There was no reason for Olivia to know that. What he presented to her wasn't a false front. She was happy with the ninety percent of him that she saw, and that's what he wanted. Olivia to be happy.

Except, right now, Olivia was not happy. He should have gone after her. That was the proper procedure. He'd behaved poorly, and she was hurt. She'd stormed off. He should have followed. Except he couldn't. She'd left him. He would not follow. He knew well what a psychiatrist would say about that, tracing it back to Seanna's abandonment. He didn't care. It was what it was.

He could rectify that now. Send a text. I'm sorry. I behaved badly.

Please come back.

Gabriel made a noise in his throat and turned on his heel, shoe squeaking on the polished floor.

He would not say that last part, of course. He would never say that. But it was what he wanted-for Olivia to read his apology and understand how hard it was to make it, and even if she was lying beside Ricky, for her to leave his bed and come back. To give him another chance.

Which was pathetic. Weak and pathetic and desperate. He'd made a mistake, a relatively small one. By tomorrow, he wouldn't even need to apologize.

But he should.

When his cell phone rang, he jumped, then cursed himself for startling like a spooked cat. It rang again, and the surprise and the annoyance fell away as he thought, It's her. Olivia. Calling to tell him what a jerk he was. He didn't care. She was calling.

He hit the b.u.t.ton so fast that it wasn't until he'd already pressed it that he actually saw the name: James Morgan.

He almost hung up as the line connected. He would have, if it couldn't be seen as a sign of cowardice. He almost swore, too. That wasn't quite as great a faux pas, but it was a personal line he preferred not to cross. The world liked to paint him as a thug. His size, his choice of clients, his moral ambiguity-it all added up to that conclusion. Gabriel Walsh was an ill-bred, uncouth thug. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him speak like one. He would watch his word choice and his diction, and not be what they expected.

So he didn't curse when the line connected.

"Olivia isn't here," he snapped in greeting.

A pause. Then, "I should hope not. It's ten at night. Whatever mistakes she's making, that's not going to be one of them."

Any other time, the insult would have rolled off. Morgan was an idiot. He didn't know Olivia. Didn't understand her. Mocking Gabriel was the desperate, weak ploy of a desperate, weak man. But now Gabriel had f.u.c.ked up and Olivia had walked out, and this a.s.shole sneered at the very suggestion she might have stayed.

"What do you want?" Gabriel managed to say.

"I have copies."

"Copies?"

"Of the file I sent Olivia. I just learned that it was routed to your office, which explains why I haven't heard from her. You think that by shoving it through the shredder you can stop her from finding out about you."

Gabriel laughed. The sound was sharp as a blade, and Morgan should have taken the hint.

"I'm glad you find this funny," Morgan said.

"Oh, I don't find it funny at all. You're so certain you know what happened, because you're so certain you know Olivia. If she'd read that file, she'd have come running back and thrown herself into your arms, begging for forgiveness and protection. Is that how your fantasies run, Morgan?"

Silence.

"I'm sure they do, which only proves you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Olivia read the file, and I would suggest that you are lucky she didn't pay you a visit. It would not have gone well."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"I can ask her to confirm receipt tomorrow if you like."

"What did you say to her? No, wait-I don't need to ask. You said it was lies. All lies. Poor Gabriel Walsh, unfairly persecuted."

"Yes, that's exactly what I said, because she knows I would never stoop to something as distasteful as blackmail or intimidation. It would be like accepting money to protect my client."

Silence as Morgan thought this through. Gabriel resisted the urge to call him an idiot again. He wasn't really. He couldn't be, having achieved his level of success. But Morgan had a technical mind, which served him well in his chosen field. Beyond that he was, functionally, an idiot.

"If you wish to speak to Olivia on this matter, I will ask her to call you," Gabriel said. "After that conversation, you will make no further attempts to contact her. Your obsession is becoming wearisome. Cut your losses. Walk away."

"Or what? Or you'll blackmail me with that McNeil business? Go ahead and try. You made a mistake tipping your hand, Walsh. I will not back off until I have Olivia. Let me offer the same advice. Cut your losses. Walk away."

