LA. December. The ocean.

  God, I was in my room. In my bed.

  It had been a dream.

  I fell back on the pillows, taking deep, slow breaths to try to get my heart back under control, and stretched, enjoying the aching feeling in my core.

  Of course, enjoying that feeling led directly to me thinking about what had brought it on.

  And that brought the more rational voice in my head right to the forefront.

  What. The. Hell. First I’d found Joseph Rossi on the beach in Santa Monica, and then I’d caught him following me not once, but twice. I’d thought at first that it was just coincidence, and then that he might actually be there on some sort of contract for my life.

  Then I’d seen him standing at the parade with Donny Patrelli—a man my own contacts had specifically warned me about—and something in my brain had snapped.

  I’d suddenly been able to think of nothing more than Joseph’s safety, and the fact that he was evidently out here on the West Coast by himself, and meeting with a man so dangerous that my guards had told me to avoid him at all costs.

  I’d studied Joseph’s face for several moments before he noticed me, and I’d known him well enough to see that he wasn’t comfortable, either. He was nervous as hell.

  He’d been sent into the lion’s den with nothing more than a knife. And he’d been sent alone.

  I’d suddenly been so furious, so angry at his father or whoever had sent him here, that everything else had flown right out of my mind. All I’d been able to think about was getting to him and warning him about the man he was talking to—and asking him, on the side, what the hell he was doing following me around.

  I’d seen him go into the bar with Patrelli. And I’d waited until they’d both had enough to drink that they were sloppy. Less observant.

  When Joseph got up to go to the bathroom, he’d been easy prey.

  That didn’t justify the conversation we’d had, though, and it certainly didn’t justify me letting him kiss me.

  It also didn’t justify the thrill that had run through me at how close he was. Or the even bigger thrill I’d felt when he admitted that he was worried about me.

  It definitely shouldn’t have led to the dream I’d just awoken from.

  I bit my lip, stared hard at the ocean, and reminded myself that I knew who Joseph Rossi was. He was the oldest son of my father’s enemy. The future scion of the Rossi family, and therefore a man I should never have known as anything other than the head of another family.

  A man who had once been my best friend. My partner in crime.

  My first kiss.

  And a man whose father would rather see me dead than alive. I knew for a fact that his father had taken contracts out on much of my own family. They weren't always fulfilled—my father's people were too good for that—but it didn't change the fact that Fat Jimmy Rossi had no love for people with my blood. People with my name.

  His men had beaten Joseph to within an inch of his life when they found him with me, and I had no doubt that they’d done it on Fat Jimmy’s order.

  Joseph was not a man I should ever have risked my life knowing. He certainly wasn’t a man I could afford to harbor feelings toward.

  And besides that, he was part of my old life. A very dangerous part of my old life. I’d come to LA to leave that life behind, and Joseph Rossi suddenly showing up and pushing his way into my view didn’t change that.

  I didn’t want anything to do with the New York mob anymore.

  And that included Joseph Rossi.

  Which was perfect, because I didn’t have feelings for him, anyhow.

  As for the danger he was so concerned about, Caleb Massimo was a lot of things, top amongst them a Grade A prick and a guy with a hot temper. I’d thought more than once that he might also have had some pretensions toward the mob itself and might have thought that I was some sort of audition for joining the family.

  I’d had to pull my gun on him to get him to back off, the night I broke it off with him, because he'd thought he was a tough guy, and thought he had a say in whether he had to let me go or not.

  Which just proved that I could take care of myself. I’d spent the last five years watching my own back, and before that I’d spent eighteen years training with my father when it came to staying out of trouble.

  If Caleb decided to make a nuisance of himself, I could handle it on my own. I didn’t need Joseph Rossi here playing the big man on campus.

  I didn’t need him here messing with my emotions.

  I slid out of bed and stalked toward the kitchen to make coffee, finishing the thought as I went.

  In the final analysis, it would be better for everyone when he headed back to New York and forgot about me again. I just hoped he was planning on leaving soon, and without seeking me out anymore. Because I knew he was bad news, and I knew I couldn’t afford to get involved with him.

  But knowing that with my brain and knowing it with my heart were two very different things. And I didn’t want him to come around and make it any more confusing than it already was.

  12

  JOSEPH

  THE LAST NIGHT

  The restaurant was so heavily decorated that I had trouble getting through the front door.

  It hadn't been my first choice, and honestly I'd never even heard of the place before, but the girl at the front desk of the hotel I was staying at—the biggest hotel in West LA, thank you very much—had insisted that I try it, saying it was basically a California legend.

  Personally, I doubted any place in California could make Italian food worth a damn—or Italian food that competed with its counterpart in New York—but I hadn't had any other recommendations, so I'd taken the name and address and called a cab.

  If the decor was anything to go by, the food was going to be horrible.

  The entire place was decked out in garland and twinkly white lights, and unless they were using some serious air freshener, those were fresh pine boughs rather than plastic.

  They must have murdered hundreds of trees to get it done.

