Including giving himself over to the violence and ugliness he knew dwelled within him.

That need to protect drove him after he dropped her off at the bakery, making sure Patty was there and doing a quick perimeter check of the building. Part of him wanted to stand guard at the door with his gun drawn and his most forbidding expression in place, but he knew Tessa wouldn't stand for that. At least, not without a d.a.m.n good reason ... and Johnny couldn't bring himself to share his fears with her.

He didn't want her scared. He wanted her happy. And safe.

Which meant he had to figure this out. After retrieving his rental sedan, he spent a couple of hours driving the length and breadth of Sanctuary Island looking for the rusted-out truck, but he found nothing. Johnny finally gave up and went back to the b.u.t.tercup Inn.

Okay, first he did a drive-by check of the bakery where he could see Tessa smiling and joking with a customer through the front window. He stayed parked across the street for half an hour or so, but when Tessa had a break in her steady stream of customers, he could see her narrowing her gaze through the gla.s.s as if trying to see who was staking out her shop. Sighing, Johnny rolled his window down and waved at her, so she'd know it was him.

When her only response was a deeply concerned frown, Johnny tightened his jaw and drove back to the tiny parking lot behind the b.u.t.tercup Inn.

He had to think. Work it like a case. Fear for Tessa's safety was a handicap-he couldn't avoid that. It clouded his brain and overwhelmed his thoughts, kept his adrenaline flowing and his heart rate cranked high. But he had to push through it.

Slamming out of the car and up the front steps of the bar, Johnny shoved the door open to find Marcus Beckett obsessively polishing the same six-inch circle of his zinc-topped bar while watching Quinn Harper out of the corner of his eye.

Quinn's cheeks were red and her eyes were shining as she hummed happily and stacked bottles on the gla.s.s shelves behind the bar. Her hair was in a messy braid down the back of her jersey, strands poking out here and there as the braid swayed over her last name picked out in white letters. When she turned and said, "Hey! You're back!" Johnny noticed that her shirt was b.u.t.toned wrong.

Shooting an a.s.sessing glance at Marcus, Johnny found the man glaring down at the rag in his hand as if it had personally offended him.

"About d.a.m.n time," Marcus muttered.

Quinn laughed, bright and mischievous. "Oh, I think his timing is pretty perfect. You don't?"

Johnny's hackles went up. It didn't take a trained investigative agent to read the signs here. Marcus was taking advantage of Quinn's innocence. She was too young and sweet to see it. He hoped like h.e.l.l that she hadn't convinced herself she was in love with the jerk. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were starting work here today. As an employee," he said pointedly, staring at Marcus.

The older man only grunted and threw down the rag in favor of grabbing a box cutter and going to town on the shipping boxes stacked by the bar.

"I haven't officially punched the clock for my first day yet," Quinn replied sunnily, as if oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between the two men. "I came to see if Marcus needed any help and found him about to set up the bottles completely wrong."

"My uncle always put the Irish whiskey down front on the right, easiest to get to," Marcus surprised Johnny by saying. "I don't see what's so wrong about that."

"That makes sense in an Irish pub." Quinn grinned, holding up a bottle of Jameson by the neck. "But you're back down South now, not in your uncle's pub in New York, and I guarantee you're going to have a lot more requests for bourbon than for Irish. Plus, I have some ideas for featured c.o.c.ktails and I need to have everything handy so I can test my mixology recipes."

"We're not serving any d.a.m.n c.o.c.ktails. I told you before, this isn't that kind of bar." Marcus turned his thunderous frown on Johnny next. "And not that I need the help, but since you offered and you're staying here rent-free, it wouldn't kill you to pitch in a little more."

Since that was undeniably true, Johnny shrugged and said, "Fine. Where do you want me?"

He pretended he didn't hear Marcus's mumbled "Somewhere else, out of my hair." Johnny chose to pay attention to the nod of Marcus's head in the direction of the back office.

"New file cabinet got delivered," Marcus said. "Set it up with folders and dividers, yeah?"

"Sure." Johnny dredged up a smile from someplace and sauntered out of the bar with his hands in his pockets as Quinn piped up to argue the merits of serving fancy c.o.c.ktails.

The back office was as good a place as any to search for clues about Marcus Beckett's past. He let himself into the small room that smelled like dust and old paper. A small window high in the wall provided the only natural light.

The fading afternoon sun beamed down on a battered metal desk and the latest model laptop sitting on top of it. Ignoring the file cabinet and its empty drawers for the moment, Johnny moved swiftly to open the laptop, but it was pa.s.sword protected. That would take a while to crack, and maybe some help from the bureau. If he could convince them there was something here that merited investigation ... special agents with the ATF had a lot of lat.i.tude to pursue inquiries on their own, but in order to requisition bureau resources like one of their cybersecurity specialists, Johnny would need more than a gut feeling.

