Ben cursed his lost concentration. When he focused, he saw that they had come to a study of sorts. A room filled with books and paintings and artificial light since there wasn't a single window on any of the four walls.

Morales was a short man with a full head of thick, curly dark hair. He sat behind a massive hand-carved desk, smiling at Ben when he entered. He had seen the man in surveillance photos before, but in person he looked smaller.

"You must have very big cojones, or you are very estupido," the drug lord said with a high-pitched noise that sounded like a giggle.

Ben shrugged with an indifference he didn't feel. "I guess we'll find out which by the end of the visit, you think?"

Morales laughed even louder, then stood. He was a good foot shorter than Ben, and he wore a western shirt with turquoise snaps tucked into tight western pants that ended in overly pointed cowboy boots made of alligator skin. A cowboy hat with a matching alligator band hung from a hook by the door.

Morales didn't offer to shake Ben's hand. He came around to the front of the desk and leaned back against the edge. "Why are you here?"

"I want to do some business."

"What kind of business?"

"I need someone to move product for me."

Morales's black eyes narrowed dangerously. But Ben forged ahead.

"I'm having trouble distributing. I have a backlog of quality product, all because street dealers are nervous these days and lying low. I was told that if anyone could move product, it was you."

Morales crossed his arms on his chest, tucking his fingers in his armpits. "I heard you were a ballsy one."

"I'm not ballsy. I'm just a supplier whose business is suffering because Henry Baja was shot, making everyone on the street nervous."

The dealer's eyes narrowed, and Ben could see the wheels turning in his head. Morales was smarter than most dealers. He had pulled himself up through the ranks of hundreds to become the most successful of them all. But he had started making mistakes. And Morales was smart enough to know the mistakes were costing him. Ben could see it in his expression.

"Who cares about one dead street punk? There are plenty more where he came from," Morales said dismissively.

Fury burned through Ben like a wildfire. But he held it in check. Ben could tell Morales's tone was forced. And something else occurred to him. Standing in the middle of a ruthless killer's fortress, Ben realized that Morales didn't know anything about Henry being undercover EPPD.

Ben's eyes narrowed as his brain spun. "He might have been just one guy selling dope on street corners, but the killing seemed random to the rank and file. If it happened to that guy for no apparent reason, it could happen to them just as easily. You've gotten everyone worked up. It's hard to do business in this climate. No one's sure who to worry about more, you or the police."

Morales jerked away from the desk, his nearly black eyes flaring with anger. The guards in the room leaped to attention as well, their guns drawn.

Either Morales didn't notice or he didn't care. He started cursing and muttering in Spanish. Ben had lived in Texas long enough to get the gist of the conversation. The man wasn't pleased about the killing-which surprised Ben.

Morales cursed, banging his fist against the desk, every ounce of playing it cool gone. "I know this has screwed everything up. If I find out who did it, I will make them pay."

"Then you didn't do it?"

"Hell, who are you? The policia?" He sneered. "The police couldn't solve this crime if their lives depended on it. But I wish they would so we could get back to business." He spat. "And no, I didn't do it. There was no finesse."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know." He spewed profanity. "But rumor has it that Henry Baja had woman trouble, the sort that got him killed by some jealous husband or something. Can you believe it! You're not the only one suffering from this. Some dumb fuck does something stupid, and no one will move my product!"

Ben stared at Morales, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

"What?" the dealer demanded.

"It's just that I heard Baja went down doing a deal. I didn't hear anything about a woman."

"There was no deal going down. Though I wouldn't be surprised if some puta was going down on him." He laughed with a wicked sneer. "Now get the fuck out of here before I decide I'm really pissed off that you showed up uninvited. Until things settle down, no one's doing any business, comprende?"

Ben didn't breathe again until the massive wooden gates closed behind him. He retraced his path along Westside Drive, flipping open his cell phone and checking in with the team of ghosts shadowing this operation. He hardly heard what was said. He felt numb.

Henry. What the fuck had he been doing?

His thoughts were chewing through his head, and he blew right by the turnoff to Julia's house. He didn't think. He drove. He drove until he pulled up to his old apartment, then finally remembered he didn't live there anymore.