  The thought brought an ironic smile to my lips. I was part of the mob, which meant murder—or at least killing—was part of my everyday life. I'd grown up with it. Lost friends and relatives to it. Seen it happen right in front of my face.

  And yet here I was about to shed a tear for the hundreds of trees that had been massacred so this restaurant could try to dress itself up as a forest.

  I guessed it was their version of decorating, though, and as I looked around and took in the addition of a red or gold ribbon here or there, and some Christmas ornaments tucked into the garland on the front of the hostess' stand, I started to see the theme. A row of nutcrackers marched across one of the beams over the entryway, and wrapped boxes—probably fake, but who knew?— sat in the corner, just waiting for some kid to think they were the real thing and try to open them.

  When I glanced through the entry toward the restaurant itself, though, I realized that this wasn't the sort of place you brought kids to. Everyone was in black tie formal or something a step above that, the penguin suits thick on the ground. Several of the men were actually wearing roses in their lapels, and I saw more than one woman with a corsage on.

  God, maybe I should have made reservations. I was wearing a suit, of course—had been since I finalized my business with Patrelli earlier—but I hadn't realized this place was so... upscale.

  Given the number of suits in the room, I was starting to feel like I'd walked into some meeting of the Five Families in New York. Minus the furtive looks and guns.

  At least I hoped so, as I'd left mine back at the hotel and didn't exactly feel like being caught unarmed in a shoot-out tonight.

  I gave the hostess my name—or the fake one I was using—and told her that yes, it would only be me tonight, and moments later I found myself sitting at the bar facing the kitchen. It wasn't the most sophisticated place I'd ever sat, and the bar stool was less than comfortable, but I wasn't going to complain about being so close to the booze.

  "Your best house red," I told the bartender who slid a menu my way.

  He nodded and left, and I glanced down to see the place offered all the usual Italian fare. Spaghetti with meat sauce—and meatballs if you were feeling brave—lasagna, gnocchi, fettuccine alfredo, chicken parm...

  I made my decision quickly—I'd always been a sucker for spaghetti with meatballs—and then looked up into the mirror over the bar, taking in the room in reverse. Nothing new to see there, really. Garland, garland, and more garland. Rich people with too little to do. There was a Christmas tree in the corner that I hadn't noticed before, done up in only twinkling lights and looking awfully classy, and the tables were spaced out enough that the place actually looked...

  Nice, I conceded. It looked a lot nicer than I'd originally thought.

  A sip of the wine the bartender brought upped my opinion even more, and when I actually turned and looked over the room, I was feeling a whole lot more generous toward the place.

  When I saw Sloane Brennan sitting at a table by herself, tucked into an almost-hidden corner in the foyer and engrossed in what looked like some sort of textbook, I nearly spat out the mouthful of wine I'd just taken.

  What the fuck was the girl doing, figuring out where I was going to be every day and then finding a reason to be there herself? This was the third time I'd run into her by accident, and it was starting to feel a whole lot less accidental.

  Of course I knew I was fooling myself. There were zero reasons for her to be reverse-stalking me—or regular stalking me—given the situation. She'd made it perfectly clear that she didn't want to see me again in that dark hallway in the bar.

  Or at least that was what she'd said with her mouth. Her body, her eyes, her lips... Those had all said something completely different. I might have been too quick to kiss her, but she hadn't exactly resisted. And I'd seen how much she wanted me to do it again.

  Of course that had been before she started poking at me.

  She'd left bruises, by the way. I'd checked.

  Now, though... I watched as she frowned at the book in front of her, wrote something in the margins, and then sat back and stared at it, like she was waiting for it to suddenly give her the answer she was looking for. That pose must have worked, too, because a moment later her brow grew smooth and she grinned to herself, then ducked forward to writing something else in the book.

  Part of me screamed at the fact that she was actually defacing a book that way. Another part desperately wanted to know what she was writing, and why she was in this schmoozy restaurant doing what looked like studying.

  On Christmas Eve.

  This wasn't some coffee shop or cheap café. I hadn't gone to college, and I hadn't been that great at high school, but even I knew this wasn't the sort of place you took your books and spread them across the table, staying for hours and hours while you got ready for the next big test. I still didn't know what Sloane was doing in LA, exactly, but this... Well, she was evidently doing something that required studying, but where and why and how and—

  At that moment, the guy who I'd seen following her slid into the chair opposite her and leaned toward her, his face covered in a leer of truly epic proportions. When she looked up, shocked at the sudden company, he started speaking quickly, gesturing at her and then himself and shaking his head back and forth.

  Anyone with eyes in their head could have seen that whatever he was saying, it wasn't welcome news. Sloane's face went from shocked to angry, and then a bit nervous. When the guy leaned forward and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, jerking at her a bit, the shock and anger in her eyes flared, her mouth twisting with frustration.

  I was on my feet and making my way toward her before I knew what I was doing. I didn't know who the hell that guy was or what he was doing interrupting her in the middle of her study session—in the middle of a really swanky restaurant—but it didn't matter. Sloane didn't want him there and the alarm in her eyes had triggered something deep inside me.

