Page 59

Willow needs me so there’s no time to reminisce with the ghost of Colt Blackwood.

I reach out to the two guys on my team I trust the most, Chuck Banner and Tyrone Clayton, to accompany us. Tyrone was in the military with Colt and me, and Chuck is my second in command at the company. He took over when I was hurt and handled things until I was back on my feet.

It’s imperative to not only bring back-up in case things go sideways, but also that they be trustworthy because Willow is nervous. Since she can’t be sure what Dylan’s schedule is, we’re winging it.

She believes late morning is the safest time to go to the house because historically he’s most likely not there. He gets up, works out, and then meets up with friends or clients until sometime in the afternoon.

We can’t know for sure that’s what he’s doing today, but there’s no time like the present.

There are codes to get in the front gate and the doors of the house, and Willow feels confident they haven’t been changed.

We pull up to the sprawling Beverly Hills estate and I punch in the code she gave me, since I’m driving. Willow’s in the back seat with Ty, and Chuck is next to me.

“He usually leaves his Porsche in the circular driveway,” Willow says, her voice tight as the gate swings open.

I glance in the rearview mirror. “Relax, babe. Everything is going to be fine.”

I pull to a stop near the front door and turn off the engine, grateful there’s no Porsche in sight.

“Remember—stay with me. Just lead the way to get your things. Ty and Chuck will handle anything that comes up.”

She swallows, her face pale, but she nods.

She has a death grip on my hand when I help her out of the car. I note that her hand shakes a little as she punches in another code but visibly relaxes when the lock disengages.

Dylan will probably get some sort of alert that someone is at the house and see Willow, so it goes without saying that we have to hurry.

“Ms. Willow?” A stern-looking older woman comes around the corner, a duster in her hand, and frowns.

“Mrs. Wilkes.” Willow nods at her. “I’m here to get some of my things. Excuse us.” She steps around her and almost runs up one side of the divided stairway.

The house, with the ten seconds I have to study it, is beautiful if not somewhat sterile. Everything is expensive but bland—like someone with more money than taste decorated it.

“This is… the master bedroom.” She throws open a set of double doors and heads for a row of bookshelves lining one wall. She touches a hidden button and a panel swings open—into the biggest closet I’ve ever seen. And I have a lot of rich clients.

But this is something else.

Floor-to-ceiling rows of shoes and purses, a line of suits that goes farther than the eye can see, and hangers of shirts and dresses in every color of the rainbow.

Yet Willow doesn’t seem to notice. She immediately goes to the far corner and moves a row of luggage around, looking for a specific piece. She lays the largest bag down, opens it, and makes a soft noise of distress.

“What’s wrong?”

“He moved it. The bastard moved it!” She hurriedly begins opening all the luggage. Some have smaller pieces of luggage inside them, and she opens those too.

“Damn him!” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t panic,” I say in a firm voice. “Think. Where else could it be?”

She chews her lower lip.

Then her eyes widen.

She walks over to what looks like Dylan’s side of the closet, pushing aside a portion of the suits. There’s a shelf behind it, along with office style boxes, and she starts opening them.

At the very back, she pulls the cover off one last box, and inside is a smaller, nondescript box and she clutches it to her chest.

“Is that it?” I ask.