Like she was a guest he’d hosted, and little more.

She’d always seen billionaires as suave, confident men who knew the exact charming thing to say in any situation. What she was looking at now was a man as nervous as a teenage boy gearing up to ask the cheer captain to prom, and it endeared him to her in ways she couldn’t even begin to explain.

Smiling against the rim of her cup, she said, “Thanks for inviting me.” And he nodded, opened his mouth, then closed it again. She almost laughed.

After a few more heart beats, he said, “Can I give you a ride home? My driver’s waiting for me.” And the relief that washed through her was something close to violent.

“Okay.”

He had a town car, of course, and a chauffeur in a hat who said nothing, staying weirdly silent as he loaded up the trunk with their luggage and sliding wordlessly into the driver’s seat. She blinked at the oddness of it, but Preston looked entirely unconcerned by it as he held the back door open for her, so she figured it was normal—having a man spend a couple of hours driving you from one place to the next without ever even acknowledging your existence. Or having his existence acknowledged.

The world of the wealthy—Ashley didn’t think she’d ever stop being confused by it.

To her embarrassment, she fell asleep on the ride home, waking up with her face stuck to Preston’s shoulder as the car jolted to a stop. He smiled fondly at her as she blushed and smoothed her hair, and then he helped her out of the car.

They were in front of her house.

“How did you know where I lived?”

He gave her a flat look as if to ask if she was serious with that question, and she didn’t know whether to be impressed or disturbed. The silent driver unloaded her luggage and got back into his silent town car, and Preston stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stood there on the sidewalk, looking at her.

She expected him to be awkward again, that endearing uncharacteristic shyness he’d displayed at the airport, but it seemed the ride over had injected his usual confidence back into him because he smiled and said simply, “I’d like to make plans with you.” Then his smile changed to a smirk. “Or should I expect you to disappear now?”

She tutted and gave his shoulder a shove, then mentally sorted through her upcoming schedule. When she’d embarked on this trip up the mountain, she hadn’t planned on coming home with a man to accommodate. Not that she minded, and she quietly discarded a book club meeting she was supposed to be attending tomorrow.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

His eyes lit up, his hands coming out of his pockets to rest in the curves where her shoulders met her neck, thumbs tracing the underside of her jaw line. “I could make dinner?”

“You?” she teased, hooking fingers into the front of his shirt. “Or your chef?”

“Hey, I can cook.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

“Yeah, you will,” he murmured, and then: “Come here.”

He kissed her, long and deep, leaving her head spinning a little as he pulled away. She blinked to clear the haze.

“You know you should’ve played it cool,” she said jokingly, “waited a few days, maybe made plans for next weekend rather than right away…”

He shrugged. “When I want something, I want it now. I’m not interested in playing by the rules of dating.”

She couldn’t tell him how happy she was to hear that, but she could show him—and she did, by drawing him into another kiss, pouring her desire for him into it and leaving him grumbling when she pulled away, his eyes darkening with impatience for more.

“Soon,” she told him, and he gave her ass a playful slap as she gathered up her luggage and walked away.

It felt weird to be home. The week away had been so dramatic, with everything from murder through to confessions of love, that finding herself standing in the middle of her house after all that had happened left her feeling a little disconcerted. It was almost as if she hadn’t been anywhere—the book she was halfway through reading lay open on the couch; an empty plate, from her last lunch, sitting on the coffee table; her work bag was slung in the corner, dirty uniform spilling out of it. A snapshot of her life pre-Preston, before he came into her world and tipped it upside down. Before he loved her.

She was buzzing with restless energy, half-tempted to clean her place up, looking at the sorry state of it after so many double shifts she’d worked before taking the impromptu vacation. But she knew her ankle wouldn’t thank her for it, and it was far more important to get that damn ankle better as quickly as possible than worry about how many dishes were in the sink, so instead she had a long bath and took an even longer nap.

A sharp noise woke her up at twilight and she sat up with a jolt, ears straining for whatever the sound could’ve been—then her windows rattled with the wind, and she breathed a sigh of relief, her hammering heart slowing to a dull thud.

She was just a little on edge, that was all. After the whole murder thing, and then getting lost in the snowy wilderness—she’d had her fill of nervy situations, and now looked forward to a much more boring life.

Although, if she had Preston in it, her life was likely to be far from boring. The man lit her up like nothing else, and it was to him she attributed this restless energy she still couldn’t shake—made her wish she had him here with her, distracting her in the best way he knew how.

Smiling dreamily to herself, she allowed a hand to wander down her body, vaguely considering the repercussions of calling him, asking him to come over and take care of her…energy.

And then she swiftly banished those thoughts. She’d only said goodbye to him a few hours ago—no doubt he was busy taking care of his own life right now, making up for the time he’d taken up on the mountain. What he didn’t need was Ashley and her newly invigorated libido demanding his attention. She could wait for tomorrow…probably…

With little else to do, she dragged herself out of bed and went in search of food. Her cupboards were bare, as they had been for weeks, and her fridge was so perpetually empty that it was a wonder it hadn’t walked off in protest.

Resigned to her desperate state of affairs, Ashley called for a delivery. Then she called work, told them about her ankle, requesting an additional day off. Phone in hand, she found Preston’s name in her contacts and stared at it, without really knowing why.

If you want to call him, just call him, her subconscious sternly told her. But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. For a start, she had nothing to say, nothing beyond a pathetic please come over; I miss your face.

She could send him a text, but that would be even worse, and in the end she threw her phone on the couch in disgust. She was ridiculous, and he would see her as ridiculous, and then he wouldn’t want to see her anymore at all. And she really, really wanted to see him again. Very soon.

Deep down, in the little compartment in her heart she’d kept locked away and hidden for the past year, she felt it—the truth in her desires. That she didn’t just want to see him so she could ride him…although that was certainly a huge bonus. But really, she just wanted him near her. Wanted to see him, breathe in his scent, cuddle up to the strength of him.

And she knew what that meant.

It terrified her—so much so that she refused to think about it, not now. Not this soon. He might’ve been okay with spilling his heart a mere few days into their relationship, but she wasn’t that brave.

She needed a distraction, and there was only one other thing keeping her mind occupied this past week.

Unfortunately, a new search yielded nothing she didn’t already know, and she closed the laptop with a frustrated sigh, empty Chinese delivery containers littering the space around her. For the length of a single heartbeat, she considered calling the police, telling them what she’d found out about Mark Rohan. But then she realized that if she’d managed to find that information with little more than a Google search, then the police were definitely way ahead of her, and the best thing she needed to do now was go to bed before she considered any other stupid ideas.

The wind rattling the windows reminded her of that night up on the mountain, when the storm set in and they discovered a dead body in the foyer. It made her shiver, and she struggled to fall asleep, her brain spiraling with images of dead bodies, Mark Rohan’s photos, Frank’s deranged grin as the police carted him away…

She awoke with a start in the dead of night, and this time she knew it wasn’t the wind.

Someone was in her house.