Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

The state of Florida was huge, but sheer luck had moved Ian down to the East Northport Correctional Facility, just a few short miles from Sarasota, where his brother’s family currently lived.

He floored it as he now headed north on the interstate, grateful that he didn’t have to make the long drive down from the prison in Stark, and praying, as he swiftly punched Aaron’s number into his cute new lawyer’s phone, that his luck would hold.

But his brother didn’t pick up the landline at the house. Instead, the voice mail clicked on without any kind of personalized greeting, which was good. Maybe Aaron had finally learned something about how to be invisible. Ian tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the beep.

“Two seven zebra foxtrot,” he said. “D.A., this is Eee.” In addition to the verification code that they’d set up over a year ago, Ian also used their childhood nicknames, so that there would be no question in Aaron’s mind who was calling. “If you’re screening your calls, this is a code one, repeat code one. Proceed to Contact Point Charlie, repeat, CP Charlie.”

He hung up, and then dialed Shelly’s work number, but immediately got an automated message. It came through the speaker at a blaring volume as an additional f*ck you. “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.…”

That wasn’t good.

Ian hated surprises of any kind, and this was an unpleasant one. The main reason Aaron’s family had stayed in Sarasota, less than two hours south of Clearwater where the Dellarosas were based, was Shel’s job. If that had changed, Ian should’ve been notified during his biweekly phone call with Shelly’s kickass sister Francine.

Still, there was no time to fume. He moved on, trying the burner phone number that he’d been given for Francine’s next contact call, knowing that she, in turn, could call Aaron and Shel on their cells—numbers Ian didn’t have, since they changed them, both regularly and randomly, as a precaution. But that line just rang and rang and rang—no doubt because it hadn’t yet been activated. “F*ck.”

Ian glanced over to find Phoebe watching him.

“Calling the members of your team?” she asked.

Just because Phoebe Kruger had told him that his lawyer Jerry Bryant was dealing with a personal tragedy didn’t make it true.

“I don’t have a team.” It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t really—not anymore. Ian dialed Jerry’s personal number at the law firm.

Phoebe was undaunted. And perceptive. “Calling the former members of your team?”

Ian didn’t answer as the line was picked up by a woman with a British-sounding accent. “J. Quincy Bryant’s line. This is Susan.”

The name was common enough—it shouldn’t have surprised him or affected him in any way. But it did. Because whoever this Susan was, she was not the Susan he wished he could talk to right now. That Susan, his Susan, the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had, had been dead for years. Her accent had also been an inerasable New Jersey.

“Hello?” this Susan said, a tad impatiently, despite the Julie Andrews vowels.

“Yes. Sorry. Mr. Bryant, please.”

Ian heard Phoebe sigh as Susan said, “I’m so sorry, he’s out of the office due to a death in the family. May I ask what this is regarding?”

“How about Ms. Kruger?” Ian asked, glancing again at Phoebe, who was shaking her head. “Can you connect me with Phoebe Kruger?”

“I’m sorry, who?” Susan asked.

“I’m a new hire,” Phoebe interjected, and Ian repeated that info into the phone.

“Ah, yes,” Susan said. “There she is. One moment …”

There was a click and then a beep and then voice mail kicked in. “This is Phoebe Kruger—”

Ian ended the call as he glanced at her again.

“Well, you are thorough, I’ll give you that,” she said.

“How new of a hire?” he asked.

“This is my first week.”

“And who assigned you my file?”

“The office manager,” Phoebe told him. “She was really upset. She said it was urgent, and she didn’t know what to do. So I took the file from her. I told her I’d take care of it.”

“And that you have,” he said. “See what you get for being nice? Next time, head down, scurry for the far corner of the room.”

She laughed her disbelief as Ian looked back at the phone.

Next up on his call list was Manny Dellarosa himself. Because maybe if Ian could tell the mob boss everything—and get him to believe it—Manny could stop this disaster before it started. Ian pulled that number, too, from the cobwebby corners of his brain, dialed it, then waited while it rang.

