“Pussy,” James mutters. “You’ll be fine in a few days.”

  My eyes fall to the scars dominating every inch of his back. I grimace at the ugly sight and immediately feel terrible for it.

  I look at Danny. The cuts on his arms. The scar that stretches from his lip to his eye. The bullet wound I can’t see on his collarbone and the healing slashes on his chest. Then I turn my eyes to Beau. Her scarred arm that’s uncovered, but only because she’s jumped out of bed and mindlessly dashed here. And to her stomach.

  And finally to my own arms. The evidence of my darker days. In this room there are nightmares galore. We’re all fucked up. Disfigured. And somehow, that’s a comfort.

  I take the oil and climb onto Danny’s back, resting down gently and dripping the lavender oil onto his skin before handing it to Beau as she straddles James’s thighs.

  “What’s going on?” Brad asks, looking between us. “Did someone arrange an orgy and not tell me?”

  I chuckle as I start to rub. “Oh God,” Danny mumbles, his shoulder blades pulling in as I work into the muscles. “Oh yes. Oh yeah. Oh fuck. Ohhhh . . .”

  “Oh, yes,” James groans. “Fuck, yeah. Yes, Beau. Harder, Beau.” He grunts, and Beau chuckles. “Yes, just like that, baby.”

  “Well, this is fucking weird,” Brad muses, resting back, getting comfortable. “You two swapping?”

  “Brad,” Danny and James growl in unison.

  He pouts. “No rubs for me?”

  Danny’s hand suddenly and quite quickly lifts and prods him close to his dressing.

  “Fuck!”

  “Shut the fuck up or get the fuck out.”

  “I can’t fucking move,” he mutters. “It took everything in me to make it here.”

  “Then shut the fu—ohhhh God.” Danny’s head lifts, his neck stretching, and I smile as he lets out an almighty groan, rolling his shoulders. “You’re a goddess.”

  “Yeah,” James whispers. “A total goddess.”

  “And what do we have here, then?” Zinnea appears in the doorway, her false lashes so dramatic they practically reach the hairline of her wig.

  “Want to help?” I ask, hearing Beau sniggering next to me. “Brad needs a foot rub.”

  “Oh, I’m here for it,” she sings, wafting her tiger print kimono as she walks as if on a runway to Brad’s side of the bed. Poor Brad. He looks in a frozen state of shock.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .” He looks at me, then Beau, while James and Danny chuckle and hiss at the same time, their amusement and pain combining. “Oh fuck it,” Brad says, offering Zinnea his feet. “Help yourself.”

  Zinnea’s long, rainbow-striped talons move in, and the moment she touches one of Brad’s feet, he giggles. She withdraws. “Sorry.” Brad looks down at her. “I’m ticklish. You need to be firm.”

  “Just lie back and think of England,” she purrs, getting to work, checking Beau and me and blowing us both a kiss. She just makes the place . . . lighter. Brighter. Not so serious, and we all need that from time to time, especially in this world.

  My hands begin to ache, my fingers sore, but I don’t stop rubbing his muscles back to life, because, frighteningly, if Danny and James are out of action like Brad, we’re all in fucking trouble.

  * * *

  After the chaos and drama of yesterday, it was nice to have a day at home with Danny, just . . . being. Vegging. Kicking around the house, eating, massaging. He’s showered, taken Advil, and is in a lot better shape than he was when he woke up. After dinner, I spend some time with Daniel while he yells at the TV screen, feed the dogs, check in on Pearl and Anya, who both have some color back in their cheeks, and then go find Danny. He’s in his office, alone, quiet, nursing a glass of Scotch.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, disturbing him from his thoughts.

  He looks up. Smiles mildly. “Do you?”

  “I’m really fine, Danny,” I lower to the couch, not liking the torment in his eyes. “In fact, it felt good to help them. All but two had families worried about them or thinking they’d run away from home.”