Morgan hung up. Gabriel stood there, staring at the phone, all the emotions of the evening bubbling up, the rage and the confusion and the hurt seething together into a perfect storm, with a perfect target.

Gabriel grabbed his keys from the hall and stalked out.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.

I wanted a motorcycle. Preferably a Harley, though I would settle for something smaller, as long as the reduced size didn't mean a reduction in engine power.

First a gun, then a switchblade, now a motorcycle. Next thing you knew, I'd be making appointments for tats and piercings.

When I told Ricky that, as we lay in a patch of forest, naked and sleepy, he said, "I'd be up for the ink. Get one together. Something meaningful."

I was taken aback at first. When I thought of couples getting joint tattoos, what came to mind were those unfortunate "Candy Forever" ones that in five years would have the guy telling new girlfriends it referred to his love for Tootsie Pops. That wasn't what Ricky meant, though. He had tattoos. Four, each marking something he wanted to remember, and that's what he was suggesting.

Would I do that? This relationship marked a stage in my life that was significant. A person who was significant. A time I would not regret.

"I'd go for that," I said.

He opened one eye, looking surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulled me on top of him. "Well, give it some thought. I'll bring it up again in a few days, after the buzz of the riding lesson wears off."

"I still want a bike."

"I know. We can talk about that, too," he said, and pulled me down in a kiss.

After we finished, Ricky muttered a sleepy "Gonna close my eyes for a sec," and zonked out.

I touched the tattoo on his shoulder blade. It was the Saints patch, to commemorate the day he'd become a full member. It wasn't exactly a screaming symbol of defiance, but it was there, and it said this was his life, his choice, one he wouldn't be able to shuck by throwing out his jacket, selling his bike, and moving to the suburbs. I liked that-the att.i.tude, the commitment, the single-mindedness, to be able to say at twenty that you'd known exactly what you wanted from life.

I was tracing my fingers over the tattoo and, yes, maybe hoping he'd stir. As peaceful as this patch of forest was, it was getting chilly.

"He won't wake," a voice said.

I scrambled up to see the Huntsman from the charity dinner. He was standing less than five feet away, smiling indulgently. I measured the distance to my gun, while glancing at Ricky.

"As I said, he won't wake."

My hand flew to Ricky's neck, frantically checking- "Oh, he's fine," he said. "I would never harm him. I'm just allowing him to sleep while we talk. He needs his rest. You seem to enjoy each other quite vigorously."

I glowered at him.

"Merely an observation," he said. "And certainly not one I'm displeased to see. You make him happy. He makes you happy. One can ask for little more from another person than that." He paused. "Do you still have the boar's tusk?"

"Yes."

"Good. I have a feeling you'll need it. I hear you've had an encounter. With a third party."

"Tristan."

"Yes. He's warning you about us, and about those in Cainsville. Yet the accusation he levels against us could be directed at himself. He wants something from you. Everyone does. Except him." He nodded at Ricky. "You can sense that, which is why you feel so comfortable around him. He only wants to be with you. The same cannot be said for anyone else in your life right now."

I thought of Gabriel.

The man's lips compressed. "Gabriel Walsh is damaged, Olivia. You know that, and you feel an urge to fix him. That's natural, all things considered. But you can't save him. The damage is done, and if you want to know where the blame for that lies, look at Cainsville."

When I said nothing, he tilted his head. "You don't ask what I mean. You know. Or you suspect. You haven't reached all the conclusions, but you are on the path."

"Am I on the right path?"

"Yes, but it's a long road, and no one in Cainsville will help you. Safety through ignorance. That has always been their religion. They hide and they lie and they deceive. We do not. You know what I am, and I do not deny it. I offer you answers. You need only to ask."

"And the cost?"

"Consideration. I would earn the right to show you what we offer."

"What else?"

A flicker of surprise, as if he had expected me to buy the goods as offered. "Nothing more. Except that, naturally, if we are wooing you, you cannot continue to align yourself with them. You leave Cainsville. You renounce your a.s.sociation with Gabriel Walsh. You divorce yourself from their influence so you may fairly consider our offer."