A male voice picked up—far too young to be Manny. “Yeah.”

“Is he there?” Ian asked, following the unspoken paranoid rule of never using Dellarosa’s name during a phone call or indoor conversation. It could get confusing, but in this case, he’d called Manny’s private line.

“Who’s this?” It wasn’t Manny’s a*shole of a brother, Davio, either. Davio was ten years younger, but still too old to sound that youthful.

“An old friend,” Ian answered. “He’ll want to talk to me.”

“Maybe so,” the man responded, “but he can’t. You must not be very close. He’s in the hospital. Heart attack.” Nor was it Manny’s son, Vince-the-f*ckup, or even crazy Davio’s son Berto.

“Shit,” Ian said, and glanced over to find Phoebe watching him closely. “How bad is he?”

“Stable,” the man said. “In for observation.”

Yeah, what else would he say? That Manny was in his seventies and in shitty shape from years of cigarettes and alcohol?

“Tampa General?” Ian asked.

“No, Sarasota Memorial. He was over on Siesta, having lunch, when he dropped.”

Okay, this was not good. It meant Manny Dellarosa’s army would be wandering around here in Sarasota, rather than safely committing crimes up in Clearwater.

“They didn’t want to move him,” the man added.

It was entirely possible that Manny was at death’s door. Still, Ian knew enough not to ask who was in charge while Manny was laid up.

The answer to that was a given. Davio, Manny’s psycho brother.

“I need to get a message to him,” Ian said instead. “In the hospital. I need you to tell him Ian Dunn called. Tell him there’s been a mistake, that Mr. Bryant and Mr. Middleworth are both unreachable, but that nothing has changed. Can you get that to him? It’s an emergency.”

“Lotta people have emergencies. You’ll have to wait in line,” the voice said, and ended the call.

“Shit.”

This time Phoebe’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly in a question, even as he became aware that the phone he was holding smelled faintly of something nice, something decidedly female. Hand lotion or shampoo or maybe just perfume, although if Phoebe was currently wearing any, it was subtle and not at all overpowering. He glanced over to find her still watching him.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, adding, “Within the confines of the law?”

“Good thing you qualified that,” Ian said, as he used his thumb to dial Johnny M.’s number this time, one eye half on the road and half checking the rearview, scanning for both marked and unmarked police vehicles. Last thing he wanted was to get stopped for speeding. “Or I’d’ve asked you to rob the convenience store at the next exit. I mean, I could use a little cash, right?”


“There’s no need to be dickish,” Phoebe said as Johnny’s cell phone rang.

And rang.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Ian muttered. It was time for his luck to change.

“ ’Lo.”

At least he thought it was his former SEAL chief’s trademark one-syllabification of hello, but Phoebe spoke simultaneously, asking, “Who do you really work for?”

He shot her a shhh look, holding up one finger in warning as he said, “Johnny?” into the phone. “It’s Eee. I could use a little help.”

There was silence on the other end, and Ian knew John was waiting for verification.

“Nine,” Ian said.

“Zed four,” Johnny responded, and Ian knew it was really him. Forget about the fact that he knew the code—only John Murray would say zed instead of zero.

“Queen alpha four,” Ian said.

And Johnny finished the sequence with “Queen bravo eighty-four, but I don’t do this spooky shit anymore, sir. Kath died and I got full custody of my kid.”

“I heard. I’m sorry,” Ian said.

“It sucks, but … One day at a time, right?”

“I’m currently working the ten-seconds-at-a-time plan,” Ian told him. “And I wasn’t calling to talk you in, Chief, as much as I’d like that. I just need some info if you have it.”

“I’ve been out of the loop for almost a year. Same as you, I guess.”

“D.A. and Shel.” Ian got to it. “Have you heard from them lately?”

“Last contact,” Johnny reported with a heavy sigh, “was … Christmas? Yeah. I got one of those family holiday newsletters via encrypted email. F*ckin’ Shel. Way to work the normal, right?”