  He nods, clearly struggling with the memories being raked up. “You know, all I saw in that place was you.” He opens the drawer and picks up the gold letter opener, turning it in his hand, staring at the blade. He’s imagining killing Nox and Ernie all over again — or any man who has ever touched me. He shifts in the chair, as if uncomfortable, his now-working muscles flexing.

  “What do you know about your father?” I blurt out of nowhere, the question I thought I’d filed, obviously not being filed well enough.

  Danny stills, turning his icy blue eyes my way. “What?”

  I look down, wondering what the hell I’ve done. But I’ve asked now. No going back, and at least he’s not heaving like an angry gorilla over my past anymore. “Your biological father,” I say. “I’ve never heard you or Esther talk about him.” Perhaps because they simply don’t talk about anything from their pasts.

  He frowns, and suddenly my husband turns from my masterpiece killer into a lost little boy. “I’ve never asked.” I expect getting his head around Esther was tough enough, and I also know he only ever saw Carlo as his father. “Why are you asking?”

  I shrug lamely. “I don’t know.” My hand goes to my stomach, and that tells him everything. And perhaps subconsciously I am wondering, since I have no parents.

  He smiles, standing and coming to me, kneeling before me and resting his hands on my thighs. “This family not big enough for you?”

  “Of course, it’s just—”

  “Carlo Black is my father. Carlo Black is Daniel’s grandfather and our baby’s grandfather.”

  I purse my lips. Understood. But I don’t say that. Instead, I smile and feel at his face. “We need to talk about the girls that are here. Pearl and Anya.”

  “Can we do that later?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I relent easily. I just want to make his life easier for a while. “Coffee?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” He stands and stretches, making a noise about it too.

  “I’m going shopping with Beau tomorrow to buy something for her to wear at her father’s funeral.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do not try to stop us.”

  “Would I?”

  I snort and head for the door as Danny’s phone rings and he mumbles something about there being no rest for the wicked. I look back as I get to the door, seeing him gazing down at his cell on the desk with a dirty look. And I’m reminded that I can try all I like to make his life easier, but I will never fully be able to take him away from this life.

  Danny answers in silence as I take the handle, and just as the door meets the frame, I hear him say, “What do you want, Sandy?”

  And I walk away wondering who the hell Sandy is.

  21

  JAMES

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been a grouchy fuck since we came back from St. Lucia.” I stir my coffee, eyes on Otto, as he moodily taps away on his laptop at the island in the kitchen. Esther’s back. I was banking on that putting a smile on his face, but Esther was here all day yesterday faffing around the house and everyone in it, and Otto was nowhere to be seen.

  “Winstable was bought by someone called John Theodore Little,” he says shortly. Okay, so he wants to talk shop.

  “And who is John Theodore Little?” I ask, humoring him.

  “Don’t know. I can’t find anything on him.”

  “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Very. I’ll keep digging. Still nothing on Cartwright and I’ve got Len following Natalia Potter.”

  “And Burrows?” I ask, wondering what his fucking game is and where he is.

  Otto looks out the corner of his eye at me, then back over his shoulder, checking the coast is clear. “Beau’s tried calling him. He’s not answering.” He turns his screen toward me, showing me Beau’s phone records, and I sink deeper onto my stool. It could be in shame. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s not that Burrows is her ex. The last time they spoke he wanted to meet her, and now nothing? He’s not at work. Annual leave. Escaping? Hiding?

  “What are you thinking?” Otto asks.

  “I’m thinking Beau is right. Maybe The Bear doesn’t have anyone on the inside anymore, which is why everyone appears to be jumping ship.” I look at Otto. “Which means my conclusion on Burrows is wrong.”

  “You don’t think he’s bent?”

  “I don’t know,” I muse. It would fucking suck if he’s not, because it would remove one solid good reason from my list of solid good reasons to kill him. Aside from that, how would The Hound know where and when to find me the day I was arrested for Spittle’s murder if Oliver Burrows didn’t tell him?

  “Or maybe they all simply want independence again,” Otto says. “Besides, I’m afraid the Burrows situation is not dissimilar to the Dexter situation. Even if he is/was bent, Beau isn’t going to let you touch him. Torture him. Keep him against his will.”

