Everyone had made their calls, either in person or by phone, to check in on her. The night grew dark. Not even a shimmer of moonlight filtered in through her windows. No lights shined inside. She sat on a stool with her wine in hand and stared at the cloudy skyline. An hour ago, her butt had numbed, and then the rest of her body followed suit. If only her brain would. That rat fucker kept on and kept on, poking and prodding the layers of mystery shrouding her life.

There was no way around it. All the evidence stacked against him, reinforcing an insurmountable wall.

Calder Beckett was a stalker.

He just wasn’t stalking her.

Bronson was the reason Beckett had been up on the rooftop that first night. She’d just crashed his stalker party. Then she’d found him again outside Bronson’s apartment, and he’d eluded her grasp. The last time, she’d caught him snooping in her friend’s office.

No, the office hadn’t been the last place she’d seen Beckett near Bronson. The park had been. On their date. On the magical day that was less real than a man pulling a rabbit out of his hat.

The temptation to go to the roof, find him, and shove him off to his death taunted her, but she’d only find unforgiving wind and a chill she couldn’t shake. Well, the wind would be new. The chills had hung with her all afternoon, evening, and crept into the early morning hours. She clutched the blanket tighter around her shoulders and wiped at the tears wetting her chest.

A soft, firm knock sounded at the door.

Larkin turned and stared at the smoothly painted wood as though the inanimate object had called her name. No one should be here at this hour. The girls, all except Libby, had come and gone. Douglas and Lucas too, together. She’d made sure of it. No one had called from the front desk, so no one should be past security and at her door. Then again, no one should have defiled her building. No one should have burned her house to the ground.

She threw off the blanket, leaped from the chair, and ran to the island. Her purse sat in the center of the granite slab where she’d left it earlier. The metal clasp slipped under her frantic grasp. She grabbed the purse and wrestled with it, struggling to free her pistol. Finally, her hand found the metal stock, and she yanked. The purse clattered to the floor.

Another, more aggressive knock came, and then his voice filtered through the door. To keep from collapsing, one hand latched on to the edge of the bar top. The gun shook in her other hand. Tears blurred her vision.

“Larkin, open the door.”

Calder Beckett’s voice sounded too sweet to her ears. Her heart rammed against her sternum to get closer to him. Her brain jerked away from the plea. She turned the pistol around. It weighed her down as though it was a boulder. At the range or on Douglas’s farm, she whipped the thing up with no effort at all, but this was the first time she intended to use it for self-defense … or cold-blooded murder.

She shuffled forward, using the bar for support. The gap between her and the door loomed so wide, dark, and deep, it might have been a trench.

“Larkin. I’m coming in.”

Her head shook, but her mouth refused to move.

Douglas had locked the deadbolt on his way out. She’d watched the lever flip into place. Despite it, the knob twisted, and the door opened slowly. Beckett’s hulking frame blotted the light from the hallway. It emphasized his sheer size and strength. If he intended her harm, would her rounds even penetrate him? Her entire wobbly frame shook at the thought of hurting him.

He stepped inside, closed the door, and drew up short. His gaze locked on her pistol.

“God, Larkin, I’m sorry.”

What did he have to be sorry about? Breaking in? Breaking her heart? Stalking her friend? Lighting her house on fire?

His steps were slow but insistent. Each one brought him closer. Each one closed the chasm between her and sanity. She knew nothing about this man except that he used her to get close to Bronson.

“Stop. Don’t you come near me.” The shrillness in her tone scraped across her eardrums.

He stopped on the other side of the sofa. Too close. The first scent of him hit her like a tranquilizer. Her grip doubled on the pistol.

“I came as soon as I heard about the fire. It took me … for-fucking-ever to get here.” He tugged on the short beard he’d grown since she’d last seen him. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” She shook the gun. “No. No, I’m not okay. Someone tried to kill me.” Tears slid down her cheek in earnest. “I argued with people that it wasn’t you and now …” Her teeth ground together.

“Now what?” His eyes were shiny, black orbs in the dim light.

“I know you’re stalking Bronson Beauregard.”

His nose wrinkled. The massive man looked as though he’d smelled a dubious odor. “Hunting. Not stalking.”

“I put all the pieces together, and now you have to kill me.” If she didn’t kill him first.

Beckett’s head shook gently, just once. As denials went, it was a shit effort on his part.

He moved so quickly, she had zero time to react. His hand was hot over hers, twisting the cold metal from her hand and burning her fingertips from the friction. Before she could register it, his face was too close. His arms too tight around her.

Beckett pressed his mouth to hers. Their mouths tangled in fury and sorrow. It was the best relief and worst betrayal. It cut so deep she could see moonlight shining through her soul.

Sobs wracked her. She shoved him back.

“I wasn’t even in the country when it all went down. I can prove it.” He reached for her. His big hand offering warmth and protection. But he was the one she needed protecting from.

“Bronson?” Her lips trembled. She bit them together.

“I didn’t know you two were friends until the welcome home party. I saw you drop him off. Then you ran after me.” He stepped forward.

She drew back from his reach. “Why did you ask me to lunch in the park?”

“I needed an introduction to Beauregard.”

He should have raised the gun and shot her. It would have been quicker. Cleaner. She slapped at the tears. Too soon, they multiplied, soaking the top of her camisole.

“There’s so much—”

“You’re using me. I get it.” She hated it, and she didn’t understand it at all, but she wouldn’t get real answers from him. Not now. Not ever. “Why are you here? What do you need now?”

“I needed to know you were okay.”

Her swollen eyes closed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t believe me either.”

Her eyes popped open.

He set the pistol on the counter and gestured back and forth between them. “I don’t do this kind of shit.”

“You’re not the only one. So problem solved.” Larkin walked on shaky, bare feet around him and to the door. Before she could open the damn thing, she wiped the tears off her hand onto her lounge pants. “We’re done with each other.”

“No, we’re not.” His voice rumbled, and his breaths hit the back of her neck. The warmth from his body radiated against her back.

Larkin closed her eyes and dug deep, so deep she ripped part of her heart out with the inner strength. “You used me.” She opened the door.

Beckett’s hand flattened against the wood and closed it. She tried to hold it open, but there was no fighting his strength. He pressed his cheek to hers. A connection more profound than any she’d experienced passed between their connected skin, and sobs shook her.

His arms encircled her shoulder. His body shielded her back.

The need to sink into him, to lose every part of herself in this man, tempted her like an illicit drug. Just one more time. Just one more hit. What would it hurt? Everything.

He was dangerous in so many ways.

“No.” Larkin shoved off his hold and wrenched the door wide. “Leave.” She looked him directly in the eyes without blinking.

His head shook.

“Now,” she growled … and sobbed.

“Bronson isn’t who you think he is.”

“Neither are you.”

He opened his mouth to speak.

Larkin wanted all the answers. She wanted him, and everything he could give her, if he would share. There had to be a logical explanation for his behavior.

The muscles in his jaw stretched, then flexed. His mouth closed.

“Goodbye, Beckett.”

He gripped the hem of his leather jacket and strained the material. His head dropped, and he walked through the doorway and out of her life.