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And what if Jim finds out I barely have clothes and a minimal amount of cash? I sit up and remove the blanket from my legs, the temperature in the room seeming to get warmer with every passing second. Nope. He’s already so obviously put out by my intrusion into his perfectly organized little world. He doesn’t need to know about the fire, or what led me to accept the offer to join the program. That knowledge would only add more stress to our fragile relationship, and we definitely don’t need that.Hedidn’t need that. Especially since the knowledge of my past might get us both kicked out of the program.

I reach past my coffee for the laptop sitting on the kitchen table. Inhaling, I click open the web browser, and my fingertips punch at the keys. It’s time to stop analyzing my husband and find work. While it’s entirely possible Jim might be a kind man and help me out if I tell him about the fire, I don’t need his charity. Or pity, for that matter.

After punching in my username and password on the job search site, I scroll through the newest postings. If only I could have continued working for UBM Technologies. I miss my former job. My former clients. I spent five years working for and managing most of their computer securities companies. I loved when my projects succeeded. And it wasn’t about the money. Of course, that was a great bonus. But watching something I worked hard on come together? Priceless.

But I didn’t want to leave any tracks for Marco or Santoro to find. So I quit. Then I used whatever money I had to pay off any bills lingering, pulled out the remaining cash, and closed my bank account before disappearing down to Virginia Beach.

My index finger slides effortlessly over the touchpad, scrolling through openings. Long minutes seem to pass—at least that’s what the second hand on the clock adjacent to me says. “This is pointless.”

I wish my dad had never joined the task force to take down Santoro. I’d still be living at home and he’d still be alive. I shiver and my chest tightens. Sour bile sears my tongue. My heart is beating too fast, as if I’m being chased, and my throat closes. If only I had known then Marco was involved. Things might be different. My father might still be alive.

I remembered that day all too vividly. I’d been cooking when the doorbell rang. That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. Lyons never used the bell. He always walked in because he had a key to my place. And so did Marco. Those were my last moments of blissful ignorance. Right up until I’d opened the door to reveal Lyons standing there, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast in a way that wasn’t at all like my friend. The smile on my face had died the instant he refused to look me in the eye.

Lifting my hands as if I could ward off the news, I knew, before the words left his mouth.Your dad was shot during a random robbery. He didn’t make it.Then the world went silent, as if I’d been dropped into a sensory deprivation tank.

Keys jingle in the lock and I jump, nearly spilling my coffee all over my laptop while my heart pounds against my ribs. The momentary fear abates when Jim’s cough echoes through the foyer. I hurry to compose myself before myhusbandsteps into the kitchen. I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly, flashing a smile in his direction when he comes into the room.

Jim prowls toward me. His shirt is in his hand and his bare chest is coated in a fine sheen of sweat. My fake smile vanishes and lips part at the sight of all his naked skin. His movements are slow and deliberate. Lean, corded arms swing back and forth as he comes closer.

My pulse picks up and my breath shortens. All of the oxygen has been stripped from the room. For Christ’s sake, someone would think I was having a panic attack, except there’s a hot, wet weight between my thighs that seems to pulsate every time he moves.

I exhale sharply, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, and I practically groan out loud when my legs clench together.

Placing his keys into the wooden decorator bowl on the countertop, he stares at me from beneath his hat. His gaze drops from my eyes and rakes over the rest of me, falling lower and lower. Of all the times not to wear a bra. My cheeks heat up as I pull my coffee mug to my lips, faking a sip. I swear I’m going to burn that stupid hat so I can see exactly what he looks at. Jim holds a take-out bag from the sandwich shop down the street in his free hand. The aroma of the sweet cheese and bacon fills the kitchen and my stomach rumbles.

He lifts a brow. “Hungry?”

My cup, still at my lips, tilts forward. Lukewarm coffee dribbles down my chin. Just great. A string of snorts and choking sounds erupt from Jim as he poorly attempts to stifle his amusement. The back of my hand swipes over my chin to clean the liquid, and my eyes narrow.

His mouth crimps and faint pink colors his cheeks.

I pull myself together. Barely. “Yes. Thank you.”

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug, using his shirt to wipe some of the sweat from his face as he sets the bag down on the kitchen table. “Don’t get too excited. They’re just leftovers.”

This must be divine payback for the other day when I took my sweet ass time in the shower. Jim knocked so hard the wooden door almost splintered. When I finished, I scurried past him, head down, so he couldn’t notice the barely contained Cheshire cat grin plastered on my face.

Jim turns and heads toward the fridge and I get distracted by the beauty that is Jim in motion. Good God, his backside is just as glorious as his front, and a beautiful dragon adorns his shoulder blades. He reaches in to take out the juice, the edge of his shorts riding low on his ass. An ass that’s just as distracting as the tattoo, if not more so. I dart my eyes away and wipe my chin again—just for good measure, in case I’m drooling.

I catch a glimpse of him from my peripheral, and his muscular thighs flex as he reaches deeper into the fridge. A tiny groan erupts from my lips.

When he stands, I refocus on the dragon rather than his delectable ass and study the way the blue lines intricately swirl with black-and-gray ones. Strategic white accents give the tattoo dimension. The artwork is amazing. My stomach clenches as I rescan the tattoo.

Four.

Four times he’s been shot in the back. Is that what happened to him? God, what damage did those bullets actually do? My heart thumps so hard I can feel the beat in my throat. Jim might not be all peaches and cream, but someone felt it necessary to make him a target. Like Santoro made my father a target. If steam could escape out of my pores right now, I’d be a toxic cloud.

“Problem?”

I jerk and nearly spill my coffee again. “What? Uh, no. Sorry, just thinking. Were you dating anyone?” The words spurt from my mouth like water from an open fire hydrant.

Crap. Why did I go there?

“No, wasn’t with anyone.” Jim’s jaw clenches when his gaze returns to me, his head tilting sideways.

I follow his unblinking gaze to fingers where I’ve been twirling my ring again. I tuck my hand under the laptop, biting my lower lip. A low growl rumbles from his chest and the bulging vein in his neck pulses like a racehorse’s hooves thundering down the final stretch. He lifts his glass to his lips, taking a swig, his gaze still glued to mine.

“I’m looking for a job.” I smile and turn my laptop in his direction. The tension in the room hangs like a dense fog in a valley. My palms are sweaty. They’reneversweaty.

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