He pulled back out of the parking lot, then found himself heading to the alleyway where Henry was killed. The bloodstain was still there-no rain in weeks to wash it away. But that was all there was. No people, nothing to give him a clue what had gone wrong that night.

It was late when he finally returned to Julia's. The small light over the stove was still on, like a night-light in the dark. All traces of Primal Guy and the show were gone.

He was quiet. He didn't want to see Julia because he knew he was tired and his thigh hurt like hell.

When he finally got into the shower, the question that had been at the back of his mind finally came to the forefront. Had Henry's murder been about more than poor judgment and pushing too far? Had Henry started to live the life he was only supposed to pretend to lead? Had he gotten caught up in something illegal? And if that was true, Ben wondered if he had played a part in his partner's fall from grace.

Julia paced the length of her office. She had tried to write off what Todd had said. But it hadn't worked.

She had heard Ben come home, heard him walk quietly past her darkened office, then disappear back in his bedroom. She told herself to go to bed, to talk to Ben in the morning. But her stomach churned with anger and worry. It also churned with disappointment that she was wrong about Ben.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she marched down the hall, across the entry hall, then down the opposite wing. She pushed through Ben's door without knocking. Which was a mistake. She froze at the sight of him. He looked wild and fierce and sexy as hell. There was one other thing that had her rooted to the spot.

"You're naked," she said, her voice barely audible.

It took a second for him to bank the wildness. But finally he appeared like an animal back on the leash.

Barely.

"I generally take off my clothes when I shower."

She noticed the damp shoulders and the towel tossed aside.

"What do you want?" he asked, his tone seething.

"Oh, ah ..." She tried to remember. "We need to talk."

"I'm not interested in talking. So leave."

"Sorry. Can't."

His expression shimmered with barely contained anger. His sex was full but not hard, hanging down

against his thigh, the nest of curls at the base as black as midnight. Every inch of his body was strong

and finely chiseled. His chest was no exception.

Her heart hammered away as he looked at her through heavy-lidded and intent eyes. His gaze raked over her face, to her throat, then down to her breasts.

Her throat went dry and she had to forcefully clear her thoughts. "If you're dealing drugs, I don't want

you in my house."

She blurted the words out, and his head jerked back as if she had hit him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You, and whatever it is you do."

"We've been over this, Julia."

"I know. But I can't keep my head in the sand anymore. I mean really. Benny the Slash-the import/export guy?" She shook her head, picked up a discarded towel, and threw it at him.

He caught the terry cloth, and after a fierce second, he wrapped it around his waist.

"I tried to believe you," she continued, finally able to breathe, "partly because I couldn't believe you'd be involved in anything . . . well, illegal-"

"Hell."

"-and partly because I don't believe for a second that Chloe or even Sterling would put me in danger.

But I've reassessed. They wouldn't knowingly put me in danger. I doubt Sterling Prescott has any clue that you do the majority of your business at such odd hours."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? I don't believe you really hang out in bars in south El Paso just for grins, any more than I believe

that your getting shot was just you winning the unlucky lotto."

If he looked dangerous before, he looked really dangerous now, the leash long gone.

"Is that what you think?" he asked ominously. "Let me start by saying I have gotten plenty of grins while I

was drinking in seedy bars. In fact, in the weeks between playing babysitter to Chloe's show and the night I got shot, I was lost in a haze of alcohol and seedy bars-just me in a bar, hanging out, getting as drunk as I could."

He took a step toward her. The danger in him grew worse. He looked caught and cornered.

"But you're right," he added. "That isn't why I got shot. I got shot looking for a killer who never should have had the chance to shoot Henry."

She blinked in confusion, and her dread grew. "Henry, as in Todd and Trisha's dad? He was murdered?"

"Yes. My partner was murdered."

"Partner?"

"I'm a cop. Obviously not a good cop, since my partner was all alone when it happened." His jaw

tightened. "I should have been there."

Julia tried to absorb the words. Ben was a cop?

A cop whose partner was killed and who didn't know how to move beyond that. That explained the odd

work hours and his inability to sleep. It also explained the darkness that was never far from his eyes.

The pieces fell into place like the one section of a puzzle that finally gives meaning to the whole. It made

sense. And it filled her with relief. She hadn't been completely wrong about him. He was a bad boy, yes, but he wasn't a drug dealer or worse.