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  I had the distinct feeling Logan would be no different.

  The first number was a bust, disconnected or something, so I tried the next as I started the car and plugged the address into my GPS. I knew where the art school was, but didn’t know the area well enough to be sure where this address was located. It was some apartment building, I knew that much, but I didn’t think I’d ever been there before.

  I tried the second number and got an angry woman who only spoke Spanish—until I told her I was the police, then she informed me in perfect English that she didn’t know any Logan and her son’s name was Jordan. I decided she wasn’t covering for Logan, since she sounded like an older woman and was a mother. My target’s mother was dead, that much I was sure of.

  The next number went to a voicemail that belonged to some sort of pop up business that sold strange potato sculptures. I made it through all of the phone numbers and only the last one told me he’d just gotten the number, indicating it might have been Logan, but I doubted it. He seemed calm, collected, and honestly thought I was just some friend searching numbers in his contacts list.

  Whatever number he’d given the DMV; it definitely wasn’t his most recent.

  I gave up on the numbers and followed the GPS downtown to the art district. I drove through a rundown area that was made semi-beautiful by spray painted murals, strange little New Age shops, and cafés that all served foreign coffees and strange Danishes that could have just as easily come out of a plastic wrapper as from their ovens. This was the land of hippies and activists and starving artists—which was why the apartment I finally arrived at was a wreck. It was just barely above falling apart, the outside half painted with a color that might have supposed to have been white, but was closer to puke green and humidity gray. It wasn’t a good color.

  Heading up the steps, which were covered in marker, chalk, and paint, drawings of anything and everything covering the concrete, I worried briefly that I might have trouble getting in. Most apartment complexes had security gates or at least a card reader to make sure only residents could get in.

  My worries were unfounded, however, as apparently, this apartment complex was cheap enough that the door was simply open, allowing anyone who chose to enter at will.

  Nice place, I thought as I headed inside.

  There was someone in the lobby sitting at a desk, but they were reading a paper—or sleeping—and didn’t even notice as I casually headed to the stairs that would lead me to the fourth floor of the building.

  The place was as grimy and uninviting on the inside as it was on the outside. The walls were painted white, but had smudges and fingerprints and even a hole through part of it. It looked like no one had been through to clean in a very long time, and the lights flickered. It certainly looked like the kind of place where a low-life like Logan might live. As I reached the fourth floor, I started searching for the number I was looking for. As I did so, I noticed a young woman and a man of similar age came out of one of the doors. Instantly, I recognized the woman.

  Madeline.

  What was she doing here?

  The coincidence seemed tremendous that she would be here of all places. A quick desire ran through me, not just for her body, but an urge to have her see me, recognize me. I wanted her to know I was there, fate having brought us together once again. But she wasn’t alone, and things had been left…badly before. It was a bad idea, and more to the point, I wasn’t the type interested in any sort of long-term relationship, which seemed exactly the thing this young girl did want.

  Keeping out of sight, I waited at the opposite end of the hall for the pair to exit the apartment before I began to search for mine. I watched as they disappeared, ignoring the surge to go to her and take her with me, then I began to check the numbers. With each step I took, I got closer to her apartment. Then, finally, I was standing right in front of it—which just happened to be the number listed for the address of Logan King.

  “Something isn’t right. This must be an old address,” I said to no one at all.

  But I was wondering if I was right. Was this yet another dead end?

  I thought it must be, but my gut was telling me otherwise. Searching for answers, I raced downstairs to check the line of mailboxes that I’d passed in the lobby of the place. When I reached them, I searched the numbers and names until I found what I was looking for. Madeline.

  But more specifically, Madeline King.

  That was when I remembered he had a sister, though I’d never found a good recent picture of her. I hadn’t wanted to involve an innocent in this, so I’d never pursued whether or not she could be involved in all of this, or know where he was. But I should have. I thought of her long blonde hair, like warm honey or wheat. Her bright blue eyes, her freckles. Features that transferred over perfectly to the pictures I had of Logan.

  “Damnit!”

  How had I made this complicated?

  Chapter 9

  Madeline

  Today was a workshop day, thankfully. I only had my workshop classes once a week for three hours, and I was allowed to use the art studio freely between the hours of seven and nine in the morning, and six and twelve at night. Otherwise classes occupied the rooms.

  Workshop was one of my favorite classes, because it was basically a free for all. Our professor would occasionally walk around and spout existential theories on why art was important or how the colors determined the light of the world, but for the most part this was just about creating viable pieces for our portfolios. And, of course, our gallery piece. There was going to be one at the end of the semester for all graduating seniors. It would be our exhibit, and for some of us—most of us—it would likely be our only exhibit.

