I looked up. A yellow Aerosmith concert poster had been stapled to the ceiling above my bed, and my gaze traced the font, just for something to do, to keep my mind from wandering.

Sean coughed, rolled, and settled in again. I watched him carefully, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest.

My own chest squeezed so tight it hurt to draw in a breath. I couldn't keep up this vigil. It wasn't healthy-mentally or physically.

I tossed off the covers, slipped on my robe and my slippers, and almost tripped over Grendel and Thoreau snuggled together on a dog bed at the foot of the bed. I peeked in on Odysseus, but he was making a nest and was completely covered in pine shavings.

I went in search of something to drink. Water, milk, bourbon. Something.

Downstairs, a light glowed in the kitchen. I followed it and found my father leaning over the counter, a fork poised over a half-eaten New York cheesecake.

Guilt colored his olive skin tone. "Lucy Juliet. What are you doing up?" He glanced at the cheesecake as if just seeing it for the first time, kind of an oh-what's-that-doing-there look. I was waiting to see how he'd explain it away, but he must have decided he'd incriminated himself enough already.

Never mind that I rarely ever saw him eat sweets. He'd been a health nut his whole life, but he was currently on a strict diet. Low fat, low sodium. All in an effort to strengthen his heart. It hadn't been very long since his near-fatal heart attack (what was with the men in my life and their hearts?). How long had he been sneaking treats in the middle of the night? This little discovery could explain a few things.

He didn't try to make excuses. "Fork?"

"Of course."

He slid one across the counter. I sank the tines into the cheesecake. "Mum's going to kill us."

"Only because we ate it first. I found it hiding behind two cartons of soy milk."

So much for her sticking to her newfound diet plan. "I'll be sure to replace it tomorrow."

"Good thinking." After a minute of silent eating, he said, "I'm glad you're here. You'll be safe."

I didn't bother to argue my safety. My father would be as hardheaded as the police. Maybe more so. I hadn't mentioned to the police about Dad's missing paintings. I only told them Tristan wanted Meaghan's file. I ate another bite. "Tristan won't be put off by the police presence. He seems the type up for a good challenge."

"He wouldn't dare break in here, not after what he pulled at the penthouse."

Again, I didn't argue.

Dad's brown eyes softened. "How's Sean feeling?"

"Okay." I set my fork down.

"I like him," he said.

I heard something more. "But?"

"I worry."

I wasn't sure he was worried about Sean's health or our relationship. Or both. I didn't ask for clarification. It didn't matter. "I love him."

My father's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "That's half the battle."

"Only half?" I asked.

"Only half."

"What's the other half?"

"It's for you to figure out."

"Is this like when I was little and needed a definition for homework and you'd make me look it up?"

He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. "Just like that."

"I hated that."

"I know. But you learned."

"Not really. Raphael always told me."

Rolling his eyes, he said, "I should have known. That tactic won't work this time. You have to learn on your own. It won't be easy, Lucy Juliet. But I have faith. There's something between the two of you."

"Love conquers all?" I offered.

"We shall see."

I watched him as he rinsed his fork, put it in the dishwasher. He looked happier than I'd seen him in a long time. Maybe love would conquer all with him and Mum, too, though I knew better than to get my hopes up. Mum was right. Life is about living, not about constant worrying. He caught me staring at him and smiled. My smile. Cutter's smile.

As Dad hid the remainder of the cheesecake, I took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with filtered water from the fridge. The big dinner was coming up, and I still hadn't had a chance to talk to Cutter about Preston. "Have you talked to Cutter lately?"

"His name is Oliver."

My father refused to acknowledge the nickname. I had a feeling it had something to do with not liking that his son carried another man's surname.

"Yesterday," Dad added.

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

He lifted an eyebrow. "We speak often."

"You do?"

"Of course. We have our differences, but so do you and I. The love," he said softly, "is still there."

"Conquering all?" I teased.

He walked over and hugged me, resting his chin on the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly glad I was here. I ought to thank Tristan-he'd given me an unexpected gift. I wouldn't take it for granted. "Things will work out just fine, Lucy."

"Promise?"

"I am nothing if not a man of my word. I am a man of honor. Of integrity."

Smiling, I bit back a snide comment about receiving stolen property. "Don't forget modest."

"How could I?" He winked. "Now get some sleep. I have a feeling it will be a long day tomorrow."

An expected visit from Tristan, possibly finding out what happened to Mac, looking for Rufus, warning Cutter, not to mention worrying about Sean.

"Long" didn't begin to describe it.

28.

An hour dragged by. I knew every nuance of that concert poster. Hartford Civic Center. 1986. My mother had taken me-my first concert. I'd been in kindergarten. She thought I should be initiated into the Aerosmith fan club at an early age.

Thoreau snored. Even Odysseus had gone to bed.

I stared at the glowing clock. Three thirty-six. I lay on my side, watching Sean. He had become restless-his medication must have worn off. I almost wanted to wake him up to take another pill, but I didn't think he'd appreciate that too much.