"You do realize I have no f.u.c.king idea what you're talking about, right? You act like I'm a high school quarterback being wooed by two NFL teams, and I should know exactly what I am and what I'm worth and why the h.e.l.l you both want me. I don't."

"That is what I'm offering. Answers."

"While I appreciate the shortcut, I think I'll take the long road. It looks a lot less treacherous."

He only smiled. "As I expected. You can't blame me for trying, though. Enjoy the trip. I'll give some free advice, then. There are two things you'd best keep close, for protection: the boar's tusk and the boy there. They'll look after you. You can't trust anything or anyone else. You know that."

His gaze met mine, and I knew what he meant. Who he meant. Gabriel. Would he push me away again? Lie to me? Betray me? Ricky wouldn't. Trusting Gabriel was like pitching camp on a fault line; Ricky was solid ground.

"Exactly," the man said.

I glared.

"Would you prefer I didn't admit I know what you're thinking? Don't worry. It's too draining to maintain for long. But I'll use what tools I have to understand the situation. You can't blame me for that. I'll bid you good night, then." After two steps, he glanced back to see me settling on the ground beside Ricky. "How's your back, Olivia? I'll presume it doesn't give you any trouble?"

"My back? It's fine."

"Good." He turned to walk away, then glanced at me again. "You're welcome," he said, and vanished into the forest.

SHARK TANK.

The Morgan residence was patrolled by a security guard. At what level of wealth did one require a home security guard? Actually, Gabriel knew the answer to that, having dug deep into Morgan's finances while looking for ammunition to use against him.

Morgan was rich. A juvenile term. At Gabriel's age, he should be more specific with his terminology. But he'd been young when he set his sights on his future goals, and that was the wording he used, at least to himself.

He could not achieve "rich"-it was for those who came from money, though it allowed for the occasional entrepreneur. Gabriel's goal was "successful." Wealthy and very successful.

Morgan's wealth came from both family money and his business, and it far exceeded anything Gabriel could hope for. It did not, however, warrant a roving security guard.

One problem with the rich was that they lacked basic survival skills. Morgan considered himself a shark, devouring anything that got in his way, but he was a shark in a tank, relying on others to keep him safe. The rich bought their fancy locks and security systems and, it seemed, even security guards. Yet it was like wearing a breastplate into battle-it still took only one good stroke to lop off your head.

And so it was here. The guard was useless. Stationed a hundred feet away from the house, at the gate. Patrolling the grounds every twenty minutes. Once Gabriel determined the schedule, he waited until the guard returned to his post and then scaled the back fence. Two minutes later, he was knocking on the front door.

Morgan answered. He stopped short and his gaze shot to the guard post.

Gabriel waved at the manicured spruce behind him. "While I'm loath to criticize gardening choices, may I suggest that's a very poor place for a shrub?"

Morgan cursed under his breath as he realized that the tree blocked Gabriel from the guard's view. Then Morgan's hand slid up the wall.

"You can certainly summon the guard," Gabriel said. "I'll understand if you'd like him to be privy to our conversation. While my size is no fault of my own, some men find it intimidating."

Morgan's lips tightened and his hand moved away from the intercom. Such a fool. There was nothing wrong with being a shark in a tank-Gabriel supposed it was a fine and comfortable life-but one should have the good sense to see the gla.s.s walls and realize one's limitations.

"May I come in?" Gabriel asked.

Morgan nodded and moved back. As Gabriel entered, he heard a noise on the steps and looked up to see an older woman eyeing him with suspicion. It didn't matter how fine his manners or impeccable his dress, when women like this saw him, they backed up clutching their purses. Which was not an unwarranted reaction, all things considered. Ten years ago, he'd have salivated walking into a house like this, mentally running through all the most likely hiding places for valuables and mapping out the most efficient route for s.n.a.t.c.hing them. He didn't miss those days, but admittedly there were still times when he looked at a woman's necklace or a man's watch and his brain threw out a dollar figure-not the cost but how much he could fence it for.

"It's Olivia's lawyer," Morgan called up to her. "On business."