  The thought made me nauseous—or maybe that was the baby? I wasn’t sure anymore if it was the stress from school, the pressure to complete a masterpiece worth displaying in a gallery, or the strange situation with Shawn. Had he really proposed to me? Of course, he had, and it had been an earnest, completely noble plan to save me from embarrassment and exile.

  He was so selfless, but…did I really want to spend my life with him?

  Not that I had a lot of options. I hadn’t dated more than a few people in my life and we had only gotten to the kissing stage, nothing beyond. Until Nikolai. He was so different from everything I had ever known, and I thought for sure that was what had swept me away. It was the sense of danger and intrigue he carried with him. It was that sexy Russian accent, just smooth enough to slip beneath his perfect English and make his whole self darker, deeper, and more desirous. It was even that medal he had suspended around his neck, an almost gaudy gold thing that should have made him look cheesy, but only spoke of heritage and belief.

  I cursed myself for still thinking of him. For focusing on him. He wasn’t coming back. If he wouldn’t come back just to…to, well, fuck me, then why would he come back once he knew a baby was involved? Simple: he wouldn’t. Few men would, but certainly not a dark, sleek stranger like him. He was the type of man who owned expensive cars and rented expensive apartments, daring to live carelessly, even dangerously, because there was nothing anywhere that tied him down.

  The complete opposite of some farm girl and her baby.

  No, Nikolai wasn’t an option—which was why the painting that kept appearing before me was so inappropriate. It was an urban scene, dark and foreboding. The background was a mixture of streaked rain, midnight skies, and alleys a charcoal gray color that might be full of shadows and nasty things. The roads were cobblestone and shining wet. There was a moon, but it was almost completely covered by the dark clouds that dumped rain on the entire thing. But the part that was so wrong, so inappropriate, was the man standing amidst it all. He had broad shoulders and dark, thick hair that was slicked by the rain, but he was unconcerned as he stared into the alley, ready to face the darkness. His eyes shone in the darkness and there was a tiny golden metal, the only real color besides blue in the entire image.

  It had come to me unbidden. I needed to
do something, something spectacular for the showcase at the end of the semester, and I kept drawing a blank. Then two months ago I’d had that wonderful night and the heartbreaking morning that followed it with Nikolai. Suddenly, something formed in my mind. I didn’t even really know what it was until I started on him, making his form out slowly in little more than a shadow. Slowly, features came in, his tone paler than it should be, his eyes too bright for the dark scene, but he was there.

  Nikolai. Just as gorgeous and alluring as I remembered him.

  Now, I wished that I’d picked something else. Anything else, but I’d had such a block and Nikolai had opened that up. Now it was much too late to hope to do anything else before the semester was over. I’d just have to live with this and when anyone asked, if they asked, I’d say it was just someone I made up, someone who might look like they belonged to the darkness.

  “Good, Madeline, good. It’s really coming along,” my professor told me in that feathery voice that suggested she was probably taking some sort of mind-altering drug. She floated on past me to the next kid, making some minor suggestions here and there.

  I sighed. She was right. It was really coming along. It was probably the best thing I’d ever done, in fact, and that was more depressing than I cared to focus on. Putting up my brushes early, I threw my canvas in the back to dry—and to protect from vandals who had occasionally wrecked other students’ work—and told my professor I had to leave early. I wasn’t feeling well. She encouraged me to feel better and to come in to use the free time to finish my piece if I needed it. I thanked her with a tight-lipped smile, then headed out.

  I needed to see Shawn. I was going to have to say yes.

  ***

  I was walking towards my apartment, holding the phone out in front of me. A text was typed up and ready to be sent, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. What would this change? Not just for me and my potential life, but between myself and Shawn?

  My answer is yes. You’re a good man and any woman would be lucky to have you.

  It was the truth, mostly. He was a really decent, noble man. The fact that he was willing to volunteer spending the rest of his days raising someone else’s child spoke to that fact all on its own, not even mentioning all of the time he spent with me when I was sick or when I was bored or just whenever I needed a shoulder to cry on. Shawn was my best friend. Wasn’t that what all women should dream of, to marry their best friend?

  Yet I couldn’t bring myself to send the message. I knew I would have to eventually, but for now, it could wait. For a little bit longer still, I could just be Madeline King.

  I saved the message as a draft, then dragged out my keys to open the door, but as I rounded the corner, I froze.

  Him. Nikolai. He was here, standing outside the door of my apartment, looking every bit like he didn’t belong and yet like he could belong anywhere.

  What is he doing here? Does he know about the baby?

  Hope surged forth only to be quashed a second later. No, of course not. He couldn’t possibly know about the baby. I hadn’t told anyone yet besides Shawn and I wasn’t far enough along for me to be showing. I still had my slim physique, though I could feel my breasts beginning to ache, as though they were swelling with the milk I would need.

