CHAPTER THIRTY.

The grocery store. The piano shop. His house.

That was what the private detective had said Luke Carlton's daily life consisted of. The day Michael returned from New York, he shoved aside all thoughts of Annalise.

Narrowing his focus on the investigation, he conducted some recon of his own.

He pulled into the parking lot at Luke's regular grocery store on his usual evening to shop. Maybe it was an act of desperation. But h.e.l.l, this guy was slippery. And Michael didn't like slippery. He wanted the man to be caught. Put behind bars. Locked the f.u.c.k up.

Maybe he could find a clue. The detail that would tip the cards in the favor of justice. He sat in his car and waited, like he was the private eye.

And h.e.l.l, if this job didn't suck.

But Luke was clockwork, and at six p.m., he walked through the front doors of the store. Michael got out of his car and kept a decent pace behind him, clenching his fists.

How could that man-that Royal Sinner-have such an ordinary, average life?

Luke pushed a cart through the aisles, buying bananas, a whole chicken, some cereal, toilet paper, potato chips, orange juice, and a can of white beans.

Each aisle Luke wandered down, Michael was tempted to confront the f.u.c.ker. To grab him by the collar of his short-sleeve b.u.t.ton-down shirt, slam him against the canned peas, and ask him what the f.u.c.k he had done eighteen years ago. How he'd gotten away with it. How he was still getting away with everything, including buying bananas.

Michael hated bananas.

But somewhere between the bathroom supplies and the salty snacks, he slowed his pursuit and tamped down the treacherous ball of anger inside him. Talking to Luke, confronting Luke, spitting on the man's face-none of that would help solve the crime. Those would only serve to mess with the investigation. To tip him off.

Michael turned around, marched to his car, and yanked open the door. Once inside, he dropped his head to the steering wheel and cursed up a blue streak.

When he looked up, Luke was depositing grocery bags in the trunk of his car a few rows over. Shrugging, Michael decided to follow him when he left. Keeping a reasonable distance, he drove behind him for a few miles on a long stretch of road, stopping at traffic lights, never going above the speed limit. Luke turned into a strip mall, and Michael followed, too, watching as the man parked and headed into a piano shop.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d probably needed more "London Bridge is Falling Down" sheet music.

Michael loathed him for that, too.

For his boring f.u.c.king life.

Work consumed him. The next few days roared by in a sea of trouble, triage, and s.h.i.t storms. He'd been called to one of the financial firms that employed them for private security to deal with some threats against the building. Then he and Ryan tackled an issue with one of their banks involving an attempted robbery of an armed vehicle. Bad mojo was going around daily, and Michael was tense, poised for the next shoe to drop. It was like one of those weeks of celebrity deaths, where bad things happen in threes.

The next one would come any second...

And it happened on a Thursday night.

Michael and Ryan were working late at the office when the call came, Michael at his desk, Ryan poring over paperwork on the couch.

Michael answered the office line on speaker. "Michael Sloan here."

"Hey, Mr. Sloan. We had more gang trouble at White Box." It was their on-the-ground guy at the club.

He groaned as Ryan looked up from the contracts.

"What happened?"

"Actually, it all worked out," the man said, and Michael breathed more easily as his guy recounted what went down. "Some dude from the Royal Sinners tried to solicit one of the dancers."

"But that happens all the time at a club," Michael pointed out, as Ryan nodded silently, following along.

"True. But he wasn't just trying to get her to go home with him. He wanted her to be part of a prost.i.tution ring."

"Jesus," Michael said, seething.

"But don't worry. We handled it. Threw the guy out."

"Good," Ryan chimed in.

"Thanks for the heads up. Glad it was all taken care of," Michael said, and when he hung up, he met Ryan's eyes.

They were thinking the same thing.

"We should go there and touch base. Check in," Ryan said.

Michael nodded. White Box was far too important a client.

Fifteen minutes later, they walked into the main doors and quickly found Curtis and Charlie at the sleek, silver bar. Women in next to nothing danced on stage, and scantily clad waitresses delivered highb.a.l.l.s and scotches, as low techno music thumped through the club. Patrons lounged on red velvet couches, mostly businessmen, judging by the sheer number of suits and ties. In the far corner, a group of men puffed on expensive cigars in the smoking lounge.

