The only things that help when you’re frozen and confused are a hot bath, a fire, and a bottle of wine. She’d managed the first two and was working through the third when she remembered to Google Tarin’s pill. Because, by damn, she’d answer the questions she could. Larkin sat on her couch, pulled a blanket over her legs, sipped, and searched … “What was it?” She tapped her lips. “IPO. Nope. That’s a different problem.” A sigh lifted and dropped her shoulders. They drooped deeper than before. “Focus, Larkin. “PO. APO … something.” She started there.

Tarin’s condition had nothing to do with the military and diplomatic mail, nor mythical gods or fraternities. She searched APO pill, then scrolled down to WebMD’s pill identifier. There were several pills in different shapes and colors. After scrolling down, she found a pill that looked similar to the one she’d found in the bathroom. If only she could remember the other letter on the 5 mg pill, she’d know for sure whether this was the drug. There were more letters on Tarin’s. Not quite so many numbers, but this wasn’t far off.

Larkin clicked on the description and read, “Benazepril-Hydrochlorothiazide,” extremely slowly. “Uses. High blood pressure? Helps prevent stroke, heart attacks, and kidney problems. Huh?” That was far from diabolical.

The woman with a husband, children, and a corporation depending on her had a major medical problem. A twinge of guilt batted around her heart. She’d been such an ass. So the lady was a little off. No wonder. She was juggling swords round the clock. Sure, she was a bit odd. Larkin would be, too, if she had to deal with half the bullshit Tarin did.

She clicked on the side effects tab. The damn pills could cause dizziness, drowsiness, blurred vision, vomiting, and more.

“Good gracious.” Larkin closed her laptop and shoved it off her lap in disgust. The machine had done nothing wrong. She had labeled the woman a loon, convinced she was trying to overdose on prescription drugs. She was a damn monster. Three gulps of wine later and she needed a refill.

“Well, hell.” The bottle was across the room on the island where she’d opened it. Larkin turned, propped an arm on the back of the sofa, and stared at the bottle, willing it to levitate in her direction. “Please?” The bottle didn’t budge. She glared at the red O’s that faded across the label. Marlis had brought her the bottle from some winery in Colorado. The woman traveled all over for social media conventions.

“The Olathe Winer …” Larkin stopped cold, captivated by the uppercase text of the winery’s name. “OLA. IPO. OLA 5m.” She smacked a hand against her forehead and stared through her still frozen fingers at the letters. “Are you serious?” Of all the bottles she could have chosen—and there were a ton in her wine cooler—she picked that one.

A firm knock sounded on the door. Her entire body flinched for the second time today. The jumping, the fear, and her reactions irritated her more than the kind jerk at the door. Lucas. Would he ever give up? No one else had access or would care to bother her after the week she’d had.

Larkin tossed back the throw and stomped to the door, not that it did any good. Her feet smacked impatiently against the marble floor. She pulled her robe snugger to her chest and tightened the knot. Not that he’d see it. She planned to stay firmly planted behind the—

Her gasp hit the door and fogged the peephole, obscuring her view of Beckett’s wide neck and jacket-covered chest. Sweat slicked her palms. Her legs actually freaking wobbled. The hair curtaining her face swayed with each heavy breath.

Common sense demanded she keep the door locked and call the police. After all, she’d witnessed him—doing what—stealing things? No, the worst thing she’d seen him do was break and enter. But really, she hadn’t witnessed it. She only knew he ended up in places he shouldn’t be.

Common sense demanded she keep the door locked and converse at a safe distance, but Larkin flipped the lock and pulled the door wide.

Beckett strode inside without a greeting.

She closed the door, locked it, and drank him in. His clothes were different from the night before. The jacket was a dark rip-stop material. The jeans were darker but just as lived in. In a lineup, the entire outfit could pass for the ones he’d worn the night before. He had small cuts on the knuckles of his right hand. The first two, anyway.

While she cataloged him, he stared at her face. His dark eyes never gaped at her plunging neckline or the feet of bare legs on display. For too long, they stood and stared. Two stubborn humans in a standoff to end time.

As it passed, her heartbeat slowed but never regulated. It wasn’t possible in his presence. Just one look at his hands, one glimpse of a memory of what they’d done to her, and it revved once more. She caved before she started panting and rubbing her thighs together, making a complete fool of herself. She’d done it enough in his company.

