The second Pax entered the house through the sliding doors, Luca grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the inflatable couch. His ass hit the velvety material with a hollow-sounding bounce, and cushions seesawed when Luca planted himself on the other end.

“I listened to it all. She remembered me,” Luca said, scrubbing his grinning face like he could hardly believe it. “If only that phone hadn’t interrupted. How does she think I sound? Exotic? Romantic?”

“You’ll have to ask her. I have no opinion on the subject,” Pax said. “Smitten comes to mind.”

“Sì.” All restless, plotting energy, Luca jumped off the couch, sinking Pax. Luca paced, scoring a hand through his styled hair. “But Henry and his Shakespeare . . .” Luca stopped and pointed at him. “I need lines. What lines would make her smile?”

“I’m not sure that’s the way to go.”

“It’s lines or Italian.”

Lines it was, then. He softened his voice, leered with soft smile. “If you were lyrics from a song, girl, you’d be fine music.”

“Perfect. I need a pen.”

Pax laughed, and a curious satisfaction seeped into him, originating from the pocket that held this most mysterious angel. He was projecting it all, he knew. Probably the angel was pressed against a nerve or something. But still. It was a wicked cool idea that this Christmas ornament was a lucky charm. Or more than that. A guardian angel.

Maybe she’d been tossed into his life as a sign that life would improve. He’d get back into the band, and stupid dicks like his drummer would never bother him again.

Luca emerged with a notepad and a pencil with a troll doll on the end of it. He flicked its bright orange hair against his chin. “More lines. We only have three hours before your run.”

“Hold up.” Pax jiggled his foot. “I’m not actually running with him.”

“But you convinced him to be your friend. You have to run with him.”

“I also have his number.” He felt in his pocket for it. “I’ll call and weasel him into a more fitting date. Like secondhand shopping for next week’s Christmas Carousel at Larnach Castle.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You should come.” Pax rarely invited anyone outside of the band’s circle. In fact, he never invited anyone who wasn’t ‘in’ with his mates.

First time for everything.

“Really? Okay, I will. But you must run with the shrew this evening.” Luca gave him puppy-dog eyes, clutching his notepad and troll doll to his chest. “Please? For the smitten Italian you met yesterday?”

“Compelling argument.” Pax was grinning, though. “Fine, I will participate in the torture.” He whipped up his hand before Luca got too carried away. “But I tell Henry about it. You both have equal opportunity to abuse English.”

Luca sighed. “You really want to get on Henry’s good side, huh.”

“Need to,” Pax said regretfully. “He’s holding the performance of my dreams over my head.”

“And getting back you in Serenity Free.”

“Yeah, that. Of course. That too. That’s why I am doing this.”

Luca frowned, and then gave a slow nod. “Okay, Henry and I will both abuse English together. Now, where will Bianca be during this run?”

Pax struggled off the couch, whipped out his Nokia, and dialed the number Bianca gave him. He headed upstairs to his room, Luca following. “Stay out of sight,” he said to Luca in the hall. “I’ve got this.”

He pressed dial as he entered his room. One glance through the windows supported his guess. Cliff was in his study, bent over books at his desk.

The phone rang, and Cliff yelled over his shoulder. As predicted, a moment later Bianca’s voice trailed down the line. “Hello.”

Pax pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder and pushed up his window. “Bianca, Pax Polo here. Still nothing? You need to read more local newspapers.”

“Bleh, they’re full of tragedy and gossip.”

“You love Shakespeare.”

Bianca paused. “I hear your point. What’s up?”

“I need you to hang up and let the phone ring until your brother answers it.”

“Way to get on his good side.” Her sarcasm matched her brother’s to a tee.

“We’ll chat more about getting on his good side another time. Can you let the phone ring and ring and ring if you have to?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to be my hero, Pax Polo.”

She hung up, and Pax redialed. He climbed onto his broad windowsill and rested his back against the frame, one leg bent to his chest, the other stretched out.

The phone next door hollered, and Pax watched Cliff call out again. When Bianca didn’t answer, he picked it up, eyes still tracking his book, and barked, “Cliff here.”

“Hey. Whatcha doing?”

Cliff stiffened. He shut his book, leaned back in his swivel chair, and looked up at him. Their gazes smacked together, and despite a pane of glass and half a dozen meters between them, Pax felt the impact of a stern gaze that couldn’t hold back a flicker of curiosity. “I’m trying to work on my double master’s thesis in psychology and criminology.”

“Smart. Whatcha gonna do when you’ve finished that?”

Cliff studied him, trying to work out Pax’s angle. “Law enforcement.”

Pax should have guessed. “You’ll be good at it.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know that.”

“I’m rather good at profiling, Clifford.”

A low laugh rumbled down the line. “Are you calling to cancel our run?”

If only. “Oh, I can’t wait for my lungs to burst from too much fresh air.”