No kidding. “Any mention of a new job or, I don’t know, an impending move?”

“Nah, it was mostly about the kid. Only thing about the two of ’em was something about some race—a half marathon—that they were planning to do this spring. They bought one of those running stroller things, so they could push the kid, too.”

Ian tried on the possibility that his brother’s family was safely out of town. But no, that would’ve been too easy. “Can you send me what Shelly sent you?” he asked.

“Sorry, sir, it had some kind of security code embedded, and it self-deleted from my email account fifteen minutes after I opened it. F*ckin’ Shel.” He laughed again. “Good thing I read fast.”

“Do you remember anything else about the race?” Ian asked. “Was it local or …?”

Johnny sighed. “I don’t. To be honest, I’m pretty sure Shel didn’t say. I remember the part where the kid got some stomach virus on Thanksgiving and projectile vomited all the way from the dining room onto the living room sofa, like he’d medaled in some Olympic sport. I remember thinking why the f*ck do you need to tell that to everyone you know? I mean, Merry Christmas, but Jesus Christ.”

John Murray was one of the best operatives Ian had ever worked with, both inside and out of the SEAL teams. His memory was still exceptional—Ian didn’t doubt that for one second.

“How about Francine?” Ian asked about Shel’s sister, even though he knew she and Johnny had never really gotten along. “Have you heard from her?”

“Nope.”

“Do you still have a number for Shelly at work?”

“Yup,” John said, but then rattled off the same phone number that had triggered the disconnect message.

“Will you do me a huge, and text me whatever email addies you have for all three of them?” Ian asked. “And I hate to impose, but I kinda need that right away, because this is not my phone.”

“You got it, sir,” Johnny said. “Sorry I can’t do more.”

“Good luck with the kid,” Ian said. “And you might want to keep your head down for a while. There’re gonna be people looking for me.”

“Fantastic,” Johnny deadpanned. “But I’m clean. I’m the inventory manager at a building supply company. Which isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“You always were a shitty liar.”

“Yeah.” He sighed heavily again. “It sucks, but kid’s gotta eat, so what are you gonna do? Luck back at ya, LT,” he said, and cut the connection.

Phoebe—Ian’s cute new lawyer—was still watching him, listening at least to his side of the conversation. She held out her hand for her phone, but he shook his head and tucked it down between his legs, close to his crotch on the seat, so she wouldn’t be tempted to take it back before John’s text came in.

But she held up a note-sized pad and a pen and said, “I was going to write down the email addresses for you.”

His first thought was that she no longer had one hand tucked inside of her giant bag, although it was still on her lap. It was the perfect time to grab it from her and disarm her—assuming that she really did have a weapon in there.

But she had the thing securely tucked between her legs and her arms and her stomach. Ian would’ve had to elbow her hard in the face to force her to let go, and doing so would’ve radically changed the semi-friendly dynamic that they’d established.

Besides, even if she had a handgun, there was no way that she was going to shoot him and make a mess in her new car. At least not as long as he didn’t threaten her. Or try to elbow her hard in the face.

“Thanks,” he said instead, shaking his head no, “but if there’s something new that I don’t already know, I’ll commit it to memory right away.”

She figured out why, her awareness easy to read on her expressively pretty face. “You don’t want a paper trail. Except hello. Text messages live forever. If this is information you don’t want public, then—”

“He’ll use code,” Ian told her.

“All this cloak and dagger is impressive,” Phoebe said, “as you reach out to your former team members. Is it standard for the Agency?”

He glanced at her again. She was so softly sweet-looking, he had to keep reminding himself that she was a lawyer with BH&S, which put her on the same level of the food chain as a saber-toothed tiger. She was gazing back at him with expectancy and confidence in her eyes, waiting for his answer.

“If I admit that I’m Agency, will that make you want to sleep with me?” he asked.