  “If she knows,” I say quietly.

  “You’re a dick if you think you’d get away with that.” He’s right. And once again I’m damning my girl for being a former cop.

  “Not that it matters because no one knows where the fucker is.” I clench my fists and push them into the worktop. Just give me The Bear. The thought of him disappearing without a trace fucking pains me. Justice. Vengeance. It might never be ours.

  “Has anyone spoken to the girls?”

  “You mean Pearl and Anya?” I ask, and he nods. “Rose and Beau have been with them. And Esther. It’s a gently does it situation.” We can’t go steaming in demanding every detail they can tell us. Well, we could, but Rose would have something to say about it. I would have guessed she’d be the one most deeply affected by Monday’s events. Turns out she’s found fuel in the situation. It’s Danny who has struggled.

  “Let me know.” Otto snaps the lid of his laptop closed and gets up. “I’m going for a workout.”

  Workout. Just the word makes my muscles hurt again, and I stretch my arms high, relishing the pull. “Where’s Danny?”

  “His office. I’m passing by so will let him know about the buyer of the boatyard.”

  “Don’t kill each other, will you?” I return to my coffee, mulling things over. I didn’t think the plot could thicken more, but here I am chewing it over like a piece of fat that refuses to break down.

  I pick up my phone and look down at the screen. At the email I received this morning—the one I was expecting but not prepared for. Not prepared at all, which means Beau definitely won’t be.

  “Morning.”

  I quickly clear the screen and turn on my stool, finding a sweaty Beau behind me. “You were up early,” I say, following her path to the fridge, pouting, my eyes fixed to her firm, peachy arse.

  “I didn’t think you’d be game for a workout.” She takes some orange juice and drinks straight out of the carton, leaning back on the countertop. She has a long-sleeved running top on that covers her scar.

  I get up and wander casually over, and she pulls the carton away from her mouth a fraction, swallowing, eyes on me. Yesterday I was good for nothing except moaning and hurting. The day off was welcome. Beau seemed present, only marginally distracted. I’d like to put that solely down to her father’s funeral tomorrow and the delivery the next day. Unfortunately, I can’t. Burrows is missing and Beau’s had her suspicions piqued by him, Cartwright, and now Detective Collins. The chances of them all fucking off isn’t likely. So is the chance of Beau letting it go. Letting go and accepting her father really was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a shitter this is. I need her focused. Focused on me, focused on what she desperately wants. Which leads me back to my day off yesterday. It felt totally wasted not being able to spend it buried in Beau.

  But I’m feeling a lot better today. Still a little sore, but I’m not feeling quite as debilitated as I did. “Not that kind of workout,” I say quietly, reaching her, standing toe to toe but keeping my hands to myself as I look down at her.

  Go on. Shine for me. Do it.

  Blinding white sparkles pop in the depths of her dark eyes, and my heart pops with love. I take the carton from her limp hand and put it on the counter behind her, and then dip and sink my face into her neck, breathing out long and slowly when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me. Bliss. I lift her from the ground and squeeze her to my body, wanting her as close as I can get her, and she reciprocates, humming her happiness. The signs are good, and I’m quickly hatching a plan to get her back in bed and make up for lost time. But first . . .

  “How are you feeling about tomorrow?” I ask, grabbing under her thighs and placing her on the counter.

  “How are your muscles?”

  Translated, she doesn’t want to talk about her father’s funeral. Okay. “How are you feeling about the delivery?”

  She smiles as she watches her fingertip draw a line across my bottom lip. “Fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure I can manage towing a line of jet skis from point A to point B and play a dumb female should the Coast Guard stop us.”

  “Play?”

  She gasps, punching my bicep, and I hiss. I hate that she’s way more at ease with this than I am, but that’s just Beau. And I am me—totally besotted and maybe a little protective—so I need to be at ease too. “I think I need another massage.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Oh, I do.” I swoop in and claim her mouth, pushing my tongue deep and rolling wide, forcing my chest to hers.

