Max banged his hand on the steering wheel as he drove. Damn it, he still couldn’t believe this had happened—not any of it. He couldn’t believe he’d let Carlo slink away and get his hands on Kimberly. And he also couldn’t believe that after all the trouble they’d gone to, things hadn’t come off as planned—the little creep had still managed to get away without doing anything illegal.

Max had thought the guy would lay back and let a flirtatious, assertive woman set the pace and issue the invitation, but he’d misjudged Carlo’s ego. And he was a better P.I. than that—he should have had a back-up plan in place and kept a closer eye on the bastard. Damn all the distractions that kept making him mess up—distractions caused over and over again by Kimberly.

“Put your seat belt on,” he snapped, glancing briefly over at her in her pretty little dress as he drove like a maniac trying to keep up with Carlo on the winding road.

Her scowl reached across the car at him as she fastened the belt, then said, “You need to put yours on, too.”

He spared her only another quick glimpse before refocusing on the turns in front of him and the rear bumper of Carlo’s car in the distance. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Then I’ll help you.”

“No, don’t—”

But she was already reaching over him to grab the belt, and he was saying, “You’re gonna make me wreck the car, Brandt,” but he managed to get his left arm through the opening without killing them, and she finally got it snapped into place at his hip.

After which he murmured, “Thanks,” because as irritated as he was by life itself at the moment, it had been a caring gesture.

The long chase led them across town and into a part of the Warehouse District that—despite some revitalization nearby—remained rife with old warehouses and deserted buildings. Many of the structures harbored broken windows—some that had been boarded up, others that hadn’t. Holes and broken pavement pockmarked the street. Now this, he thought, finally makes sense. The Warehouse District had Carlo’s name written all over it.

Max slowed his speed and hung back a bit—Carlo had suddenly slowed a little, too, since entering the rundown area. And apparently he had no idea he was being followed, the schmuck. It irritated Max to know Carlo probably thought he and Kimberly were still back at the house lamenting what had happened, and it bugged him even more that he thought Kimberly had really been into him. It all just added to his determination to beat the guy at his own game.

“Look!” Kimberly said, pointing. Up ahead, Carlo had braked before one of the old brick warehouses and turned into the drive in front.

Max immediately pulled the Porsche to the side of the barren street, where they both watched in silence, although it was too far away to see much. Reaching under his seat, he snatched up a small pair of binoculars and peered through them.

“What do you see?”

“Looks like he’s pulled up to a keypad, punching in a code to get him inside.”

Then a large metal door lifted, and Carlo drove through, the door descending just as quickly behind him.

“Damn,” Max muttered, lowering the binoculars.

“Damn what?” Kimberly asked. “We know where he goes now. This is probably where the kingpins of the business operate.”

Sure, that much was good news, but Max shook his head anyway. “We don’t have anything on them. Still no hard, tangible proof. I’ve gotta get something concrete, Brandt. If we have any chance of nailing Carlo and whoever his bosses are, I’ve gotta get inside that warehouse and take a look around, see what’s going on.”

She just gaped at him. “Are you crazy, Tate? We have no idea what’s behind those walls.”

“And there’s only way to find out.”

He turned off the car and opened his door. But she kept staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “This isn’t safe. I don’t even know what you’re planning, but I can tell you it’s not safe.”

“Wait here,” he said. “And if I’m not back in half an hour, call in the cavalry—by which I mean Frank.” He pressed the keys into her hand.

But she was shaking her head at him, vehemently now. “You’re not going in there, Tate.”

“Yes, I am.”

She released a heavy sigh. “Well then, you’re not going in there without me.”

Max just looked at her. Kimberly. Sweet, brave Kimberly. Whose ability to handle this situation he wasn’t so sure he trusted, even now. And whose heart seemed so big, bigger than he’d ever realized before.

He wanted to tell her there was no way in hell she was going inside that building with him. But they were partners on this case. She’d seen him through this far. If she really wanted to come, he didn’t think he had any right to stop her.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.

“Completely.”

He cast her one more sideways glance, and spoke quietly. “All right then. Let’s go.”

They got out of the car and walked up a cracked, neglected sidewalk toward the large building, hanging close to the other warehouses along the way just in case Carlo or anyone else was on the lookout from inside. When they grew closer, Max pointed out a single door at the corner of the structure near the freight door Carlo had entered.

Then he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his khaki shorts. “I’m calling Frank,” he said. “As a precaution.”

A moment later, Frank’s voicemail picked up, complete with soft blues music behind the friendly message delivered in a cool tone of voice. “Hi there. You’ve reached Frank Marsallis’s personal line. Leave a message when the music ends.”

“Frank, it’s Max. It’s Sunday afternoon, just after one o’clock. Kimberly and I have tailed our suspect to a building on Lang Street in the Warehouse District, with a faded sign that says Dormer and Sons over the door. We’re going in to take a look around. I’ll call you when we’re out, but if you don’t hear from me…well, just make sure you hear from me, okay?”

