"It's Lydia." A pause. "Gabriel's secretary."

As I struggled for a polite response, she continued, "I'm sorry for using my home number. I wasn't sure you'd answer otherwise. This isn't about Gabriel."

"Okay..."

"Richard Gallagher would like you to call him."

"Rich...? Oh. Ricky."

I relaxed. Lydia seemed to do the same, laughing softly.

"Yes, Ricky. I'm not sure he likes being introduced that way, so I don't take the chance. I understand you met him last week."

"I did."

"Apparently you made an impression. He's called twice for your number. While I'm very good at telling clients no, that boy could charm the habit off a nun. I finally agreed to pa.s.s along a message to call him. Do you have his number?"

"I do."

"Can I tell him you'll call? He's coming into the office Monday, and as much as I am determined not to give out your number, he's even harder to resist in person."

I chuckled. "I can imagine. Yes, I'll call him."

"Thank you." A pause, then, "How are you, Olivia?"

I stiffened. "Fine."

"I don't know what happened between you and Gabriel, but..." She exhaled. "No, I'll mind my own business and only say that I'm glad he'll still be representing Pamela. He really is her best possible chance."

"I know."

"Have a good weekend, and if you ever need anything and would prefer not to contact Gabriel, you can call me at the office or here, at my personal number."

"Thank you."

It wasn't until I hung up that I realized what I'd done. Promised to call Ricky Gallagher. s.h.i.t.

The bigger s.h.i.t was that I wanted to call him. Which was a problem when I was supposed to be attempting a reconciliation with my ex.

Ricky was Don Gallagher's son. Yes, Don "leader of the Satan's Saints" Gallagher. Ricky was taking his MBA part-time at the University of Chicago. Which sounds as if he's trying to break out of the family business. He's not. He just figures an MBA might help him run it.

A biker MBA student. The "biker" part should have had me running. Except I liked Ricky, and it wasn't because he was charming and, yes, very easy on the eyes. There'd been something between us, that click that says, "This is someone I want to know better."

When Gabriel had noticed that spark, he'd stomped on it. Clearly a case of a good girl looking for a little bad in her life and exercising very poor judgment. At the time, part of me had wondered if he'd had a more personal reason. Now I knew he'd done it for James.

I had to call Ricky, meaning I had to tell him personally that I didn't want to go out with him. In other words, I had to lie.

SOFT SELL.

Ricky finished proofing his term paper for management strategy. As he added his name to the first page, he paused before typing Richard. No one called him that. Outside of school, no one even called him Rick.

He had gone through a stage in high school where he'd insisted on Rick. It was the same stage where he'd cut his hair short, worn preppy clothes, garaged his bike, and bought a used car. When you grew up in a gang, that was teenaged rebellion. It lasted less than a school term before he realized that he was only rebelling for the sake of rebelling. He liked being Ricky Gallagher, with everything that entailed.

Someone rapped on the clubhouse office door.

"Come in."

It was Wallace, his father's sergeant-at-arms. Wallace did not go by Wally. A new recruit tried calling him that once. The result had required plastic surgery.

Wallace looked around for Don. Not long ago, that look would have been followed by, "Boss in?" But now it was just a visual check before he turned to Ricky.

"Got a lead on Tucker," Wallace said. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d's holed up across the border in Wisconsin. Gonna go pay him a visit. You wanna ride along?"

"Sure. Give me five. Just finishing a term paper."

Wallace's gaze flicked to the laptop screen. No sign of derision crossed his face. This, too, meant Ricky was making headway. He'd grown up like the favorite nephew in a huge clan of uncles. Growing out of that role proved difficult. Going to college hadn't helped. His father fully approved, but to the gang it was a sign that maybe their boy was a little too intellectual, too mainstream ... too soft. Dropping out wouldn't earn their respect, though. No more than insisting on being called Rick. He would earn his place, and he would do it as Ricky Gallagher, MBA.

After Wallace left, Ricky's cell phone rang. Call display showed a number he didn't recognize. He hesitated before answering.

"It's Olivia," a contralto voice said. "Olivia Jones. Lydia said you were trying to get in touch with me."

"I was."

The tightness in her voice told him this wasn't a call she'd wanted to make. She might have flirted with him at the clubhouse, but after that business at Desiree Barbosa's apartment, she'd clearly decided he was not someone she cared to know better. d.a.m.n Gabriel.