“Why are you here, Beckett?”

“You weren’t supposed to be on the roof.” His expression remained locked. Cold. Completely different from the last time she’d been in the same room with him.

“Try three bricks next time,” she snapped. “Why are you here?”

“If I knew the answer to that,” he growled, “I wouldn’t be.” Lines formed around his eyes. A furl divided his brows. “You’re not my type.”

“Brunette?” She knew that wasn’t what he meant, but if it would keep him talking, it was worth the jibe.

“Messy.”

Larkin canted her head and glowered.

“Rich. High profile.” His feet shifted for the first time since he stopped inside her apartment.

“Are you hiding from something?”

“I don’t hide. I hunt.”

She swallowed the massive lump in her throat. “That’s why you’re in the shadows. You’re hunting …”

“I’m good at what I do.” Beckett stepped forward, his gaze stalking as he drew near.

“What were you doing in that office?”

“Why were you on the roof?” He stopped less than a foot away from her.

“I wasn’t trying to throw myself off,” she snapped.

His gaze dropped slowly, caressing her neck, chest, hips, and thighs with a simple look. He didn’t speak, only waited.

“I was freezing my ass off,” she hedged.

Not a sound, but the almost imperceptible rise of one brow told her what he wanted. She didn’t want to give it to him. Every time they met, she gave, and he received information. Now, the physical, that was another story.

Larkin compressed her fingers and formed fists. Why did he have this magnetic power over her? No one else ever wielded anything over her. Except for her father, but they weren’t the same.

“Why, Larkin?” He stepped so close his breath tickled her cheek. “Why’d you go to the roof tonight?”

She lifted her chin and challenged his gaze. “I was looking for you.”

“After the other night, I said you’d never see me again. You said you wouldn’t need to. What the hell happened to that?”

“I don’t know.” Larkin pulled at her hair and screamed at the ceiling, more than irritated at herself for her honesty. What was it about him that pulled her so incredibly hard?

“Fuck.”

One hot hand grabbed her nape while the other landed on her hip. He pulled and pushed at the same time. Her back met the wall, and her lips collided with his. They were insistent and greedy. The hand at her hip rose roughly to grasp her breasts.

Her body responded before her mind caught up with the action. Both her hands grabbed hold, one finding his waistband and the other the front of his jacket.

He touched her body as though he owned it. Any other time, the thought would repulse her, but here, with him, Larkin loved the possession. She wanted the same hold over him. Her hands roved up his chest and under his jacket. Warmth engulfed her fingertips, palms, and arms. Soon, she found a button. With both hands, she unsnapped it. Coarse hair and hot skin rewarded her efforts.

Beckett turned her jaw toward the sky and kissed his way down her neck. He yanked at the secure knot of her robe, and her clit pulsed. She’d scream, “Yes, please,” if she had the breath, but they wouldn’t stop breezing in and out of her lungs long enough to her to catch one.

A light three knocks on the front door flash-froze them to one another.

“Who is it?” Beckett’s voice sounded loud in her ear. In reality, it was only because he was so close. She wanted to keep him close.

“I don’t know, but I have a hunch.” Fucking Lucas. “Security. Normal people can’t get up here.”

“Compliment accepted.”

Larkin turned them and pinned him to the wall. “Don’t leave and don’t say anything.” She scraped her mouth over his. “That last part shouldn’t be hard for you.”

His eyes sparked and an almost smile played across his swollen mouth. That tiny win did stupid things to her insides. It made them squishy and warm. In that instant, she knew she was doomed. Addicted. Without hope for survival. Because this man wasn’t a forever guy, and she wasn’t a forever girl. Yet the only thing she wanted to do with her life was make that almost smile appear again and again, forever.

She shoved away from him, cast the inner demon that corrupted her thoughts to the recesses of her brain, and checked the peephole. Sure enough, Lucas stood with a large bouquet of black roses in a crystal vase. Forehead on the door, she adjusted her robe, drew a deep breath, and then opened the door, sure to keep it between them.

“I was heading out for the night, but these arrived.” Lucas shimmied the vase and the stunning display of macabre flowers, assured to boast another colorful card.

“They could have waited until the morning. In fact, all future flowers will be kept in the office,” she ordered.