Disconnecting, he shoved the phone in his pocket—and began to have second thoughts about letting Kimberly go with him. A minute ago he’d been strictly in professional mode—thinking of Carlo and how to bring this operation down, thinking of the job and the life of a P.I. in general—which sometimes held danger. But this definitely held danger. And the more time he spent with Kimberly, the less he was able to keep anything about it professional.

He turned to her as they walked. “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this, Brandt?” Then he took a slightly different approach. “You might be of more use to me on the outside.”

But she wasn’t buying it. The challenging expression on her face told him so as she looked squarely into his eyes. “I’m a better P.I. than you think, Max,” she said very quietly.

The claim inflicted a little guilt, catching him off guard. “Kimberly, despite the Carpenter case, I…think you’re a fine P.I. Honest.”

Kimberly pulled in her breath. He’d just called her by her first name, not her last. It shouldn’t have affected her—it was normally something she took little notice of one way or the other—but at the moment, it pierced her heart just a little. Because yes, he’d called her by her name during certain intimate moments this weekend, and when faking things in Carlo’s presence—but otherwise, he’d kept it all business in that way. Until just now.

Still, she didn’t think he sounded or looked truly convinced. And maybe it was silly at this point, but she still suffered the burning urge to show him, prove to him, that she could work alongside him, doing the same job and doing it well. It was a matter of professional pride and it ran deep. In the beginning, he’d been her mentor and then she’d let him down. What had happened back at the house just now with Carlo had made her feel like she’d let him down again—she’d been unable to handle the situation, after all, and she’d been frighteningly close to crumbling. She had to make him see that she wouldn’t let him down anymore.

“I intend to go, Tate.”

He tilted his head and she waited for the argument she saw in his eyes—but then he merely sighed. “All right, Brandt. All right.”

A minute later, his hand rested on the doorknob and she stood behind him, an eerie sense of danger biting into her spine. She’d told him back in the car that this was crazy, yet here she was doing it—she’d pretty much forced her way in on this, in fact—and it was too late to back out now.

Only when he turned to look at her did she realize how close they stood, and she fought back the impulse to reach out, touch him, cling to him. Because whether that was about fear or desire, this wasn’t the time to let him see either.

“This would be a lot easier in the dark, but we don’t have that luxury. Stay low,” he cautioned. “When we get in, look for the nearest thing to hide behind and get there fast.”

Her heart beat a wild rhythm as Max gently turned the doorknob—and voila, it opened with a barely audible click.

So when he took her hand, she welcomed the contact, the connection that provided a small sense of safety, the reminder that they were in this together. Then he led her into the enormous open-to-the-ceiling building where muffled voices could be heard somewhere, and guided her silently across the concrete floor until they could step behind a forklift that held a stack of wooden pallets.

She experienced no real measure of relief, though, until she stealthily peeked around to peer past the pallets and to see that no one had heard them, no one was rushing to see who had just come inside.

Then she turned to look at Max, who gave her a short, unexpected hug that quickened her pulse even as it reassured her. She’d done plenty of unusual work since joining the ranks as a P.I., but she’d never done anything like this before; she’d never done anything that made her feel as if she were in this deep.

Her only comfort was being in it with him. Despite her fears, she was glad she hadn’t waited in the car—she would have gone crazy not knowing what was happening to him inside.

He took her hand back in his as they moved along the enormous outer wall of the building, thankfully barricaded by piles of crates and rows of steel drums. She studied the place as they made their way. It didn’t look like the office of some grand jewelry thieving ring. It looked like a normal warehouse, dim of light and stacked with slatted wooden containers, the word Fragile stamped on their sides. Above her loomed aging rafters—from some hung bare lightbulbs dangling at the end of old wires.

Yet Carlo had come in here. What did it mean?

“Shipping,” she suddenly whispered.

“What?” Max asked, just as soft.

“Carlo said he worked in shipping.” She motioned to a stack of crates. “Maybe this is a legitimate business and he just works here.”

Yet her companion looked skeptical. “I don’t think so. He high-tailed it here too fast. And besides, I just have a funny feeling—call it a P.I.’s sixth sense—that we’re extremely close to some answers.”

Over the last few years, Kimberly had developed that same P.I.’s sense herself, and despite her suggestion, she agreed with him. In the distance, she still heard faint voices that reignited her fears, reminding her that they were in real danger from more people than just Carlo.

“What now?” she asked, voice still low.

“Now we investigate a little.”

It sounded impossibly dangerous. “How?”

Max pointed to a nearby crate on the floor. It appeared neatly—and recently—packed, the top still open. “Let’s see what these guys ship.”

He silently reached inside and pulled out a heavy glass pitcher made of creamy white ceramic, the inside stuffed with wads of newspaper that would keep it from breaking in transit. Setting it aside, he dug through the straw in the crate, uncovering more of the same. But when he started to return the first pitcher to its place, they both heard the slight jiggle in the bottom of it.

Their gazes met briefly before Max reached inside, pulling out the newspaper. When he uncrumpled it, Kimberly fought to hold in her gasp—a ruby-studded necklace lay nestled within the newsprint.