  He couldn’t know, but then why was he here?

  I sucked in a quick breath, then let it out, trying to stay calm. Forcing myself to keep walking to the door, I refused to make eye contact with him, unlocking the door casually. “What are you doing here?” I asked, opening the door.

  Without any prompting from me, he strode inside first, looking around my dingy little apartment. Instantly, I felt embarrassed. I remembered still what his luxurious apartment had looked like and he must be utterly disgusted by the way I lived. At the very least, it was neat and picked up, so he wouldn’t think I was just a total slob.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother, Madeline?” he asked, completely ignoring my question.

  I blinked at him. My brother? “What?”

  He rounded on me and I was startled by the intensity of his eyes. Quickly I looked away before I got caught in their spell. “Your brother. Logan. When was the last time you saw him?”

  How does he know Logan? Oh, god, did I sleep with one of my brother’s friends? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t come up with any other reason for why Nikolai would know Logan. “Um, a while. He’s out of state right now.”

  Nikolai frowned at me, his thick brows pulling together, creating a crease between them that was troubling and still sexy at the same time. I tried not to think about the strange craving I had for him, just as strong as the first time we’d ever met.

  “Out of state,” Nikolai repeated flatly. “He hasn’t been here?”

  I shook my head. “No, I mean, not for a while anyway. He had to leave town for a job or something.” I shrugged my shoulders. My brother was a carpenter, sort of. Mostly, he was a jack of all trades. He’d do a little bit of anything for some extra cash, which meant he was never really good at any one thing. But, he could half-ass just about anything. I guessed that was something.

  “A job.”

  “Why do you keep repeating everything I say? What are you doing here?”

  Finally, Nikolai seemed to focus. He was troubled still, serious in a way he most definitely wasn’t the first night we met, but he seemed to have decided something for himself as he locked gazes with me. “Your brother isn’t out of state doing a job,” he told me, his voice low and deep and laced with that accent I loved so much. “He’s running.”

  My mouth dropped open a little. “Running? From what?”

  “From who. And the who is important only because it is a very powerful man who will do very bad things to anyone who crosses him.”

  I almost felt like laughing. A powerful man? What, like a mob boss or something? Was this man some sort of gangster, Capone style? That was ridiculous! My brother was kind of a screw up sometimes, but he was family and I knew he had a good heart. He would never get involved with some sort of dangerous mobster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My brother is a carpenter—”

  “A carpenter who was hired by this powerful man to do a job. He failed in that job and then he stole a lot of money. This man wants his money back.”

  At this, I did laugh. It was a short bark that wasn’t wholly sincere, but it was all just too much. It sounded like a bad plot to some B-grade heist movie! My brother wasn’t capable of pulling anything like that off. But then I saw that Nikolai’s expression hadn’t changed. He looked just as serious—no, grave—as he had a moment ago.

  He was being serious.

  A shiver ran through me, all of the laughter instantly sucked out of me. I felt cold and worried and suddenly I knew Logan was in a lot of trouble. Bad trouble.

  But I wasn’t ready to accept it. Not from this man who had used me and left me and then haunted my dreams and desires. No, not from him. My brother was fine. This was all some huge misunderstanding. “Get out.”

  Nikolai’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What?”

  “I said, get out. Now. Leave. Go. I don’t want to see you!” My voice was rising and I could tell I was almost hysterical. Maybe it was the hormones or maybe it was a part of me that believed what Nikolai was telling me. Either way, it was making it harder to breathe. He needed to go. “Leave me and my family alone. Don’t you ever come back here!”

  Chapter 10

  Nikolai

  Being yelled at by a woman who was the sister of the man I was hired to kill should not have made me hard. But it did. Her face was flushed with anger, her freckles little pinpricks of burning heat. Her eyes were so bright they almost glowed blue in the dim lighting of the shitty little apartment she called home. Her long hair fell across her shoulders and tickled at her breasts in soft waves that called to me, begged for me to grab them and jerk them back to expose the long column of her smooth neck.

  I thought I was getting better with thi
s strange, lingering desire for Madeline, but I was beginning to think I was wrong. My cock ached in my pants, shuddering at being so close to her, with the need to be inside of her.

  And she wasn’t helping matters at all. She was yelling at me, telling me she never wanted to see me anymore, but her breasts were trying to escape the simple button-down shirt she wore, and her legs were long beneath the shorts she was wearing. Even her delicate hands, pointing at the door to emphasize her words, were sending my mind spiraling towards dirty, dirty things. I imagined the way those tiny fingers would look wrapped around my shaft. I imagined the way they might grip my hips, my shoulders, my back as she writhed in ecstasy beneath me.