“Good for you,” Max said drily. “Locked doors are child’s play. We have to be there tomorrow,” he added as Martin waved in house staff to clean up the water.

Dominic groaned, took the towel handed to him, and covered his face.

The next morning, Dominic viscerally understood the term cruel and unusual punishment, after undergoing the ordeal of a wedding to someone he didn’t know, with guests he didn’t know, with a priest who eyed him like he was some pervert. Not me, he wanted to say. I don’t do thirteen-year-olds, or sixteen-year-olds for that matter. But he only answered yes or no as needed, didn’t once look at the pregnant young bride, and with a tight smile stood in the blessedly short receiving line after the ceremony.

When the reports had first come in three years ago acquainting him with Gora’s newest infatuation, perversion, whatever you wanted to call it, Dominic had wondered what kind of family would allow it.

Now Dominic had his answer: A titled family with heavily mortgaged property and no money. That’s who. And when he saw the well-heeled guests, albeit only close family, at the wedding and the newly refurbished villa, when he met the parents who sized him up like a prize racehorse, he was reminded of that saying: No matter how cynical you get, you can’t keep up.

Although he and Gora had already taken precautions to see that no photos would be published and the guests had been warned or threatened into silence, Dominic reminded himself to redouble his efforts in both regards. This Danelli family was out for money and they didn’t care whose it was.

He didn’t stay for the wedding breakfast, nor did he respond to Bianca’s coaxing that was way the hell too friendly. More than most men, he recognized a come-on when he saw it. And once he and Max were in the car and driving away, he mentioned Bianca’s overtly seductive approach. “If that little bitch doesn’t watch it, Gora will see that she does. Did you notice what she did? She practically crawled up my body, which isn’t easy to do when you’re six months’ pregnant. I thought her parents might say something.”

“You’re richer than Gora,” Max said drolly. “Why would they?”

“That whole scene was surreal. And I don’t scare easily.”

“You noticed Gora wasn’t invited.” Max arched a brow. “His money’s good enough but he isn’t.”

“The poor schmuck. He’s being played big-time and he’s actually looking forward to this child. Tell me not to feel sorry for him.”

Max shot Dominic a narrowed glance. “Don’t make that mistake. He’s a brutal killer.”

Dominic nodded. “Never let feelings get in the way. Right?”

“Always a good idea when Gora’s involved.”

“Gora’s problems aside,” Dominic said, “we’d better put round-the-clock surveillance on that sex kitten. Bianca’s for sale and I don’t want to be caught up in some duplicitous scheme that family’s concocted. They’re like modern-day Borgias.”

“We have that covered already. Remember I was the one who did the initial research on the Danellis.”

“Well, keep them far away from me.”

“That’s the plan. Will you be in Paris long?”

“Until this is over.”

It was a short drive to the Florence airport. Dominic’s plane was ready to taxi the moment they boarded and two hours later, Dominic was in his apartment in Paris. And save for two short business trips in the offing, he planned to stay there. He wanted to be near his French attorney so his divorce papers could be filed as soon as Gora’s son was born. Not that he fully trusted any of the other interested parties to notify him. To assure a speedy report, Dominic had come to an agreement with Bianca’s doctor: a new Sardinian villa for the doctor in exchange for immediate news of the birth.

Dominic was in Paris for logistical reasons as well. He was far enough away from London so that he couldn’t force his way into Katherine’s flat—which was a real possibility after a bottle or two. Yet Paris was close enough that he could reach Katherine in under two hours should she call. Not that he didn’t wince at his behavior. Christ, he was like a young boy waiting for his first girlfriend to call. He’d never waited for a woman in his life.

So much for unemotional fixes.

He’d tried calling Kate. Usually late at night, usually not fully sober. She never answered.

He’d texted her once and she texted back: don’t. The short message was lowercase and ended in a period rather than an exclamation point, but he could feel the ice through the phone. He hadn’t done that again.

All of which made the current state of affairs brutal for him.

In desperation, six weeks later, at the beginning of April, he traveled to Minnesota to visit Nana. He’d tried to talk himself out of going. But he had an ache that wouldn’t go away, a gut-wrenching sense of loss, a feeling of aloneness that had never mattered before and now was so deep it was demoralizing.

So he found himself standing outside Nana’s door, waiting for someone to answer his knock. It was cold in northern Minnesota. He should have considered the weather before he left Morocco; he was dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and sandals. The car he rented at the Duluth airport had been warm so he hadn’t noticed until he was standing in the wind on this porch overlooking a lake that was still covered with ice.

The door suddenly opened.

“I’m not giving the money back if that’s why you’re here,” the elderly lady snapped.