He made small talk for a few minutes, but her voice stayed tight, wary, and finally there was nothing more he could do but take his shot, on the very slim chance he was mistaken.

"Are you free for dinner tonight?"

"No, I'm sorry. I-"

"Tomorrow night? The night after that?"

A sudden laugh, as if in spite of herself.

"Yep, I am persistent," he said. "And flexible. Name the time. Name the place. French cuisine next Sat.u.r.day night or a hot dog stand for lunch tomorrow."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. Where are you right now? I'll bring a picnic."

She laughed again. A good sign.

"See? It's easier to say yes." He shifted the phone to his other hand. "Go out with me, Olivia. Just once. I'm sorry about what happened with Desiree. If I'd had any idea that Gabriel didn't warn you what he planned-"

"That's not it."

"No?"

"I'm having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiance."

"James Morgan?"

"Uh, yes."

She seemed surprised he knew her ex's name. He didn't tell her that he'd come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an a.n.a.logy no woman would appreciate, and he'd never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He'd learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints' lawyer.

As for James Morgan, he hadn't needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was d.a.m.ned sure he wouldn't want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.

"So you're having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow."

"I can't. Dinner with James means-"

"You're testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he's still your former fiance, you're free to see me. Comparison shop."

A sputtered laugh.

"One date, Olivia."

"I really can't. I'm sorry."

He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn't out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.

"A drink, then," he said. "Not a date."

"I don't think-"

"I'll settle for coffee."

"You really don't give up."

"Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won't even angle for a date." When she hesitated, he smiled. "Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon-"

"I'm working." A pause. "Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?"

"Tuesday's my heavy school day, so let's go for Monday."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

When I returned to my apartment after my Sat.u.r.day shift, TC wasn't there. Usually, he was in the towel-lined cardboard box I'd a.s.signed him as a bed. The only time he hadn't been was when I'd found him hiding under my bed, and I suspected someone had broken in.

I searched the apartment, which took about three minutes. Then I searched again. I even pulled out the can of cat treats. Yes, I'd bought him treats. Give it another month and I'd be collecting his shed whiskers and claws like a proud momma preserving her baby's first haircut and lost teeth.

I shook the treats. I called his name-well, his acronym. Then I conducted a calm and measured search of the apartment. Oh h.e.l.l, who am I kidding? I tore about, checking every cat-sized s.p.a.ce frantically, certain he'd suffered some horrible ailment that prevented him from answering my calls, even for fake-tuna treats.

There were a very limited number of places he could hide in those few hundred square feet, and I checked them all three times. I even looked in the fridge and stove. Hey, I'd been distracted lately; he could have hopped in while I wasn't paying attention.

Once I was sure he wasn't in the apartment, I hurried out to the front stoop, where Grace was on troll duty.

"Have you seen my cat?" I asked.

"You mean that stray that you insist isn't actually yours but you keep feeding-"

"He's not in my apartment."

"Did you leave the window open?"

"No." I'd kept my windows locked since I'd discovered Ciara Conway's body.

"Well, I haven't been in there, and I'm the only one with a key." She peered up at me. "Didn't I see you carting trash down to the bin this morning?"

"Right." I'd taken two bags because I'd forgotten last week.

"Then he snuck out while you were doing that."

"Maybe. If you see him-"

"Don't ask me to put him in your room. Still got the claw marks from the last time I touched the d.a.m.ned beast. Stray cats are like two-timing men. He got tired of you and took off. He doesn't find anyone new? He'll come slinking back. By then, if you're smart, you'll have decided you're better without him."

I headed down the steps, scouring the yard for signs of TC. Behind me, Grace snorted and muttered. I checked my watch. I was meeting James in ninety minutes, but ...

I crossed the street to Rose's house. When she answered the door, she looked down at me like I was a five-year-old caught ringing the bell, about to dash away. I tried not to quail under that stare. Rose may be in her late fifties, but she's a brown belt in karate, a few inches taller than me, and as st.u.r.dy as an oak.

"Miss Olivia."

"Hey, um, Gabriel said you wanted to speak to me."

"I did. But you keep sneaking out your back door."

"I didn't sneak-"

Her look stopped the excuse in my throat.