nnie kept her mouth shut as Ric shook Gordon Burns’s hand, promising he’d be in touch regarding that employment opportunity they’d discussed.

It was kind of obvious that Ric would have promised to build a colony on Venus, provided it would have left Burns smiling and giving the order to open the gate for them, as they climbed back into Annie’s car and drove away.

Earlier, out by the pool, Burns had told them that he had two sons—Gordie Junior and Stratton. Although Stratton was younger, he was the far more disciplined of the two. He’d moved across the state, and was on track to becoming a well-respected member of the Orlando business community.

Business community, Annie’s ass. Still, she’d managed to sit there, smiling. Hugging Pierre. Still worrying about Ric, who’d lost quite a bit of blood and looked exhausted.

But Burns had a lot to say while sipping his drink. Gordie, he’d told them, was a challenge—a perpetual child, dressing and acting like a twenty-year-old, despite his approaching thirtieth birthday. Tonight’s shooting hadn’t been the first hit attempt on him. There’d been numerous others, starting back when he was seventeen.

It was, Burns declared, long past time for Gordie to grow up.

He wanted to hire Ric and Annie to get into his son’s good graces. Befriend Gordie. Find out what was going on in his life, with whom he did business, with whom he spent his time—besides his junkie of a girlfriend and her waste of a brother.

What Gordie really needed, Burns had told them, was a woman in his life more like Annie—and didn’t that totally creep her out.

He hoped, Burns told them, that they’d also discover who it was who’d tried to kill Gordie tonight. There would, of course, be a bonus for that information.

As Annie sat by, Ric agreed to take the case, offering to fax over his standard client agreement that very night. Burns, however, informed him that he never signed contracts. He worked on the honor system, with a handshake. That, plus a huge retainer—fifty thousand dollars in cash, of course—and they were in business.

Pierre sat in the back, snuggling up to the soft leather bag that held the money, as Annie now drove.

Ric was silent and tense as they approached the still-closed gates. It wasn’t until they slowly swung open, until Annie was out on the other side, heading down the street, that he began to breathe again.

But when she glanced at him, he put his finger on his lips.

In the same way that he’d thought they were being listened to at Burns’s house, he now obviously thought that her car had been bugged. Or maybe that there was a listening device in the bag of money. Or attached to the clean clothes that they’d been given.

“This is incredible,” he said, reaching over and turning on her radio, turning the volume up much too loud. The oldies station blasted “Lola” as, twisting in his seat, he reached into the back, rummaging for…her Red Sox cap? He put it on, first sweeping his hair back, off his forehead. “Working for Gordon Burns…I’ve always wanted to live in a house on the bay.”

When she glanced at him again, he mouthed the words Are you really all right?

Annie nodded. Are you? And what’s with the hat?

But his head was already down, his focus on his cell phone. He was sending a text message to someone. Of course she couldn’t ask to whom.

Hopefully, though, it was to the police.

His attention was still on his phone as she reached the intersection with Route 41. “Your place or mine?” she asked over the music that he’d no doubt turned on to mask the sounds of his cell phone.

It was what she’d be expected to say—after all, they’d pretended all night that they were together. A couple. Still, Ric sent her a look as he put away his phone. She could only guess what he was thinking—and hope that he, too, was reminded of the kisses they’d shared. They didn’t just have to pretend to go home together tonight, but wow, did she really want that?

Yes.

But also maybe no.

Talk about weird dynamics in the office until the end of time…

What Annie wanted, more than anything, was to talk to him. Look him in the eye and ask him, You don’t really intend to work for Gordon Burns, do you? and You do intend to see a real doctor about that wound in your leg, don’t you?

“Yours,” Ric finally decided, so she headed south, toward her little place on Siesta Key.

She’d rented a tiny furnished beach house for the summer. When the winter season started, though, the rent would skyrocket and she’d have to find something more permanent off-island.

For now, though, she was steps from the beach.

The romantic, moon-drenched beach. The perfect location for long walks, stolen kisses, and discussions of what exactly had happened tonight and who the hell was Gordon Burns, anyway?