“I never met a girl who didn’t like flowers.” He flashed a sweet smile.

She was a woman. A woman who didn’t like her space breached by evil, and whoever sent these lovely notes was just that. “Is there anything else?”

“I just wanted to check on you. We’ve been doing maintenance checks all day, and I haven’t had a chance to touch … base.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” She ignored the innuendo.

“I’m having cameras installed on the roof and the security on the access upgraded.”

“No.” The word was out before she could recall it. She had no choice but to back it up with a reasonable explanation. “It’s my private space. No cameras. No upgrade.”

“It’s my job to keep you safe, Larkin.”

“Miss Ashford,” she corrected. “And I’m exceedingly safe.” She needed to turn this around before he continued. “I am concerned about Reagan. She vanished before the board meeting without a word. No note. No call. She’s not answering my texts. Do you know if anything happened today?”

“I didn’t see anyone except for Carl and Dan most of the day. Maintenance.” He shrugged. “Maybe she got sick.”

“Maybe. She’s always called in, though. And she was here this morning.” Her mind whirred for a second. “Could you check the security footage for me?”

“I wish I could, but we were down all day. Last night too.”

Larkin chewed on her lip, and then remembered how swollen and red they must look. She reached for the flowers. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll hear from her by morning.”

“I can bring them in—”

“I have them. Have a good night, Lucas.” She grabbed the flowers, pulled them through the small opening, then closed and locked the door.

Every time she found him where she left him, it would be a surprise. The man was a puff of smoke who could vanish or appear in a flash. But there he was, leaning against the wall, a statue built by the gods in honor of women’s fertility.

She hugged the vase to her chest and gawked.

“He has feelings for you.” It was a statement, uninflected by emotion. A fact.

Larkin nodded.

“Returned?”

Her head shook. “And he knows it.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“Are you trying?”

“Yeah.” He scoffed. “My damnedest not to.”

She licked her lips and hurried past him to the island. The vase fit oddly next to the others. When she turned around, he was on her. His hand wrapped around her waist and lifted. Her thighs hit the cold marble countertop. He spread them wide and wedged himself between them. His mouth was on hers in an instant, driving away all thoughts of the day.

Larkin clawed at his jacket. The slick material whined under her fingernails. She pulled him closer, reveling in the heat that radiated from his chest. It warmed her breasts through the thin silk of the robe. His stubble rasped like sandpaper on her cheek. Her knees bent and stroked up and down his legs and full, tight ass.

“Christ, woman,” he growled.

She shoved the jacket off his shoulders, down his arms, and tossed it to the floor. His shirt came next. Curses melded against her lips. His. Hers.

Beckett didn’t bother with the knot this time. He shoved the robe to the sides, baring her breasts to thighs with the thin strap of material still tied around her middle. She expected an attack, much like their previous encounter. Nearly unhinged strokes and nips, wearing kisses and bruising grips. He stood back. His gaze raked over her top to bottom. He looked at her as though she was a present and untied her bow.

Desire plumped her breasts and slicked her sex.

The foil wrapper crinkled as he pulled it from the back pocket of his jeans and tore it open. Sheathed, he returned with the same fervor. Their bodies collided. She welcomed his invasion into her body. He’d breached her mind a week ago, so there was no keeping him out.

They panted and gasped, shoved and wrestled, fighting for the climax that came too quickly. Larkin shook. Beckett strained. The arm he kept wrapped around her back nearly cut off her oxygen. Then it was over. The shaking ceased. He sagged against her. The one hand he braced on the marble kept them both upright. His head rested on her breasts, so close yet so untouchable.

He pulled from her body and lifted his pants up to his hips without closing them. When he walked away from her, down the hallway, a sense of grief unlike any she’d experienced swept up her bare flesh. She pulled the robe together at the middle. With both hands gripping the ledge, she sought the casual distance that’d guided her through adulthood. Her head sagged between her shoulders.

“Mother fuck.” She muffled the words behind swollen lips and gnashing teeth.

“Hey.”

Her head popped up to find him standing in front of her; condom gone, pants zipped. Why was he saying hi when goodbye was next in line? She couldn’t speak, so she let her brow ask the question.