“They must smuggle the stuff out in these things,” Max whispered, “using the glassware as a front.”

“What do we do with it?” she asked, her eyes still glued to the shimmering rubies.

Max hesitated, then stuffed both the newspaper and the necklace back inside the pitcher. “We leave it where we found it, for now. I’m not done investigating yet.”

“But isn’t this enough to take to the pol—”

He lifted two fingers to her lips, gently quieting her, eyes wide with warning—and she immediately understood why.

“Beautiful stuff, isn’t it?” The voice belonged to Carlo.

Kimberly froze in dread, her chest going as tight as a rubber band—before realizing he wasn’t talking to them.

He stood just beyond the crates they now crouched behind, speaking with another man. She raised up just enough to see several diamond necklaces dangling from the fingers of a paunchy, older guy next to him.

“Sure is,” the paunchy man said. “The boss is gonna love it.”

Carlo laughed. “Now you know the boss doesn’t have an eye for this stuff—it’s all just sparkly, shiny money to him.”

The other man lowered his gravelly voice. “So, how’d you do this weekend?”

“Eh, not so well,” Carlo said on a sigh. “Guy caught me messing with his wife and I had to split. And you know the boss’s golden rule—never let anybody see you take it. Couldn’t swing that this time, so I came away empty-handed.”

Paunchy Man shook his head. “The boss ain’t gonna like that, Coletti. Your little habit of playin’ around with rich wives cost you a heist.”

Carlo gave an arrogant shrug. “It’s the first time I’ve ever messed up. The boss shouldn’t have any complaints about me.”

“So,” Paunchy said, a toothy grin spreading across his face, “how was the woman?”

“Totally hot,” Carlo said. “And totally crazy about me.”

“How far did you get before you got caught?”

Carlo smiled. “All the way,” he lied. “And even without any jewelry, it was well worth the effort.”

The two men snickered and, next to her, Max went tense—so she instinctively squeezed his hand to calm him. He squeezed hers back, sending a small, warm charge of energy melting through her bones even in the midst of danger.

After chatting a minute more, the two men went their separates ways, leaving that part of the warehouse blessedly quiet again.

“What now?” Kimberly asked Max.

“We keep investigating.”

“What else are we looking for? We already found some stolen jewelry. Isn’t that enough?”

Yet Max sent her a reproachful glance. “Even if you and I know what we’ve seen is stolen, we still don’t have hard, cold proof. And I’ve come too far on this to leave anything to chance. But the door’s right over there if you want to head back to the car.” He pointed.

And she reminded herself: Stay tough. Be the P.I. you know you can be. Do what it takes to solve this case and bring these crooks down once and for all.

“I’m ready,” she said staunchly beside him.

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to investigate. Ready to do whatever it takes to send these guys to jail.”

He just blinked and looked at her, brows lifting.

“Don’t look so shocked, Tate,” she said. “It doesn’t become you.” Then she studied their surroundings. “Now, I’m thinking that door over there leads to an office of some kind. See the desk and filing cabinet through the glass? I don’t think anyone’s in there and it might be a good place to locate some paperwork that could be used as evidence, or for keeping stolen property before it’s packed up and smuggled out. What do you think?”

A slow grin spread across his handsome face, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just impressed her boss. “I think you’re right, Brandt.”

Still holding hands, they cautiously made their way to the door she’d indicated—and after peeking around a barricade of steel drums, Max motioned her forward. She scurried silently to the door and turned the knob, her heart beating frantically, then slipped inside. He followed.

Together they began rifling through paperwork—she handling the cluttered beat-up old desk, he digging in the files. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for, so she only hoped she’d recognize it when she saw it.

And it wasn’t long before Max stood at her side, silently pointing to a rumpled bill of lading clutched in his fist—and she saw the skewed numbers instantly. Someone had paid Dormer and Sons for fifty vases with over half a million dollars!

“Not all the invoices are like this,” he whispered hurriedly. “Some of their business must be legit. The rest they must run through their system like this, pushing it off as extremely expensive glassware.”

Their eyes met in triumph, then he folded the piece of paper and crammed it in his pocket, obviously ready to go to the police.

But then it occurred to Kimberly to wonder… “Crooks make out invoices for their stolen goods?”

Max shrugged. “I guess crooks need a way to track their profits just like anybody else, especially in an operation as big as this one appears to be. And laundering money makes an excessive amount of it a lot less noticeable. Now let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

They were making their way toward the office door when Max stumbled over a metal waste can, sending it toppling with a crash that echoed up from the concrete floor.

Going still as statues, their eyes shot to the tipped-over can before raising to each other. The noise had been too loud. And the timing couldn’t have been worse—Kimberly could faintly detect voices coming from outside the office just beyond their view.

“Great stuff, Reggie,” a deep-voiced man said. “Good work, as usual.”

“Thanks, boss.” It sounded like the paunchy man again.

“Boss, I just heard something.” This voice, however, clearly belonged to Carlo.

And before she and Max could even move, the office door burst open, the three men looking in.

“Shit,” Max said.

“You’re about waist deep in it,” Carlo replied.