Right now, though, Ric had his phone out again, sending another text message.

If someone was listening in via car bug, money-bag bug or sarong bug, wasn’t their lack of conversation going to raise red flags? “So…tell me about Gordon Burns,” Annie asked as Ric slipped his phone back into his pocket. “He’s…very impressive. Beautiful house.”

Ric met her gaze, nodding slightly. God, but she loved his approval. She loved that they were on the same wavelength, that he could communicate with her so easily with just a flash of his eyes, a nod of his head.

“He’s been a major player in southwest Florida for about thirty years,” Ric told her. “About twenty years ago, he moved to Sarasota from Venice Beach. He’s got a reputation for being a Renaissance man—cultured. Movies, art, theater, classical music—he’s a big supporter of the Sarasota Opera. People assume he’s related to Owen Burns, who was one of John Ringling’s business partners, and one of the earliest property owners in town, back in the early 1900s. But he’s not. I think he moved here because of that, though—because the name still carries respect.”

“So, this current Burns,” Annie asked. “How did he make his money?”

“By not getting caught,” Ric told her. “You name it, he’s involved in it, but he’s never once even been charged with a crime.”

Great.

“You need gas,” Ric pointed out.

Annie squinted at the dashboard. “I’ve got plenty.”

“I want to fill your tank,” he insisted. “We’ve been driving all night on your dime.” He pointed to the Shell station on the corner of Siesta Drive. “Stop here.”

And that was not a request, so Annie pulled over. She maneuvered next to the self-serve pump. “You really don’t have to—”

“Stay in the car,” Ric ordered, when she started to get out. He forced a smile to counter the abruptness of his words and tone. “Please. I got it.”

But he took forever to pump the gas. What was he doing out there? Annie rolled down her window to look at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “This pump is freaking slow. Almost done.”

But then he washed and squeegeed the windows—all of them. Not just the front and back, but the sides, too—making her put her window back up.

When he finally opened the passenger-side door, it was to tell her that he had to go inside the little convenience store and use the men’s room.

“Are you okay?” Annie asked.

Ric nodded. Closed the door. Opened it again. “You were great tonight,” he leaned in and told her. “I just…wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Thanks.”

But he was gone before she’d even gotten the word out.

Annie watched him walk—he was limping only a little—across the parking lot and into the store. She watched, through the big glass windows, as he wove his way through the racks of snack foods until all she could see was his red ball cap. And then it, too, disappeared from view.

She sat and waited. And waited.

This place was busy for the middle of the night—mostly with college-age kids stopping in to buy beer.

After about five minutes, Ric finally came out, carrying a paper bag, the collar of his jacket up, the bill of his cap pulled down low. She started the car before she realized that it wasn’t Ric. It was someone else in a similar jacket and hat. This guy was wearing sneakers—Ric’s had been trashed, so he’d traded them for sandals back at Burns Point.

This man was also African American.

Annie had to smile—what were the odds of two men going into a Sarasota convenience store in the middle of the night, both wearing Boston Red Sox ballcaps?

Slim to none.

Or…maybe just plain none.

Because the man in the red cap headed straight to her car, as if he were Ric. He opened up the door, and even sat down next to her, setting his bag on the floor between his feet.

In the back, Pierre stood up and started to bark.

“Hush your dog,” the man ordered her as he reached into his bag and pulled out…a gun.

Oh, shit. “Pierre, quiet,” she said, and for once he actually listened to her. “Where’s R—”

“Hush,” the man said again, hefting his weapon for emphasis. “Drive,” he commanded.

Annie put the car into gear and took her foot off the clutch, and they jerked forward, out from under the lights, out onto Siesta Drive.

This couldn’t be happening. And yet it was. Who was this man and what had he done to Ric? Was he another of Gordon Burns’s goons? Had they only thought they’d gotten away?

“Turn here,” the man ordered as they approached a side street, rummaging in his bag for…what? Some sort of cylindrical metal thing that he turned on and…“Pull over.”

