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But from the way he nods, a hint of satisfaction in his gaze, I think he knows the answer.

Yes. He was. In every way that counts.

He leaves and closes the door behind him and I nearly collapse back against the vanity, trying to make sense of everything that just happened.

So much for keeping him at arm’s length.

13

CALLAHAN

The taste of her lingers on my tongue.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as dawn filters through the blinds, casting stripes across my chest. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by dreams of Lena—her scent, her skin, the sounds she made when I took her against the dressing room vanity. The way she looked in the mirror, mouth open, pure lust.

I close my eyes, feeling the ghost of her body against mine, and my cock stirs in response. Christ, what’s happening to me? I’ve never behaved like that with a woman before—demanding, possessive, almost brutal in my need. Something savage took over in that dressing room, something I barely recognized as myself.

Yet I can’t muster any real regret, only a growing hunger for more.

More, I want so much more.

The memory of Lena’s dress still bearing evidence of my claim as she returned to the stage sends another surge of heat through me. Marking her like that in front of Marco and his cronies was reckless, dangerous, even if they didn’t quite knowwhat I’d done backstage. But they could have interrupted us. Found us. I could have put her at risk. Could have put us both at risk.

The thought of Marco Russo brings a wave of rage so sudden and intense that I have to grip the sheets to steady myself. The image of his hands on Lena, his ownership of her, makes the blood boil in my veins. It’s more than jealousy—it’s something primal, territorial.

Mine, not his.

I shake my head, trying to clear these possessive thoughts. Lena isn’t mine. She isn’t anyone’s. But that doesn’t stop the fierce, protective fury that rises whenever I think of Marco touching her, let alone anyone else.

I force myself out of bed, downing two aspirin for the pounding in my skull. The blackout in Elysian Park two days ago was the worst yet—nearly twelve hours lost, and waking with the taste of blood in my mouth. I know I need to seek help for this, but there isn’t any time.

Right now, I have to see her again.

She’s the real medicine I need.

I make it as far as the telephone before reason reasserts itself. What exactly is my plan? Show up at her apartment, demand more of whatever madness overtook us last night? I’ve got a murder investigation to focus on—two murders that are clearly connected, now that we know about Sylvia Winters. I need to keep my head clear to solve those and prevent more from happening. Something tells me this killer won’t stop with Elizabeth Short. It’s only a matter of time.

Instead, I call Norma at the office, tell her I’ll be out following leads today. She doesn’t ask which leads. Smart woman.

By noon, I find myself parked half a block from Lena’s apartment building anyway.

It’s just professional surveillance, I tell myself. Marco Russo represents a direct connection to Cohen, who’s connected to the Europeans, who are likely behind the murders. Following Marco could lead to a breakthrough in the case. Right?

It’s a thin justification, but it’s all I’ve got.

Three hours pass with no sign of Marco or Lena. I smoke through half a pack of cigarettes, scan the newspaper twice, and fight the urge to march up to her apartment and knock on the door. Just as I’m about to give up, a black Cadillac pulls up to the curb. Marco Russo steps out, straightening his tie before heading into the building.

Something cold settles in my gut.

I wait five minutes—the longest five minutes of my life—then exit my car, crossing the street with deliberate casualness. The lobby of the Alto Nido is empty except for a drowsy desk clerk who barely glances up from his racing form as I pass. No one stops me as I take the stairs to the third floor.

I don’t know which apartment is Lena’s, but I don’t need to. Marco’s voice carries down the hallway, sharp with anger. I follow the sound, moving quietly until I reach a door near the end of the corridor. 3F.

“—flaunting yourself like a common whore,” Marco’s voice seethes through the door. “In his office. At the diner. In my club, in front ofmypeople.”

“It’s not your club, Marco.” Lena’s voice is level, controlled. “And I’m not your property, no matter how many times you say it.”

“Everything in that club belongs to Mickey, which means it belongs to me. Including you. And you can lie all you want, but I know that detective was with you last night. Iknowit. I could see it on your face. That spotlight hides none of your sins.”