A hum. “What do you want?”

“Just wondering how long this fun-run will be?”

Cliff paused. “Eight kilometers.”

Eight kilometers? Practically a half-marathon.

Pax scowled toward his parted bedroom door at Luca lurking in the hallway. The boy had better use this opportunity.

Pax fiddled with the pocket that held the angel. “Will, um, your sister be joining us?”

A hesitant pause. “So you are after my sister?”

“No. No.” Pax laughed. Hard. Too hard? He wasn’t interested in Bianca. “Bianca doesn’t dig running like we do?”

“She has rehearsals until five thirty.”

So, Bianca would be home at quarter to. Everything around here was a fifteen-minute drive.

How long did eight kilometers take to run? Forty-five minutes? An hour?

The shrew probably timed his runs not to give her a moment free. Controlling freak.

Law enforcement would suit him.

“Just you and me, then,” Pax murmured. He could work with this. “That’s good. That’s better.”

Cliff’s blunt voice cut down the line. “If we’re done, I have criminology to get back to.”

“So do I.”

Pax hung up and trotted out to a Troll-biting Luca. “I’ll distract him and keep him from coming home until six fifteen. That gives you and Henry at most half an hour when Bianca arrives home from work. Bring your A game.”

Luca dropped his notepad and threw his arms around Pax. The firm grip choked the air from his lungs, and moist Troll hair prodded his neck. “Pax Polo, everyone, my newest friend.”

Pax laughed, but his stomach stirred up a weird achy feeling.

Leftover emotions from being cast from the band. Probably.

Hopefully.

Maybe a run would be good for him.

Good for killing him. Jesus. He was dying out here. Literally dying.

Their run cut through bumpy fields and bushes until they hit a preserved walking track. Thick trees shaded them, and ferns hedged their narrow dirt track. Each pounding step made his lungs and throat burn, and every few yards fern leaves bit at his ankles.

The track would have been quiet except for their shoes hitting packed dirt, his steam-train panting, and the birds squawking.

Cliff jogged a few yards ahead, all business. Eyes on the path, controlled breath, and a trace of sweat seeping into his white T-shirt between the shoulder blades.

They’d barely spoken since Pax turned up at his gate. Cliff had plucked the sunglasses of Pax’s face, folded them, and popped them into his mailbox. His gaze had flickered for a second over his bruised eye. “You won’t be needing these. Let’s go.”

Three steps in and Pax had no vocal capacity for anything except panting.

Panting that had since upgraded to a wheeze.

If only a storm would burst from the skies and cease this murder of his muscles. They could hunker under some shelter and Pax could catch his breath.

Sunlight streamed through the trees and more birds twittered.

Pax muttered choice words.

Cliff whipped around to check on him but kept jogging. Backward.

“One of us has to slow down,” Pax puffed out.

“Slower than this, and we’d be walking.”

“Walking works, too.”

Cliff turned and picked up his pace. Bastard. The path widened for two but catching up seemed laughable at this point.

“It’s just . . . I’m not wearing the right clothes.”

“Jeans are . . . well, it’s too late now,” Cliff said, not a trace of exertion in his voice.

“Yeah, the problem’s not so much the jeans as under the jeans . . .”

Cliff swung his head and looked at him over his shoulder. “What?”

No matter how close to death Pax might be, he always had energy for a grin. “Massive wedgie.”

Cliff slowed their pace and Pax caught up with him.

“Thanks. This speed feels kinda nice.”

Cliff threw back his head skyward and called out with a sarcastic bite. “He’s a real blessing, thank you.”

“Obviously you’ve never had this . . . problem.”

No answer.

Pax puffed a laugh. Or maybe he just puffed. “You have had this problem. That’s how you know this speed works perfectly.”

“Are you doing this to me on purpose?”

“Doing what to you on purpose?”

“Pull your eyes off my ass.”

Pax rolled with it. “Or maybe you really don’t know what it’s like.”

Grunt.

“Maybe you can’t tell a wedgie from the stick up your ass.”

Cliff stopped, and hell yeah, Pax participated in that stationary action. Cliff wiped the back of his hand over his faintly glistening brow. “If you plan to insult me, be ready to take it, too.”

“Go on.”

“What were you thinking wearing jeans and that strangling tank top? Of course your balls are sweating and your nipples are near blistering. This is not a stage. None of your fans are here drooling over your ridiculously angelic face, and even if they were, you can be sure they wouldn’t see a star, but a . . . starfish. Red all over and wet with sweat. Now if you don’t mind, I have a run to do.” Cliff took off, jogging much faster. Christ, he had been holding back.

Charging ahead at that speed wouldn’t play into Pax’s plans. They’d finish too early.

He chased after Cliff.

“Wait,” he called, tripping over tree roots. “Come back. I fell and hit my head. There’s blood everywhere.”

