My engine had no concept of danger. It ticked as it cooled, and when I pushed the car door open, it creaked. I crept out of the car and around its hood, moving carefully down the long garage, past the vintage Mustang, the Range Rover, jet skis, and motorcycles. I tried the door to the house, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

The interior smelled like pizza and Pledge. The television in the living room was on, and I moved through the kitchen and to the front windows. Light streamed through the open curtains, and I sidled up to them and peeked out.

The Tahoe was parked at an angle, too far away for me to see or hear anything. I saw a blob of person move, and they could have been a sumo wrestler or a six-year-old kid. I gave up my attempt to hide behind the window and just pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands to shield the sun.

Nope. Still couldn’t see anything. I hesitated, then moved to the front door. I gave myself a moment to consider the first option—staying inside like a good little girl. I tossed that to the side and turned the knob, stepping outside and into the situation.

It turns out that the “situation” was waaaay back where Rick had parked his Mercedes. That was where the Tahoe had gotten wise of the situation, attempted to turn around, and got stopped by the front bumper of Lance’s Hummer. I headed toward their cars and made it two houses down before my feet started sweating in my heels. Another house further, I decided to pull them off and go barefoot. Another six steps and I realized the sidewalk was hotter than a skillet. I hopped to the side and put them back on. I continued, sweating through my sundress, and was practically wheezing by the time I approached the confrontation, one that had both of my boys out in the middle of the street, arms folded across their chests, a scrawny little white-haired guy between them. My fear took a nose-dive. This was the guy following me?

I limped up to the threesome and Lance glanced at me. “God, woman, you are out of shape.”

I ignored him and made eye contact with Rick, who nodded at the stranger. “He’s a private eye. Won’t say who he works for.”

“It’s not against the law to follow someone.” The old guy spit on the ground, then looked at me as if I was the criminal.

Lance stepped closer to the vehicle. “I’ve got his name and tag number. I’ll make some calls.” He yawned, obviously disappointed. No doubt he’d wanted a fight, a chance to liven up his Wednesday with something more than a senior citizen with a saliva problem. He opened the Tahoe’s passenger door and the old guy whirled around.

“Hey!”

“Easy.” Rick caught the man’s arm and held him in place, his fingers biting into the man’s leathery flesh. “Just stay right there.”

Lance leaned inside the vehicle. When he straightened, he held an insurance card in his hand, satisfaction stamped on his face. “MJS Holdings owns this car.”

The name meant nothing to me. I turned to Rick, who still had one hand clamped around the man, the other on his phone, his thumb working over the display. “Give me a minute... Got it.”

He looked up. “MJS Holdings is an asset management company.”

Lance shut the car door, the insurance card still in hand. “What assets do they manage?”

“Looks like real estate across the state and casinos.” Rick’s last word caught my attention, the tightness on his face held it. “They own The Majestic.”

“The Majestic,” Lance repeated. “So... Dario Capece.”

Rick nodded. “Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife?”

They turned to me, their eyebrows lifted in question. Between them, the old geezer smirked.

Rick put his hands on his hips and looked at me as if I had the key to the Dario Capece vault of understanding. “This is fucking bullshit. Following you? What the fuck for?”

Lance ran a rough hand through his hair. “You think this is about us? Or her?”

I sank into Rick’s couch. “It can’t be about me. I walked him in and brought him a drink. That was it.”

“He hasn’t contacted you since?”

I frowned. “Since a couple of days ago? No.”

“You are pretty sexy.” Rick leaned against the stone column that helped divide the living and dining room. “Maybe he’s smitten.”

I coughed out a laugh. “Smitten? What are we, in eighteenth-century England? No. But thank you for the compliment.” I blew him a kiss and he tipped an imaginary cap in response. Prying off my sweaty heels, I flopped my bare feet up on the couch. “Is this a valid excuse to be late to work? Because I still need to eat and shower.”

Lance frowned and completely ignored me. “Maybe he’s trying to get dirt on us. Maybe we’re all being followed.”

The room fell silent in the face of this new possibility. I shifted against the leather, half-pleased at the possibility that I wasn’t the main target. I was also half-disappointed, which made no sense, as there was no good situation that involved me being the sole focus of a surveillance operation.

Rick shifted his attention back to me. “Bell, you said you were coming from a friend’s house, right? Who, specifically?”

I lifted one shoulder and freed my hair, which had gotten pinned underneath me. “A guy I’m sleeping with. My stats professor.”

“Wow.” Lance looked down at his hands. “We just dived right into that.”

I shrugged. “It’s the age of sexual empowerment, Lance. I’m not ashamed of it.”

Rick shook his head. “Dario Capece doesn’t care about a college professor, so it’s not about that.”

In the back of my mind, something nagged at me. I tried to capture it, but Lance’s phone rang, and it was gone.

I laid in bed, my hair still damp from my shower, wide awake at four a.m. Somewhere else in the house, I heard the quiet sounds of a sitcom, one which would probably play all night.

It had been a good shift at work. Some big winners, the sort who tipped heavy and laughed a lot. Some big losers, but the kind who didn’t bitch about it and could afford the loss. I’d earned just over three hundred bucks and had forgotten—for those ten hours—the creepy smile of the private investigator. Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife? When the PI had smirked, I’d wanted to shove him against the car, wrap my hands around his neck, and force him to tell me everything. I’d almost lost control and ignored the fact that I was such a tiny, vulnerable kitten in a city full of beasts.

I thought of Dario Capece’s loose and confident stance, the way he had stood at that railing and watched me approach, his eyes moving over me and stopping at my eyes, holding his gaze there. I couldn’t get that look out of my head, the moment between us, the pull of that contact.

I’d met and served a thousand powerful men and been attracted to plenty of them. There had been sparks, flirtations, and chemistry, but none of which compared to that moment.

There had never been anything like the way that connection had filled the air with heat, nor the way my breath had caught in my throat. I saw him and understood why Vegas had fallen at his feet, why the city’s heiress had married him out of all the possibilities. He had been magnetic and I had been almost helpless in the face of it. I had walked away and assumed he hadn’t felt the same, assumed he affected every woman in that way. I had continued with my life and pushed aside any other thoughts of him.

But I couldn’t ignore him any longer. Not when someone from his company had followed me. Was it because of his interest in purchasing The House? Or was it a specific interest in me?

Could he have felt the same connection I did and was now ... stalking me? I frowned at the thought.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table, and I rolled over, glancing at the clock. Almost five in the morning. A little late, or early, for anyone to be up. The text notification was from an unfamiliar number, and I unlocked my phone.

—Bell, this is Dario Capece. I just found out what happened yesterday and would like to apologize. I hope he didn’t scare you.

What the hell? I read it a few times, trying to understand it. How did he even get my number? I typed out a quick response.

why was he following me?

The minutes stretched along with no response and I reread his text, my initial surprise fading, curiosity taking its place. My phone lit up.

—I needed to know more about you.

I rolled onto my side, and repositioned the pillow, struggling with the emotions the text was enticing. I shouldn’t read that text and feel a burst of butterflies. I should be filing a restraining order and double-checking my locks. I should be blocking him on social media. I shouldn’t feel excited that a married man wanted to know more about me. I’d told Lance earlier that it’s the age of sexual empowerment. But a married man was a different animal, one I’d never wrestled with before and had no interest in tangling with now.

I selected his phone number and scrolled through the options until I got to the “block number” selection. It would be so simple. One tap of the finger and no more texts, no chance of a phone call. It’d be the easiest way to send him a clear message.

I backed out of the menu and went to his text.

I hit reply and tried to find the strength to tell him off.