"Everything work out okay?" Ryan asked after saying h.e.l.lo to Curtis and clapping Charlie on the back.

They both nodded, and Charlie stroked his chin. "If I wanted to run an escort service, I'd do that myself," he huffed indignantly. "Obviously, that's not the business I'm in. I can't stand those street thugs trying to recruit the women here." He counted off on his fingers. "My dancers are salaried. They have health insurance. I even have a retirement plan for them. This isn't how I run this place. They aren't ladies of the night."

"Sorry that happened," Michael said.

Charlie waved him off. "No apologies needed. It comes with the territory. But I will be breathing easier at night when the authorities finally break up the gangs. They are making business difficult for many here in town. They draw an element we do not want."

"Trust me, we all want to see the street crime problem lessen," Ryan said sympathetically.

"But your men handled the problem beautifully, with none of my regulars the wiser, and I am grateful for that."

Charlie liked to run a high-cla.s.s business, and while it was a strip club for all intents and purposes, White Box was geared to the more discerning crowd.

"Glad it was handled discreetly and well."

"It was perfect. Exactly what we hired you for," he said and flashed a brief smile before lacing his fingers together. "What do you think we can do as private business owners to combat the gang problem?"

Michael eyed Ryan, and a look pa.s.sed between them. These guys were speaking their language. They loved having a client who cared so much, who wanted the same things.

They spent the next thirty minutes strategizing, brainstorming, and discussing best practices for private citizens and companies to handle the problem.

When they were through, Curtis glanced at his boss, and Charlie nodded, giving him permission to say what was on his mind.

"This is why we want to do more work with you," Curtis said. "We want you to handle security for our clubs in Phoenix, Dallas, and Miami."

More business sounded good, so Michael took his brother out for a celebratory round of poker and beer. That was a welcome end to a s.h.i.tty work week.

With so much trouble still on the streets, Michael and his brother decided it made sense for them to start carrying again. They both had concealed weapons permits and knew how to be safe. With crime on the uptick, it was a necessary precaution.

Michael said good-bye to his brother. As Ryan headed home to his bride-to-be, a pang of sadness. .h.i.t Michael. He was happy for Ryan, and he also couldn't help but want some of that for himself.

With one woman in particular.

As he shut the door to his home with a thunk, his phone buzzed. It was Friday morning in France, and there was a note from Annalise lighting up his screen.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Annalise ran her finger over the computer screen, tracing the contour of her own body. She'd turned the image of herself on a hotel bed into an arty black-and-white photograph. In this one, Michael had captured a full nude shot, but from the side. Nothing too p.o.r.ny. Sure, he'd taken some of those pictures, and she had no interest in gazing at her parts. But this picture? She rather liked it. In it, she looked at the photographer out of the corner of one eye, one knee raised, and her hair spilling down her back.

From her desk by the floor-to-ceiling window in her home, she adjusted the contrast a bit more, then she leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and studied the screen.

She gazed at it as if she could find the answers to her heartbreak in a photo. To some it might seem narcissistic, but Annalise comprehended the world from behind a lens.

Her world.

Her heart.

In all its brokenness.

But here in this photo, she felt...whole again. For the first time. So odd that a nude photo, a shot of her turned on beyond any and all reason, would make her feel that way. But it did. Because her body had been a part of the heartbreak, too.

Her body was healing.

Perhaps it was no surprise too that this photo on her screen was next to the shot of him at Caesars. The candid of him by the pool. She hadn't yet decided how she wanted to frame it or crop it. If she would edit it, or leave it untouched.

Keep it raw. Maybe because she felt that way with Michael.

She pushed away from her chair and roamed around her flat. s.e.x with Julien had been good. They'd had an active s.e.x life, tried many positions, and never went more than a few nights without making love. She'd always been a physical woman, had always longed for that kind of triple connection between heart, mind, and body. She stopped at a bookcase and picked up a photo of Julien taken in one of the covered walkways in Paris. He'd emerged from a store full of maps, a gleeful look in his eyes, like he'd found treasure. She picked up an image of him sipping espresso, coolly staring in the distance, contemplative. Then another of him thumbing through postcards at a sidewalk dealer along the Seine, sweetly complimenting her work in comparison.

He was her handsome, thoughtful, kind, inquisitive love.