Closing the laptop, he rifled through the desk drawers quickly, finding nothing but pencils with chewed-up erasers and a box of staples, unopened. A plastic inbox sat next to the laptop, overflowing with papers that turned out to be mostly invoices for construction supplies and a copy of the bar's application for a license to serve alcohol. Which was all in order, Johnny noted with irritation. At this point, he was desperate enough to get Marcus on serving liquor without a license, but there was no reason he could see why the license wouldn't come through in time for the opening next week. Marcus Beckett had done everything right.

Johnny threw himself down in the rolling chair behind the desk and winced as a wire coil poked him in the small of the back. He brooded thoughtfully at the file cabinet he was supposed to be setting up. The edges and corners of the thing were all banged up, scuff marks dark along the left side. One of the handles was clearly loose, hanging at an odd diagonal. Marcus had found a secondhand file cabinet to go with his c.r.a.ppy desk and ancient desk chair, then he'd spent thousands on the newest laptop to hit the market?

As he glanced around the depressing little room, the laptop was the only new thing Johnny saw, the only thing that was in better than decent condition ... except for that picture on the wall.

Brows drawing together, Johnny stared at the shiny, black metal frame and the brilliant white of the matting that set off a vintage-looking photograph of a city block. The photo centered on a lit sign pointing down a set of stairs to a couple of golden-lit windows set below street level. The sign said BECKETT'S. It was the family bar Marcus had talked about. Had to be. So the photo was actually old, but the frame was brand-new.

Working on a hunch, Johnny rose from the desk chair and crossed to stand in front of the picture. The matting was so wide, it almost dwarfed the photo, making the footprint of the entire framed thing more than twice as large as if Marcus had framed the photo itself, with no matting. It seemed like an oddly fussy decorating choice for a man who clearly didn't care about having more than the bare necessities for his office.

Palms p.r.i.c.kling with sweat, Johnny reached up and lifted the frame off the wall, revealing a black safe hidden behind it.

He smiled grimly. He might need help cracking a computer pa.s.sword, but the day he needed help cracking a basic combination lock like this was the day he hung up his badge. He took the precaution of wheeling the desk chair over and hooking it under the doork.n.o.b to give him a few seconds' warning if anyone came along to check on him, and got to work.

"I call it a Devil's Punch," Quinn announced, holding a gla.s.s full of shocking red liquid triumphantly aloft. "Here, try it. You like spicy things, right?"

Marcus eyed the vile brew suspiciously. He wasn't drinking anything that was fifty percent melted cinnamon candies. "You're not serving that."

"Why not? You don't even know if it's good! People might love it. It could be our signature c.o.c.ktail."

"Because it looks like it would burn the lining right out of my customers' stomachs, and then they won't come back and spend more money here." Impatience clipped his words short, but it was still more explaining than Marcus normally liked to do. Somehow this slip of a girl was always getting him to act in ways that were so out of character, he hardly recognized himself.

"Don't be such a baby." Quinn waved the gla.s.s under his nose and taking it as an opportunity to get all up in his s.p.a.ce.

Marcus flexed his hands around the beer gla.s.ses he was stacking in the sink to be washed and reminded himself that they weren't alone anymore. He couldn't grab her hips and lift her onto the bar, bury himself between her thighs and devour her whole.

No matter how good that sounded. Marcus gave his unruly erection a stern look.

He wasn't ashamed of having s.e.x with Quinn. She was legal and consent had been enthusiastically given. Several times. But his personal life was no one else's business. Especially not the weird guy who'd somehow conned his way into staying in the studio next door.

The weird guy who suddenly burst into the bar with a wild look in his eyes and his dark hair standing on end like he'd stuck his finger in a socket. Marcus straightened, instinctively putting his body between Quinn and the guy with crazy eyes.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" Johnny demanded, guttural and urgent.

Marcus didn't blink. He wouldn't take his gaze off Johnny at this moment any more than he'd glance away from a striking cobra. "You know who I am. Just a man who came back to his hometown to open a bar."

Johnny shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. "No. That's not the whole story. Because there's no reason for a simple bartender to keep a bag of cash and an entire freaking a.r.s.enal in a hidden wall safe."

Marcus stiffened, but it was the hesitant voice of the woman behind him that put him on high alert. "Marcus? What is he talking about?"

He had to get Quinn out of here, before the violence and panic he saw percolating in Johnny's gaze boiled over. But he already knew that just asking her to go would never do the trick. So he pulled out his harshest voice and said, "None of your d.a.m.ned business. Now get out of my bar and take your c.r.a.ppy c.o.c.ktail recipes with you."

