ANNOYED, MORTON TAPPED a pen against the desk and considered his options now that he knew of Logan Riske, a detective bent on revenge. For what, Morton didn’t know. Could be any number of things.

That made him laugh as he eyed his quarry. “So you knew there was a cop investigating me?” Morton waited for explanations, excuses and a rush of assurances to avoid punishment.

All he got was a shrug and palpable indifference.

“There are always cops investigating you.” Direct eye contact never wavered. “You own enough of the department that it’s never a problem for you.”

He wouldn’t let it become a problem this time either, but that wasn’t the point. “Why does Riske want me?”

“It’s assumed you had a friend of his murdered.”

Since that didn’t narrow it down at all, Morton demanded, “Who?”

“A city commissioner.”

“Ah. The murder that Rowdy Yates supposedly witnessed.” Sitting down, Morton tried to remember, but came up blank. “What was his name again?”

“Jack Carmin.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Old Jack Carmin,” he murmured. “He was a righteous prick.”

“Honest, yes. There’s no solid proof against you, but it’s believed that you tried to corrupt him, and he refused.”

There wasn’t any proof because Rowdy Yates, the bastard, had fallen off the face of the earth. Not before talking to a reporter—who Morton had later dispatched to hell—but since then, nothing. “I remember thinking Yates had promise. He was a quick learner, strong as a bull and unimposing.”

Nothing, not even a sound of acknowledgment.

“So,” Morton said, watching the cop carefully. “Now Rowdy has turned up again?”

“Possibly. But it’s not an issue.”

“And if it becomes an issue?”

“I’ll take care of him.”

Truth rang in the words, so Morton nodded. “Perfect. I have a new venture in the works, and I don’t need any distractions.” When the cop still stood there, Morton flattened his expression. “Was there anything else?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll see you for the next report.” He watched the cop leave, and damn if admiration didn’t bloom—but then, he’d always had respect for cold, calculated ruthlessness.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Pepper pushed herself on the treadmill, running hard and fast until her thighs and shoulders burned and sweat covered her body. She could barely breathe—and still she felt needy.

For Logan.

So much had happened to her over the past two years. Awful things. Life-changing things. She should have been immune to hurt. She should have learned to live without dreams.

Until Logan, she’d been doing okay.

Now…now everything felt raw and new and as fresh as that first day when she’d been forced to accept that dreams made no difference, not to her.

She turned down the treadmill to an idle jog, letting her heartbeat slow, giving her body a chance to cool, to adjust.

Her efforts to exhaust herself with exercise, to leave her thoughts and her emotions empty, had failed.

They were anything but.

Memories of Logan, how he smiled, how he looked at her, how he tasted, filled every void of her mind. For her own sake, she had to make a clean break from him.

Rowdy was right—she took far too many risks.

No more playing with fire. No more playing with her sexy neighbor.

No more stealing bits of a normal life.

She’d just finished a quick, cool shower when a firm knock sounded on her door.

Logan.

Despite everything she’d just told herself, joy filled her. She wanted to put off the inevitable, but that’d be cowardly, and it’d leave her with lingering hope.

Dangerous.

She’d had the night and most of the morning to get herself together. It wasn’t enough time.

“Be right there,” she called out. The walls were so thin that she knew he heard her. After wrapping a towel around her head and hurriedly dressing in a depressing outfit fit for the homeless, she went to the door.

Logan stood there, patiently waiting on her, again wearing no more than shorts. Why did he have to keep doing that to her?

As his gaze moved over her, his smile slipped. “I took you from the shower?”

“What? Oh.” She touched the towel on her head. She’d been so focused on his thighs, remembering the press of them against her backside, that she’d forgotten herself. “I was finished before you knocked.”

His gaze probing, he reached out and stroked two fingertips over her cheekbone.

Yes, she remembered those fingers, as well. Liquid heat coursed through her, weakening her spine, her resolve.

He dropped his hand. “You look different without the ponytail.”

No, no, she did not. She couldn’t. Alarmed, she took a step back, away from his disturbing proximity. “I need to go.” She gestured at the bathroom. “I have to blow-dry it…”

He stepped in.

Oh, crap. “Logan…”

“We didn’t get a chance to eat the barbecue last night.”

Because she’d rushed him to bed as a distraction so that her brother could put a tracking device on his car.

Because she and Rowdy lived like criminals on the run.

Because they trusted no one, even neighbors with no apparent agenda other than a sexual relationship.