  Someone clears their throat, and I pull away quickly, my attempted seduction interrupted. Fuck it. Beau smirks and claims her juice, looking past me. “Morning,” she chirps as I glance back, releasing her. Esther goes straight to the dishwasher and starts emptying it.

  “Morning, you two.”

  “Otto’s in the gym,” Beau says nonchalantly, making her freeze in her bended position, armed with handfuls of knives and forks. She lifts her eyes. I raise my brows. Beau presses her lips into a straight line.

  “Good for him.” She goes about her business, and Beau and I peek at each other, me warning her to leave it there. In all the years I’ve known Otto, I’ve never known him to be committed to one woman. I hate doubting that he has it in him, but I’m being a realist. We have a nice balance here, everyone gets along, and any fornicating could rock the boat. Danny and Otto are already at each other’s throats. This will end only one way. Blood. Because the chances of Otto settling down, and it would be settling down because Esther wants and deserves that and her son wouldn’t have it any other way, is about as likely as Beau becoming consistently submissive.

  Of course, Beau doesn’t heed my warning. “Glad to be back?” She slips down off the counter and has another swig of the orange juice.

  “Yes, I am, th—” Esther puts a pile of plates down, looking disgusted, and marches over to Beau, swiping the carton from her hands. “How many times do I need to tell you, don’t drink straight from the carton.”

  “You’ve never told me that.” Beau laughs, claiming the plates and putting them away.

  “I haven’t?”

  “You definitely haven’t.”

  “So many people in this damn house.” Esther tips the remaining juice into a jug and puts it in the fridge. “I need to call a family meeting. Remind a few people of the house rules.” She returns to faffing around the kitchen, and I jerk my head at Beau, telling her silently to move her arse.

  She tilts her head. I tilt mine. She drops her eyes to my groin. I pout as she glances back up. I see hunger. Another jerk of my head. I need her in the best mood today, the most amenable mood. This is a good start.

  Goldie walks in, stops, looks between us. “What’s up with you two?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing.”

  Dubious, she goes to the fridge and pulls out the jug of orange juice, tipping it to her lips, still watching us. Beau snorts, I smile, and Esther yells, “Goldie!”

  She jumps, sending the juice everywhere, mostly up her nose.

  “How many times have I got to tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Goldie asks, between coughing and spluttering.

  “My God.” Esther swipes the jug from her hand and wipes around the rim. “Use a damn glass!” she yells at the top of her voice, obviously hoping the whole house will hear.

  Goldie looks thoroughly scorned, shrinking in her suit on the spot. It’s quite a sight. “Sorry.”

  “Never mind,” Esther breathes, exasperated. “Eggs?”

  “Please.” Goldie settles on the stool, peeking at us in question, to which we both deny any knowledge of Esther’s short mood. “Where’s Otto?” she asks.

  Beau chuckles, exiting the kitchen sharply, and I’m soon going after her, eyeing her sweaty form as she takes the stairs, mentally ripping her sticky gym gear from her wet body as I tail her.

  I reach for her wrist as we near the top and seize her. “Finally,” I whisper, hauling her around and up my body, taking her mouth. She wraps her limbs around me and devours my mouth as I walk us back to our room. Distract her with work, distract her with sex. That is my mission, and I choose to accept it.

  “There you are.” Rose’s voice has Beau pulling away, and I groan my protest, looking up to see her pulling the door of their room closed. She looks like she means business, adorned in a cream silk floaty summer dress and enough gold bangles to stretch her arms to the floor. “Why aren’t you ready?” she asks as Beau slides down my front, rubbing me in places I shouldn’t be rubbed unless we’re alone.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “Ready for what?” Where on earth do they think they’re going?

  “Shopping,” Rose says confidently, too confidently, fastening her purse as she comes to us, looking at Beau in disapproval.

  “Shopping?” I snort. “I don’t think so.” But Beau and Rose leaving the mansion isn’t my main issue here. I have somewhere I need us to be.

  “I have nothing to wear tomorrow,” Beau says quietly, losing all lightness.