The sharp intake of her breath was like a spike to the back of Marcus's head, noticeable even through the mounting tension as Johnny said, "He's right, Quinn, you should go. Marcus and I have things to discuss."

Without another word, Quinn slipped away and grabbed her coat. Marcus could hardly believe she was going so easily, but he shoved down the wave of grat.i.tude in order to keep an eye on Johnny. The younger man had started pacing, flexing and stretching his fingers as if he couldn't wait to get them around Marcus's neck.

He was welcome to try. Marcus waited until Quinn was out the door with one last, searching glance over her shoulder before baring his teeth at Johnny.

"You had no right to go snooping through my things. You need to get your stuff and get the h.e.l.l out of my building."

"That's right, you own the whole building." Johnny shook his head. "But where did you get the money? And exactly how much do you have left? I saw rolls and rolls of fifties in there, man-too many to count. But I counted the guns, all right."

Marcus stood stone-faced and loose, ready for a fight. He certainly didn't wince, even though he knew exactly what Johnny had found in his lockbox.

"Six weapons," Johnny said, his voice going grim. "Enough ammo to take out every cop from here to New York, much less the sheriff's department on a tiny island."

For some reason, that actually surprised Marcus. This guy thought he was stockpiling guns and bullets for some kind of last-stand shootout with the police? He shook his head, letting the idea rattle around a little, but ultimately it didn't matter what Johnny thought was going on. "It's none of your business. You've got five seconds to hit the stairs and grab your c.r.a.p before I throw you out of here headfirst."

Johnny stalked closer, every line of his body tensed with aggression. "I'm not leaving without answers. Who was driving the truck?"

"What truck?" Every other idiot in this town owned a pickup.

"Don't give me that bull." Johnny jerked a fist in the collar of Marcus's flannel shirt, hauling him in close. "I know you know what's going on. Someone is after you, and my wife almost got caught in the crossfire!"

Marcus felt a twinge of concern. Whatever went down with this phantom truck, what was for sure was that Johnny was wigging out. First things first, though.

Taking advantage of his height and reach, Marcus stiff-armed Johnny back out of his personal s.p.a.ce. "Is Tessa okay?"

"No thanks to you," Johnny growled, straining against Marcus's hold for only a second before tearing himself free and bouncing backward on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. He moved like a fighter, like someone who knew how to inflict damage, and Marcus felt some of what had been bugging him about his tenant all along finally slot into place.

"Tell me what I need to know," Johnny insisted. "Or I'll beat it out of you."

Marcus appraised the situation with a glance. Johnny was wound up, a coiled wire waiting to spring. That energy had to go someplace; might as well be directed at Marcus. At least he knew he could take it.

"So, does whatever agency you're with know that you're going through a paranoid break with reality?" he asked, casual. But there was nothing casual about the deliberate step he took into Johnny's s.p.a.ce.

With an incoherent sound of anger, Johnny swung hard at Marcus's jaw. Marcus took the blow on the chin and turned with it, letting half the force dissipate in the shock of sudden pain. A better hit than he'd been expecting, Marcus decided dispa.s.sionately. Even in mid-breakdown, Johnny was a formidable opponent.

Too bad for him that Marcus was extensively, exhaustively trained in the art of taking down formidable opponents.

Johnny followed up his advantage with a left hook, but Marcus blocked the blow with his forearm. Grunting and shoving, they grappled uselessly for endless, sweaty minutes, too evenly matched-especially when Marcus was defending himself but not throwing any punches.

Finally, after the third time Marcus ducked a blow, he tried to restrain Johnny in a chokehold, which Johnny easily dodged. "You're not fighting to win," he panted, head lowered like a confused bull unsure of whether to charge. "Why aren't you fighting to win?"

Marcus relaxed out of battle stance but didn't take his wary gaze off Johnny. He shrugged one shoulder. "Got nothing to prove to you. I'm not a criminal. I've got a license for every one of those guns. And I came by my money the old-fashioned way."

"Yeah, but how did you earn it? That's what worries me." Suspicion tightened the corners of Johnny's eyes.

Old regrets and tired pain twisted at Marcus's gut, but he knew none of it showed in his blank expression. "I never said I earned it. I said the old-fashioned way. I inherited it."

"From who?"

From whom. Marcus heard the irritated correction, the kind of comment he'd grown so used to over the last couple of years. The kind of comment he never would've thought he'd miss-but d.a.m.n, he sure did miss it. Setting his jaw stubbornly, he only stared at Johnny in response.

He'd said all he planned to. Johnny didn't get to know more about Marcus's past than that.