Cliff rounded back, and Pax stopped, palms braced against his knees as he caught his breath.

“I don’t see any blood. Yet.”

“Oh. Must have mistaken it for my soul leaking out of my body.” He dabbed the left side of his head. “Tender, though.”

Cliff could see right through him.

“What?” Pax said indignantly. “I hit my head on . . . that branch.” He pointed to a low-hanging branch and fingered his head. “It hurts.”

Not an ounce of belief in Cliff’s eyes.

“Really hurts,” Pax said.

“You’re touching the right side of your head.”

“Said like someone reading instructions. Where’s the sympathy?”

Cliff clapped him over the back of the head.

Pax barely suppressed a laugh, and faked outrage. “And another few brain cells clocked out of me during this run.”

“You had some to begin with?”

Pax scrummaged for a comeback while Cliff planted a foot on a boulder and stretched his calf. “You started cradling the left side of your head and moved to your right. If you plan to lie, do it convincingly.”

“Well. Maybe the whole head hurts. If it didn’t, now it does.”

A snort. “It was a light swat.”

Barely even that. The ghost of Cliff’s fingers clung at the back of his hair.

Cliff dragged his foot off the boulder and gestured to Pax’s face. “That looks like it hurt.”

Pax stiffened, and rolled off the tender subject with a shrug.

“What happened?” Cliff said. He sounded different. A little softer, maybe.

Pax squirmed, unsure how to handle it. He was better at handling the shrew. Real questions and emotion made him flighty.

He slicked on a grin that he hoped fooled Cliff. “Whatever you want to have happened, happened.”

Cliff’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“I got caught banging my drummer’s sister. Stole his stash of weed. Called him a no-talent asshole in front of a potential agent. I got this bruise however it gets you off most. That’s how it works in my business.”

Cliff’s jaw twitched. “I’m not getting off to any of those stories. You don’t have to tell me, but if you do, I only want the facts.”

Facts. He hadn’t even told his band—his mates—the truth.

His face must have given away his discomfort, because Cliff shifted back like he was surprised and changed the subject. “That’s enough break, we’ve got more track to cover.”

More track. Let’s focus on that. “How much more?”

“We’re a third of the way.”

Pax swallowed a groan, his muscle’s aching. “A third? Are you kidding me? We’ve been running forever.”

Cliff checked his digital sports watch. “We’ve been running twenty-two minutes.”

Pax was ready to topple over in a panting heap and sob. “And only a third of the way?”

“Your pace is abysmal.”

He wanted to turn back. His body begged desperately for a reprieve. For the promise of collapsing onto an inflatable couch. But if he turned home, Cliff would rocket the rest of his run and be home too soon.

Cliff eyed him. “Turn back if you like.”

Yes. He liked.

But no, he had to give Luca and Henry time to flirt. “Turn back? What kind of man do you take me for?”

“An unfit one.”

“Unfit but charmingly stubborn.”

“Pathetically.”

Pax sneezed into his fist. “Man-shrew.”

Cliff side-eyed him.

“Achoo,” Pax faked. And another time for plausibility.

Days of running later, Cliff slowed them to a stop on a grassy bank. “Stretch, and we’ll take the shortcut back.”

Pax faced into the wind, arms wide like he could embrace its coolness. “What’s the time?”

“Five forty-five. Two-thirds done.”

Pax needed to stall for at least ten minutes. “What about a dip in the lake? Bet it’s refreshing as fuck.”

“It’s a creek,” Cliff said. “I’m not talking tepid water here. It’s frigid.”

“Like you.” Pax peeled off his shirt. “I want to jump in.”

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, and Cliff grabbed his elbow, fingers softly sliding over his skin. “What are you doing?”

Pax pivoted, bringing them face to face. “Was I not clear enough?”

“Keep your pants on.”

Pax held Cliff’s gaze and toed off his shoes. He moaned as the soft, cool grass relieved his swollen feet.

The warm hand at his elbow flew off, and Cliff’s gaze shot to the water.

Pax laughed. “Are you freaking out at the idea of me exposing myself? Because it’s no big deal.” He lowered his voice. “I’m called Pax for a reason.”

Cliff’s impatient demeanor tickled him. “This is a popular running track, Apollo. The retired Lions’ women group will be charging past here any minute. I’d Pax your junk away if I were you.”

Pax made a cocky show of inching his jeans lower over his hips, down his firm ass, the base of his dick—

A stampede of elderly women burst from the bushes into the clearing, jogging at a pace brisker than Pax had managed. Whistles and jolly laughter bloomed around him as they passed.

Not a bluff, then.

Another win for Cliff.

Who was this man?

Pax threw the ladies a few air kisses to complement the show, but his concentration sat firmly on Cliff. He had a funny feeling about this preppy, overbearing, law-enforcement wannabe.

A feeling that he most definitely didn’t like.

Had he met his match?