There were no streetlights here, and as Annie parked along the side of the road, she ran through her options. She had to get out of there, that much was clear. She could turn off the lights as she bolted from the car, and he’d have that much more trouble chasing her—or shooting her.

But she was still wearing this ridiculous dress, which wasn’t made for speed. Plus, her feet were bare. She’d been given a pair of sandals at Burns Point, but unlike Ric’s, hers had precarious three-inch heels. She’d tossed them into the back when she’d first gotten into the car, preferring to drive barefoot.

As she pulled up the parking brake, the man had turned toward the backseat, running the metal thing across the leather bag, and even Pierre and…

“We’re clear,” he announced. “No bugs.”

No…bugs? His words didn’t make sense at first, probably because her entire focus was on his gun—and the fact that he was now holstering it…?

“We can speak freely now,” he told her. “Sorry about the gun-in-your-face thing, particularly after the night you’ve already had, but we needed to get out from under the lights as quickly as possible. My complexion’s not as fair as Enrique’s. I can pass for him in the shadows, but—”

“Where’s Ric?” Annie asked, trying to process all this information at once.

“He’s safe, he’s fine. I know you must be worried, but…We’re friends. I’m former Sarasota PD. He texted me, and I swung past his place and picked up his sidearm and this thing.” He held out the electronic device. “It’s a bug sweeper. I checked him out in the gas station’s store—he was clean, too.”

“Where did he go?” Annie asked.

“I’m not sure exactly,” the man told her. Beneath her Red Sox cap, his dark brown eyes were apologetic. “He borrowed my car, said it was urgent. Asked me to hang with you until he checked back in. From what he told me, you’ve had a rough night and probably don’t want a babysitter, but he insisted. He was pretty sure your car’s being followed—in fact, someone’s turning down this way right now, and at the risk of completely offending you before we’ve even been properly introduced, you should probably put your head down. Over this way.” He gently pulled Annie down, and sure enough, car headlights swept over them as another vehicle slowly went past.

To the other driver, with Annie out of sight, and Ric—or this self-described darker-complexioned Ric substitute—sitting up, it would look as if they’d stopped for a quickie. And how ironically appropriate. This day had started with the pretense of a blow job, it was only fitting that it end this way.

“Again, I’m sorry I scared you,” Ric’s nameless friend told her again, his voice a rich rumble in the darkness above her. “Ric wanted to write you a note, explaining who I was, but neither of us had any paper and the checkout line was too long, and we’d already drawn way too much attention to ourselves, swapping clothes, locked in together in the men’s room.” In the back, Pierre was growling. “Dog’s not going to bite me, is he?”

“It’s okay, Pierre,” Annie said, her cheek against the linen pants Ric had been wearing just minutes ago.

“Pierre, huh?”

“He came with the name.”

“He a poodle?”

“Part,” she told him.

“This is awkward, huh? Just another sec, that car’s turning around at the cul-de-sac, gonna swing past us again. Now that they know this is a dead end, they’ll wait for us on the main road.”

“Who’s following us?” Annie asked, fear tightening her throat. “Gordon Burns’s men?”

“That’s what Ric thinks,” he told her as the lights passed them again. “Okay, we’re good.”

They were good. Except for the fact that a car full of thugs was waiting for them out on the main road. And God only knew where Ric was.

She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, forcing a smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Annie.”

“I know,” he said, shaking her hand. “Ric said you’re Bruce’s little sister. How do you do? I’m Martell Griffin. Although Ric said to make sure to tell you that you can call me Hutch.”

Annie laughed—it was either that or burst into tears.

“He also said to tell you that you’re fired,” Martell continued, “but I told him I wouldn’t do that. But, see, I did because I wanted to give you a warning—because now that we’ve been introduced, I see what’s going on here. Little sister, my ass. I’ve never seen that boy so bullshit, you know, angry? Like, chew people in half with his teeth? He’s pissed as hell—but mostly at himself for putting you in danger.”