I was slowly driving myself crazy just lying here, so I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I needed something to occupy my thoughts other than Sean's breathing patterns. Grabbing my laptop, I headed into my walk-in closet and closed the door behind me. I turned on the light and settled in on the floor.

Sitting cross-legged, I started with Facebook and the South Shore fan page. I'd posted on there about Rufus. So far no one had seen him. I checked the notice I put on craigslist, too. Nothing. If Tristan hadn't taken Rufus, where was he?

I thought about Rufus's leash and suddenly had the sickening thought that maybe it had been snagged on a tree. He could be in the woods somewhere, just waiting for someone to find him. Pain ripped through my stomach, and I pressed my hand against where it hurt most. It didn't help, and I had to wonder if I really was getting an ulcer.

Trying my best to ignore the image of a stranded Rufus, I clicked through my e-mail. I sent a note to Cutter about needing to change our dinner plans-and why-and added that I needed to talk to him about Preston and her snooping before the dinner.

I checked Facebook again, in case anyone had spotted Rufus in the last couple of minutes. No one had.

I clicked over to Google and plugged Rick Hayes's name into the search box. No one around here seemed to know much about him, but over a million matches popped up. The first entry was Rick's personal Web site, which was under construction.

The second was a Wiki entry. It contained the usual bio information-born in 1962 in New Jersey. Started singing in high school. Had little success until a song of his was chosen to use as a popular sitcom's theme song but never again had another hit.

He'd been married four times-and divorced four times-before Jemima. Once as a teenager to a woman named Francine. That had lasted two years. No children. Then Patricia came along. That relationship lasted two years, no kids. Then Linda-two years, no kids. Then Esmeralda-four years, no kids.

At thirty-one, he'd met eighteen-year-old Jemima Gladstone. It was no wonder Mac and Betty hadn't liked him-not with his track record with women. Considering he only had one relationship that lasted longer than two years, it was amazing that he'd been married to Jemima for almost twenty. I wondered if Christa had anything to do with that.

I noticed several citations referencing old teen magazines. I looked up at the top shelf of my closet. There were stacks and stacks of those magazines collecting dust. My mother had never thrown anything of mine away. Was there anything in those pages that would tell me more about Rick than the Internet could? I stood and grabbed as many magazines as I could hold. I set them down and peeked out the door to make sure I hadn't disturbed Sean.

He had kicked his feet out from under the covers, and a pillow covered his head, his arm flung over the top of it to hold it down. He looked so incredibly pale in the moonlight.

I closed the door and dropped to the floor. I paged through old magazines, looking for any sign of Rick Hayes. I found several articles, but there was nothing in them I hadn't learned online. There were, however, a ton of old pictures. I checked the dates on the magazines-most were early to mid-nineties.

I tried to focus, but every time I heard the bed squeak I had to stop what I was doing and peer out at Sean. Make sure he was breathing. It was a surefire way to lose my mind.

After the fourth time, I broke down and did something I told myself I'd never do-I Googled implanted defibrillators and the aftereffects of a shock. I read through story after story of people who felt as though they had been kicked in the chest. There was a whole site dedicated to people who had experienced inappropriate shocks (when the implant fires for no reason) just because they stood too close to a microwave that wasn't grounded correctly or swam next to a pool light that had electrical issues. Threats were everywhere (cell phones, iPods) and reading about them only served to increase my anxiety.

Life is about living, not about constant worrying.

I vowed never to do a search on Sean's condition again.

Suddenly I jumped as the closet door opened. I let out a strangled squeak.

Sean stuck his head in. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to remember how to breathe. You scared me."

He sat on the floor next to me. "Do you need mouth-to-mouth?" he asked, flashing a sleepy grin.

Just like that I was all hot and bothered. "Maybe."

I'd once promised never to treat him any differently because he had a heart condition. I was slowly realizing just how hard it was to keep that promise. Because even though I longed to have my way with him, a nagging voice in the back of my head kept wondering if it would be safe. Especially so soon after he had a shock.

But I'd promised him. So I tried to pretend everything was okay.

"It's kind of cozy in here." He glanced around at the shelves, the built-in dressers. "I think this place is bigger than any bedroom I had growing up."

He rarely talked about his growing-up years. "Did you always share a room with Sam?"

"No. Why aren't you sleeping?" Sean asked, stretching out beside me.

I noted the change of subject. I let it go. "Too much on my mind."

"Me?" he asked softly.

I didn't want to out and out lie. "Some."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Just some?"

I teased back. "I have a lot going on." He'd be upset to know just how much I'd been worried about him. "What are you doing up?"

"I heard noises. So I investigated. It's what I do."

"Is that so?"

"It is. I might be a little off my game today, a bit slower than normal, but sometimes," he said softly, his gaze lowering to my lips before looking at me straight on, "slow is better. Don't you think?"

Oh. My.

He leaned in. I met him halfway. His lips brushed mine, tempting, teasing. I gently nipped his lip with my teeth.

I was quickly lost in the warmth of something that felt so incredibly good that I was trying desperately to silence the warning bells in my head.

As he pulled me atop him, we fell backward with a loud thump.

"Shh! Shh!" I whispered, giggling. "My parents!"