She laughed her surprise, but couldn’t hide the rush of color that tinted her cheeks. Wasn’t that interesting? “No,” she said very firmly, making sure that he saw that she wasn’t thrown enough to break eye contact.

“Then I won’t bother lying,” Ian replied, with a shrug and a smile. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I work for myself, and I don’t have a team.”

“Which is what you’d say if you worked for the Agency,” Phoebe said. “And excuse me, pookie-pooh, but I’m sitting right here, listening to you attempt to make contact with your team.”

“See now, I’m thinking you probably work for the Agency,” he countered. And even though he was only teasing, when the words came out of his mouth he realized that it was entirely possible that she was a highly trained operative in charge of monitoring his every move. She was remarkably unfazed by her abduction. Plus, to have her show up at the prison, as his lawyer, in place of Jerry Bryant? A brand-new hire …? That was a classic Agency move. And sure, she said that she took his file from a distraught office manager, but that could’ve been bullshit, too.


“Where’d you work before BH and S?” Ian asked.

She laughed, because she saw right through his casual question to the interrogation that it was. “Seriously?”

“Hell, yeah. Let’s hear your cover story, Agent Kruger.”

“How about I just tell you the truth about my work history?”

“You say tomato, I say to-mah-to.”

“Watkins Associates,” Phoebe said. “A big firm up in Jacksonville. I got the job out of law school—Boston University. Before that, I attended University of Tampa. You need more?”

“Please.”

She made a disparaging noise, but continued. “I grew up in Spring Valley, New York, just north of the Jersey border. Only child, parents divorced. My mother finally remarried three years ago, my dad’s out in Seattle, still trying to ‘find himself.’ Whatever that means. I interned out there summer before law school. All that rain, plus three winters back in Boston was enough to convince me to target the sunshine state after graduation, and take the bar exam down here.”

Ian moved from the left lane all the way to the right, timing it perfectly so that he took the exit for Clark Road without using his signal or slowing down. He glanced at Phoebe. “Don’t stop there.”

“What else is there to tell you?” she asked, as he stopped at the red light at the end of the exit ramp. “Oh, my grandmother’s sister, my great-aunt Alice, had a beach condo here in Sarasota, which is what brought me here first. Mom and Grandma and I came down for vacations, starting right after the divorce, which was when I was three. We drove down every February, and came back again for the summer. Stayed two months each year, because Mom was a teacher and had summers off. She’d get a part-time job, and I’d hang with Grandma and Alice. It was pretty great. I loved it here, and I’m glad to be back.”

Ian believed her. Of course, if she were with the Agency, her cover story would sound heartfelt and be believable. “Why,” he asked, “do you carry a handgun?”

Phoebe blinked. “That’s none of your business.”

Ian nodded. That was actually a better answer than her giving him some story about how she’d been burglarized or mugged and now yada yada yada. If she were Agency, she was damn good, sitting there, looking steadily into his eyes.

The phone beeped then, and the text came in, and Ian read it, deciphering Johnny’s code. Shit, these were the same email addresses that he already knew.

The traffic light finally turned green as he took out the phone’s battery and pocketed it. He then handed the neutered and GPS-free phone back to Phoebe, taking the opportunity to run his fingers across the palm of her hand and to get as much skin-to-skin contact as he could, even as he pulled out onto Clark Road. He knew it would unsettle her, regardless of who she worked for. And as long as she was with him, it was best to have her unsettled. Besides, she was smart and funny and cute as hell, even given her potential Agency status. If they actually ended up in bed, he would not complain.

“Thanks,” he told her. “FYI, your buddy Martell called a coupla times, left a coupla messages. You’ll have to call him back later. And oh, yeah. You’re fired.”

* * *

Phoebe was not surprised when Ian Dunn reneged on his no bullshit rule.

He’d agreed that Phoebe was his lawyer only so that she’d let him use her phone to attempt to contact his team of fellow jewel thieves: D.A., Shelly, Francine, Johnny, and some mystery man who was in the hospital—a man who knew the lawyers from her firm, and whom Ian needed to contact urgently. It’s an emergency.