  Something I wasn't looking at too closely right now.

  All I could think about was that I needed to get to her and get the guy off of her before something went down. He wasn't a large guy, but she was incredibly tiny, and it wouldn't take much for someone to grab her and make off with her.

  Would he grab her and kidnap her from a crowded restaurant where everyone was now watching their wrestling match?

  Doubtful. But as I said, I wasn't thinking particularly clearly at the moment.

  I was too consumed with a possessiveness I hadn't felt in five fucking years. A bone-deep knowledge that that tiny girl with the gray eyes and copper curls was mine, and that I didn't want anyone else touching her.

  Unfortunately, it was harder to get through the restaurant than I'd expected. Yeah, the tables were spread out quite a bit, but getting through a space crowded with moving chairs and people that you had to apologize for bothering took some time. There were also waiters to contend with, and the one that blocked my path at that moment was carrying an enormous tray full of dishes.

  I jerked out of his way, my eyes on the spot behind him where Sloane might be fighting off a captor at this very moment. Once the waiter was out of the way, I slid smoothly back into the aisle, on my way to her side, when I saw...

  Sloane packing her books into a bag that looked like it had definitely seen better days. She was scowling, her moves jerky and quick, but she was also alone.

  Unharmed. Un-kidnapped.

  The guy in question was nowhere in sight, and I wondered for a split second how she'd gotten rid of him so quickly... and then stopped wondering.

  The dull glint of gunmetal in her bag, visible for only a second as she slid a book into it, told me exactly how she'd gotten rid of him.

  So she was carrying a gun with her. She was very stupidly by herself, without any type of security in the middle of a crowded restaurant, but she was at least armed.

  "Good girl," I breathed.

  I wondered what she was packing, and then I wondered if it was the little gun I'd bought her as a graduation present. The tiny North American Arms mini that looked like something out of the Wild West if they'd been building those guns for a woman rather than a man.

  The gun I'd slipped her in that café right before my father's men found us.

  Still. That gun carried two bullets—if she had it fully loaded—and if someone was following her and meaning to do her harm...

  I glanced out the window, wondering what had happened to the guy who'd been snarling at her, and then looked back down at Sloane herself, and the fury on her face.

  So she definitely knew the guy, and she must know he was following her—or at least making an effort to run into her in random places.

  Why the hell didn't she have backup in case he wanted to do more than just grab her wrist?

  And why the hell hadn't she taken it more seriously when I told her she had a guy on her tail?

  She yanked her bag up over her shoulder, gestured to one of the waitresses—a friend, I supposed, and probably the reason Sloane had free rein to take up an entire table at this swanky place with her books—and then scooted out the front door, one hand resting inside the bag and, I hoped, on the handle of that tiny gun.

  I glanced back at the wine still sitting on the bar, hesitated... and then followed her out of the restaurant.

  Sloane Brennan wasn't my problem, and she'd told me to leave her alone. But I didn't think I'd ever be able to forgive myself if I let this go and she ended up getting hurt.

  So for tonight—my last night in LA—I was making her my problem.

  13

  JOSEPH

  HOME ALONE

  To Sloane's credit, she went right home rather than fooling around with any other field trips.

  At least I assumed this was her home.

  If it was, the place was fucking gorgeous, and I was betting Irish had given her the money to get it.

  We were just off PCH in Malibu by the time she finally pulled her flashy car—which I'd had trouble keeping up with—off into a driveway on the right. I pulled over on the shoulder of the road itself, watching the driveway she'd pulled into and biding my time.

  She didn't know I'd followed her, and I didn't want to blow my own cover by going in right after she had. I didn't know if that was a driveway to her house or a road to several houses, and it just wasn't worth the risk. No, I wasn't worried about what she'd think of me following her.

  I just didn't think I was the only one who had. And if that other guy was here, I wanted to catch him in the act. It was the only way I could think of to finally convince Sloane that he was trouble.

  Risky? Yes. Potentially problematic if he had a twitchy trigger finger? Absolutely.

  But when it came right down to it, I wanted to have this out tonight. I was going home tomorrow, and the more I thought about it the less I liked the idea of leaving town with this guy still on the loose.

  I waited until the glow of Sloane's headlights faded, then turned off my own car, got out, and locked the door.

  She'd see the headlights if I drove up there. If I walked, though...

  Ten steps got me to the opening of the driveway, and I peeked around the enormous stone pillars that marked the spot, my eyes straining in the dark to figure out what I was dealing with. Luckily, I didn't have to strain for long.

  About one hundred yards up, I saw the end of this particular road, though another driveway branched off of it before it ended.

  Right, so her house was indeed the only one on this street. Good thing I hadn't pulled in right after her. I set my sights on that next driveway, crouched down, and started creeping up the steep incline.

  It didn't take me as long as I expected to get to the next driveway—evidently my adrenaline was pushing me to move more quickly than I realized—and I stopped again and peered through the bars of the gate that now blocked my path.