“Here.” He stepped close. The soft terry of a warm cloth grazed her thigh. He moved it across her most intimate parts while his shielded gaze studied. The consummate examiner.

Larkin schooled her features. The last thing she needed was a crying jag with a witness. He’d seen enough of her emotions on the roof. She watched him care for her as though he’d done it a thousand times. As though caring was a part of his genetic structure. She’d have never guessed it.

Beckett finished and disappeared down the hallway again. He returned, grabbed his shirt, and shrugged it on. His boots remained tied and ready on his feet. They turned away. She expected them to march to the door, but he rounded the sofa. He stopped at the wet bar. Her favorite decanter with her favorite whisky caught his attention. The sound of it meeting a crystal glass made her mouth water. He tossed back a finger and then poured two more in the same glass.

His boots faced her. They stared for a minute, more maybe. She loved the way he looked. He was menacing, sexy, and he intrigued the hell out of her, dammit.

“Come here.”

She gave orders. She didn’t follow them unless he gave them, apparently. Her feet cooled on the floor while she padded his way. For what, she hadn’t a clue.

He sat on the sofa and pulled her down next to him.

“Leave it to you to have the best.” Beckett gulped more of the amber liquid.

“The best driver. The best whisky. The best friends,” she agreed.

“That ain’t all.” He glared at her mouth.

“No?” The tightness in her chest loosed as she toyed with him.

He offered her the glass. She took it and let a sip swirl around her mouth before swallowing.

“Creepy flowers.”

“What?” She gave back the glass.

His stubbled chin hiked toward the counter. When she looked at it, she saw the place where he’d ruined her, not the three large arrangements.

“Yes, they are.”

“Are they all from rent-a-cop Romeo?”

“Not a one.”

“Freaky fan club.”

Boy, he could say that again, but she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to talk about the flowers or the cards they boasted. She didn’t want to talk at all. Talking meant feeling.

“Larkin?”

“Huh?” Her gaze had wandered to the collar of his shirt. The hard lines, coarse hair, and the beat of his pulse had her mesmerized.

“Why were you on the ledge that night?” His question was a quiet rumble, but it sounded so loud in her ears.

She stared at the nearly empty crystal glass and his thick fingers. Her mother’s glass had been empty. Not a drop of Glenlivet. The carpet had soaked it up. Before that, she managed most of the bottle.

His thumb brushed the wide gold bands on her right ring finger.

“You don’t answer my questions,” she bit out, “so why do I have to answer yours?”

“You don’t.” He pulled her hand into his and rubbed the top of her knuckles.

Something about knowing she didn’t have to answer him made her want to. Reverse psychology at its best. “I was going to throw them off.”

“That thing could finance a gorilla war for months.” He toyed with the incredible diamond, then her fingers. “Why would you toss it?”

Larkin couldn’t speak. Her fingers held tightly to his.

“She broke your heart.”

Never had she thought about it that way, but it perfectly described what had happened. “Yes.”

“So badly that you’re not waiting on some knight in Rolls Royce armor to heal it.”

“Ha.” She found his gaze. “You’re too perceptive for my own good. Why are you still here?”

“I’ve met a lot of people in my life, Larkin, in too many cultures and too many countries to name, but I’ve never met someone like you.”

“So the short answer is curiosity.” She offered him a wide pout.

The richest laughter rumbled from his chest. It shook his neck and rattled her insides. “I guess so.” He set the glass on the coffee table and threaded their fingers together. “Why’d you open the door?”

“Same reason, I guess.” It wasn’t the reason at all, and then again, it was the truest reason. They shared the silence together, feeling the interlocking of the puzzle that was their two hands. His giant. Hers small. Both strong.

“You know what curiosity did to the cat, right?” she asked.

“Yep.” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand and then stood. “Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

A command.

“One condition.”

He waited, his eyes once again unreadable.

“What’s your name?”

“Calder Beckett.”

“No middle name?”

“Only serial killers lead with their middle names. I’ll pick you up downstairs at noon.” He pointed at her legs. “In pants and comfortable shoes.” Before she responded, he turned and headed for the door. “Come lock it behind me.”

“Like a lock will stop you.” She tossed his words back at him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about, sweetheart. This world is full of crazy.” He waited until she stood and approached the door, and then he was gone, once again leaving her with more questions than when he’d come.