What was that about?

But now, as Dunn fired her yet again, she didn’t argue or accuse him of being a liar. She simply nodded and told him, “I’ll need that in writing.” She gave him her best fake-apologetic smile. “It’s the firm’s policy. Surely you know that. We do a lot of criminal work, and felonious tempers do tend to flare, creating what we call termination false positives. And you know that old lawyers’ prayer: If the crime’s misdemeanor, the perp is a weener; first-timers will quite often cry. So give me a felon, the coffers are swellin’, but, God, will those bullshitters lie. Get it in writing is better than fighting, espec’ly when they shout ‘You’re fired!’ ”

Dunn was laughing. “That’s a prayer?”

“Lawyers commonly pray in nursery rhyme verse,” she told him.

“Please tell me you didn’t make that up on the spot,” he said. “Because if you did, I may have to rethink my plan to release you as my hostage. You could be useful to have around.”

“I’m not a hostage. I’m also not an Agency operative. I’m a lawyer. Your lawyer,” she corrected him. “At least until I get that letter of termination.”

“Give me some paper,” Dunn said. “You must have some in your bag. It’s big enough to hold a full ream. Or maybe even a case.”

“Ha ha, you are so clever and witty, but no, sorry.” Two could play the bullshit game. “It has to be written on your letterhead, on twenty-pound paper, linen blend with a watermark preferred. It’s the firm’s policy. Size twelve font, by the way. Well okay, we’re a little more flexible about that. We’d accept eleven. Maybe ten if it’s Times New Roman.”

He glanced at her only briefly as he slowed a bit, moving into the left lane on Clark Road, as if he weren’t quite certain of the turnoff he was about to make and needed to read the street signs. “I like you. You’re funny and you don’t take any shit. But just so we’re clear, I really don’t work for the Agency, or for the CIA or the FBI or even the French Foreign Legion,” he said as he squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun. “I know you want to think I do. Unless, of course, your am I with the Agency question was only intended to throw me off of the fact that you’re with the Agency.”

“As super whiz-bang cool as that would be,” she said. “I’m not the one making phone calls and being all code one, checkpoint Charlie, queen alpha forty-seven, hike.”

“It’s Contact Point Charlie,” he corrected her. “And if you really need to know, all of the cloak and dagger, as you called it, is because there are some really bad people out there who want to hurt my family.”

And … cue the violins.

According to the research that Phoebe had done, Ian was unmarried, no children, with parents who were both deceased. His one brother, Aaron, was wanted in connection to an unsolved murder—apparently someone had been killed in his apartment—and had probably long since self-deported to South America or Thailand.

“Your family,” she repeated, allowing her skepticism to ring in her voice.

She’d used her computer skills to dig into dark, shadowy corners, but had found no records of marriage or even domestic partnership. She’d found no evidence of any business or financial partnerships, either. No cosigners on Dunn’s bank accounts—which were remarkably meager for someone who’d allegedly stolen tens of millions of dollars’ worth of precious jewels and artwork. He owned no property, nor did he currently hold a lease on an apartment. There was a storage space in his name—the smallest one available—in a town just north of Gainesville, but it was paid for yearly, via direct transfer from his bank account.


Perhaps most importantly, Phoebe had discovered that no one had visited him, not even once, during the nine months he’d spent in prison. Not even this D.A. and Shelly that he seemed so concerned about. Of course he might’ve had phone contact with someone—she hadn’t been able to check those records yet.

Still, when Dunn glanced at her again and said, “Yup. My family,” she felt a ping of doubt—mostly due to that research she’d done about SEALs and their teams. Ian Dunn may not have had a family according to traditional definitions, but despite his denial, he definitely still had a team.

He’d also just pulled onto a side street and into a quiet little neighborhood of modest single-story houses, all with postage-stamp-sized, neatly kept yards. It was the perfect place for someone’s perfect little Brady Bunch family to live.