Some sort of struggle was going on behind Johnny's shuttered gaze. Winded and rubbing at his knuckles, his shoulders slumped. He dragged a hand down a face that suddenly looked gray with exhaustion. "I believe you. Man, I am sorry. I don't know what to say, except Tessa could've gotten badly hurt and I flipped my lid. I shouldn't have gone off on you like that."

He held out a hand and Marcus shook it. Marcus wasn't above squeezing a little too hard around Johnny's sore knuckles-knuckles he'd bruised on Marcus's face-but Johnny only grimaced and wrung out his hand with a wry grin.

"Thanks. I feel like an a.s.s. I don't have any excuse, except that I recently finished a job where it was a matter of life and death to be suspicious of everyone I came in contact with. I guess I'm having a harder time coming home from that than I thought."

Marcus studied Johnny's shadowed eyes and the bleak twist of his lips. Not entirely true, Marcus decided. Johnny knew he was having a rough time of it. But as Marcus could attest, knowing you were in trouble didn't always make it easier to get the help you needed to get yourself out of trouble.

Which didn't make what he had to say any easier, but it still needed to be said. "I don't know anything about a truck," he clarified slowly. Johnny's gaze flew to him, intense and interested. "But as far as I know, there's zero reason anyone would be after me."

He waited, hoping Johnny would put the pieces together himself. The guy was kind of a mess. Marcus had been there, and he didn't especially want to be the guy who made things worse for Johnny.

But when all Johnny said was, "Okay, thanks for telling me," Marcus had to hold back a sigh.

Sometimes, his life sucked beyond the telling of it.

Kindness didn't come easily to Marcus. He didn't have a ton of experience with it. Still, he tried to gentle his normally gruff tone into something resembling compa.s.sion as he said, "Johnny. I don't know your life or what kind of s.h.i.t you've been in. But n.o.body who can crack a safe and fights like you do has lived squeaky clean. You need to consider that if there really is something going on, someone on the island who's deliberately looking to cause trouble-it might be someone from your past, not mine."

And for the second time in his life, Marcus Beckett got to watch the life drain out of someone's stare as their world turned to ashes and dust around them.

Chapter 15.

Kneading bread always put Tessa into something like a trance. As far as she was concerned, kneading was better than yoga, better than meditation, better than anything except prayer for getting into a state where she could let her mind drift through the problems of her day, and find some peace.

She'd probably be praying later, but for now, there were the ten loaves of sourdough the Firefly Cafe had ordered for their weekend sandwich special. Tessa let Patty wipe down the counters and lock up while she checked the rise.

Prying back the corner of the big plastic tub, she pressed a satisfied fingertip to the puffy, white dough. The indentation lingered in the sticky surface for a second, then sprang back. With a practiced eye, Tessa judged that the dough had roughly doubled in size since she first covered it and left it to do its thing. Perfect.

She dumped the dough out on her lightly floured workstation and used a metal sc.r.a.per to neatly portion out a dozen lumps. Tessa liked to do a second rise with sourdough, and this time, she'd form each loaf into the round shape it would be baked in. Scooping the first mound of dough to the middle of the counter, Tessa floured her hands and got to work.

What was she going to do about Johnny? The incoherent sc.r.a.ps of worry, guilt, fear, and doubt wove themselves into a dark patchwork as her hands and arms worked on autopilot.

He was so protective of her. He always had been, since the first night they met, but while it used to comfort Tessa and make her feel cherished and cared for, now it felt smothering. She breathed in the sharp smell of the yeast and savored it. This was the scent of independence, to Tessa.

A woman who's conquered sourdough can beat anything, Patty had told her when she first started teaching Tessa the intricacies of maintaining a starter. And in a very real way, Tessa knew it was true.

She'd learned a skill here, a marketable skill that could get her work almost anywhere. She hadn't just learned to bake bread. She'd learned how to support herself, how to stand on her own two feet.

The fact that Johnny still treated her like the shaking, traumatized teenager she'd been when he found her ... Tessa sighed and used the edge of her wrist to dab at her damp brow.

Kneading was hard work. Satisfying on every level. But somehow today, the usual calm serenity escaped her.

Still, by the time she heard voices out front and looked up from her dough with a frown, half an hour had pa.s.sed without her awareness. She'd gone through eight of the loaves and stacked them on rimmed baking sheets spread with parchment paper, each pan nestled into a tall, wheeled rack.

It was after closing time. Patty shouldn't be letting any customers in, she should be totaling up the cash drawer ... Tessa frowned, nerves tingling. Even as she told herself she was being paranoid, letting Johnny's overprotectiveness get to her, she called out, "Patty? Everything okay out there?"

But it wasn't Patty who appeared in the doorway to the back kitchen. It was Johnny.