Her throat hitched as she considered the picture.

But the lump disappeared as quickly as it came.

No tears threatened her. No pain rattled around in her chest. No ache descended on her body.

Did that mean something? Anything?

An idea seized her, and in minutes her purse was slung on her shoulder, flats were on her feet, and the metro was rattling its way to this very spot from the first photo-one of the pa.s.sages of Paris.

Soon she walked past the map shop, stopping outside the window to stare at the vast collection of maps of the world. Julien had loved history and geography. That was one of the reasons he'd become a photojournalist. He'd always been drawn to the big world beyond this city. And she'd been lucky to spend time traveling with her explorer man. She ran her finger over a map in the window, tracing a line over Italy, to Turkey, over to Singapore...all the places they'd been...recalling the times they'd had.

She looked at her watch. She was due at her mother's in two hours to help her with dinner and to fix her broken sink. That gave Annalise time to walk past some of the haunts she'd shared with Julien. At the cafe they loved, she tapped their regular table for good luck. She wandered across their favorite bridge on the Seine, marveling at the gray ribbon of water that snaked through Paris, then along the antique shops and art dealers near the Musee d'Orsay, one of her most beloved spots in the city, and past the sidewalk dealers by the river, peddling postcards.

He'd once joked that she'd set up shop someday, selling her photos there. She smiled faintly at the memory.

Then, when she was done with her tour, she turned her face to the sky, looked heavenward, and said her final good-bye.

"Love, I won't be here always. You need to move on. You're young, and beautiful, and smart, and vibrant."

It was okay to feel again, to want again, to live, and maybe even to love.

And it was okay to let him go.

When she arrived at her mother's, she knocked then let herself in, and walked over to her mother, who was reading a book on her couch, a news station playing softly on her radio. Her mother set down the book and greeted her with a hug and a warm h.e.l.lo. "How was your day, mon pet.i.te papillon?"

"It was completely necessary," she answered, and her mother raised an eyebrow at her response.

Annalise explained what she meant as she made dinner, then fixed the sink, chatting about the news of the day. Her mother was a newshound, and Annalise had always loved world affairs. Later, Annalise fell asleep on the couch. When she woke up the next morning, she stretched, brushed her teeth, and said good-bye.

Outside, as the sun rose in the Paris sky, she snapped a photo of a coffee eclair in a bakery window. She captioned it: "Are coffee eclairs on your h.e.l.l-no list, too? Wait. Don't tell me. I want to discover all the things about you I do not know. Will you let me?"

"And then you will hand me the ring for Ryan," Sophie said to Michael, as she gestured grandly to the waterfalls raining behind them. They were at Mandalay Bay's outdoor terrace, framed by gentle waterfalls that would form the backdrop to Ryan and Sophie's ceremony next month. The walk-through was early, but Sophie had said she wanted to be prepared.

Michael was the best man. Well, one of them. Ryan had decided to have two best men. Both Colin and Michael would stand with him. John would be the one to give his sister away, but he wasn't here today. Sophie said he'd been called away on police business, and Michael could only hope that was code for "close to cracking the murder investigation." Of course, Michael was well aware that John was a busy detective and had many cases he was working. His father's was one of them, though Michael felt, selfishly, like it was the only one that mattered.

It had been a quiet several days on that front since he'd returned from New York, but his private investigator, Morris, had messaged him the other day to say that he had some leads and hoped to get some solid intel soon.

Soon couldn't come fast enough, especially after Michael's pointless pursuit of Luke several nights ago.

As they finished the quick walk-through of the ceremony, his cell phone buzzed, and Michael's new Pavlovian response kicked in, a dart of l.u.s.t flaring in him.

His phone had been glued to his side since he'd left New York, but even more so after Annalise's note the other morning. That note. It was a window opening and sunshine pouring in, and of course he'd said yes. She hadn't said I love you, but in the last few days she'd given him so much of her time and herself, even from an ocean away. She sent him sweet little messages throughout the day, and often included photos, too. She took pictures of her lunch, her coffee, her life in Paris. A flower planter in a second story window of a flat she walked past in the Fifth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. A couple lounging on a blanket on the gra.s.s by the Eiffel Tower. A shop window with impossibly tall silver mannequins on display. The rain on a cobblestoned street corner. She captioned them all.

In French.