And, okay. Just because she’d found no public records didn’t mean this man didn’t have a wife and ten kids, all using fake names.

Dunn took another turn, putting them onto a cul-de-sac called Monteblanc Circle. He then pulled up outside of a lovely little two-level house—the only one with two stories in the neighborhood—that had been painted a rich shade of golden beige which, with the orange-and-pink-streaked barrel-tile roof, made the place look like a tiny Spanish hacienda. Unlike the green-lawned houses that surrounded it, its yard was classic Florida xeriscape—palm trees and just a few flowering plants growing from beds of mulch, surrounded by the gleaming brightness of crushed white shells. The number 24 was displayed in shiny black numerals on the stucco wall next to the front door.

Maybe Ian Dunn didn’t have a lot of cash in his bank account, because it was all in the account of his common-law spouse. Francine? Or Shelly. Or even D.A.…

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Family doesn’t have to be validated by a marriage license, or a birth certificate, or even related by blood. Although in this case, it is.” He sighed as he put her car in park, and then added, “In a perfect world, Pheebs, I would simply get out and let you return to your previously scheduled life. But this is not a perfect world.”

“Which is just as good,” Phoebe pointed out, “because there’s too much at stake here for me to just wave good-bye and drive away.”

“You’re really not afraid of me, are you?” He seemed bemused.

“I am holding my Glock on you, Mr. Dunn.”

“What kind of Glock?” he asked.

“A great, big, shiny one,” she told him.

“Hah!” he said. “Mistake! Glocks aren’t shiny.”

He was right. Hers was a dull black so that it wouldn’t reflect light.

“I was using the Joss Whedon–approved use of the word shiny,” Phoebe told him calmly. “It means cool or sweet and not necessarily literally shiny. FYI, I’ve got the girly Glock—the nineteen. It’s slightly smaller and lighter, but still a nine millimeter and very effective, particularly at close range.”

“My lawyer is pretty, but very bullshitty, the truth is whatever will fly,” he said. “And I did just make that up.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” she said scornfully. “Bullshitty is weak.”

“No worse than weener. I need you out of the car, please,” he said. “With your bag, and whatever arsenal is in there. Including your magic car keys.”

“So you really don’t want me to drive away,” she clarified. “Although you might want to reconsider the fact that I won’t shoot you while you’re in my new car, for obvious hygienic reasons. But as soon as we’re both out on the street …” She shrugged expansively as she opened the car door. “All bets are off.”

Dunn opened the driver’s side door, but waited to put a foot out on the ground until she’d done the same. “Not all of them. I’m going to bet that, as my lawyer, you’ll choose not to shoot me. In fact, I’m so confident, I’ll thank you in advance. Thank you.”

“So now I’m your lawyer again,” Phoebe said as they got out of the car slowly and carefully, with Ian mirroring each of her movements. She looked at him over the roof. She’d almost forgotten how tall he was. “That’s convenient.”

“Don’t slam the door,” he ordered, but then quickly added, “Please. Close it as quietly as you can.”

“Who exactly are we sneaking up on?” she asked as she did just that, first pulling the strap of her bag over her head so it crossed her chest, her right hand still inside of it, her finger through the Glock’s trigger guard. Not because she was going to use it—she doubted he’d give her reason to—but because if her hand hadn’t been in her bag, he probably would’ve tried to take the weapon from her. And he definitely would have succeeded. “D.A., because Shelly’s at work?”

“We’re sneaking up on the very angry people who are going to try to kill me,” he told her quite matter-of-factly as he led the way up the mottled pink brick pavers of the driveway, and around to the side of the house, past the attached single-car garage, where he stopped at the gate of a tall white fence. “The people who got an agitated phone call the nanosecond the paperwork about my release went into the prison system. They don’t live here—you’re right. D.A. and Shelly do. But it’s entirely possible that the angry people got here first. Of course, maybe they’re merely on their way.”

“Do they have names, these angry people?” Phoebe asked as she followed. The fence’s gate was secured with a combination padlock. It was small and inexpensive—the kind she’d had for her bike when she was in middle school.

“They do,” Dunn said as he opened the lock easily—clearly he knew the combination. He turned to glance down at her, and again she was struck by his height.

As a tall woman, she wasn’t used to tilting her head up for eye contact during a conversation. It was hard to decide which was more disconcerting—that, or the fact that his eyes were such a bright shade of blue.

He went through the gate first. It was designed to close automatically, with a powerful spring in the hinges, and he looked back to be sure she had her hand against it before he let go, so she wouldn’t get smacked in the face.

“Might one of their names be Conrad?” Phoebe asked as she followed him down a path of those same pink pavers. It led around the side of the house, past a pair of pristine trash containers, past the softly purring equipment for the house’s central air, and the louder whirring in-ground pool pump. “Or was that question that you asked back in prison just more code? You say Are you a friend of Conrad’s? And if we answer with The Hot Pocket is in the microwave, you know you can trust us to … what?”

The same white crushed shells that were in the front yard were on either side of the path, and everything was kept almost ridiculously clean—no spiderwebs or even stray fronds from the palm trees. Whoever lived here—cousin D.A. and his wife Shelly? Lover Shelly and their son D.A.?—was meticulous, if not full-on anal.

Again, Dunn didn’t bother to answer her. Instead, he put his finger to his lips, then held his hand out in a gesture that said wait.

So they waited. He was clearly listening—for what, Phoebe had no idea. Maybe for sounds of movement from the backyard or the house, maybe to see if they’d triggered some kind of alarm …


Whatever the case, they stood there for a long time before Dunn finally moved. He then opened the door to the screened-in pool cage that extended across the entire back of the house, again holding it for her so that she could follow.

He put his fingers to his lips again, and she complied by making sure the screen door didn’t slap shut.

It was pretty back there, with more of those pink brick pavers and a massive kidney-shaped pool with sparkling blue water that was deep enough to allow for a diving board. A double lounge chair with comfortable-looking blue cushions and an outdoor dining setup were beneath two umbrellas in matching shades of blue. It was cool and peaceful—and secluded. The screen of the pool cage was completely enclosed by a high white privacy fence that was nearly hidden in some places by the thick, lush vegetation of a tropical garden.

No one was out there. It was deserted.

The back wall of the house was made up of a series of huge sliding glass doors. Dunn went down the line, tugging on the handles, but all were securely closed and locked.

“Or is the name of the dangerous people who want to kill you perchance Dellarosa?” Phoebe whispered as she watched him.

It was purely a fishing expedition, but before the name had completely left her lips, Dunn had moved. Fast.

One second he was peering into the house through the glass, hands cupped around his face to cut the glare, and the next he had her up against the stucco-covered wall, his body pressed against her, his left hand down in her bag, his fingers around her wrist, tight enough that she inadvertently released her grip on her Glock.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

And okay. Now she was a little bit scared. Not a lot, because he wasn’t cutting off her air. He didn’t have her by the throat—instead, his forearm was against the upper part of her chest, up around her collarbone, keeping her shoulders securely pressed against the wall. But he was big and powerful, with an intensity that lit his eyes and hardened the planes and angles of his face.

He had two scars, she noticed, since his face was just a few scant inches from hers. One was up near his left eyebrow, the other on his chin. Neither was big nor particularly noticeable, but they made him seem oddly real. They gave him a sense of history; of life lived well—or at least lived with some amount of abandon or gusto.

Which was interesting, considering the whole not-cutting-off-her-airway thing.

This was a man who was always and absolutely in complete control.

Even when she’d riled him, as she’d done with her mention of the Dellarosas.

Which made her realize that maybe Martell was right about using the threat from the mob boss as leverage.

“What do you know about my connection to the Dellarosas?” Dunn asked her. “Can you or someone from your firm contact Manny Dellarosa for me? Or did his brother Davio send you?”