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Rick had been out of town for business when the attack happened.

When he found out, he’d been distraught and horrified.

I’d thought he was going to rush to the airport and hurry to my side that night, work be damned.

Thankfully, I’d managed to talk him out of that and assured him I was fine.

I didn’t tell him I was injured and said the attacker had been scared off before he hurt me. A white lie to keep his mind at ease.

After unlocking my car, I looked down at my hands.

The scratches from the fall and fight were almost healed, the small scabs already fading.

An inspection of my reflection in the rearview mirror showed the same for the scrape on my cheek.

In fact, they were healing faster than I’d have anticipated.

That ointment Mom swore by and had lavishly slathered on me seemed to have done the job well.

The wound on my neck was the only thing taking its sweet time to heal.

Even with the antibiotics they’d prescribed me at the hospital, it still throbbed.

Thankfully, the wound was high up at the back of my neck, and I could conceal it easily if my hair was down.

Rick wouldn’t see it unless we got intimate, and that wasn’t on the docket for Sunday.

We weren’t doing anything but a nice, quiet lunch.

No time for anything other than a kiss in the middle of the day.

Hopefully, if something did happen, it would be healed by then.

The last thing I needed was for him to try and baby me after seeing the wound.

“I wish I could find that guy,” Rick muttered. “I can’t believe this happened to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

He hadn’t been this worried about me since the previous summer when, while reporting on a festival downtown, a huge fight broke out and I took an elbow to the face, resulting in a split lip.

Rick had lost it. I’d really thought he was going to track down the guy who’d done it and drag him to hell.

I’d never seen him react that way, and he’d mothered me for a week until I was fully healed.

Rick was protective in a way I’d never experienced before. I should have liked it, but it was one of the things about him that annoyed me. Men had let me down my whole life. On paper, having a guy dote on me was exactly what I’d always wanted. In practice, it wasn’t nearly as pleasant.

Other than the slight possibility that a serial killer might have attacked me, I’d pretty much put it out of my mind.

It had been the same with getting hit in the face at the festival.

Compared to growing up back in Zamora, Mexico, and all the gangs and cartel stuff, this was nothing.

What bothered me was the constant headache I’d had for the last forty-eight hours.

“Are you okay? You’re being really quiet,” Rick said.

Blinking, I pulled my thoughts back. “Sorry. I’ve got a headache, is all.” I put a hand to my stomach and winced as well. “My stomach is messed up, too. I might have eaten something I shouldn’t have.”

That was new. I hoped to God that douchebag who’d attacked me hadn’t given me a bug or something.

I couldn’t get sick, not after I’d twisted Brent’s arm to give me this serial killer story.

That would be incredibly bad timing. I had too much on my plate to lay in bed for a couple of days, puking my guts out.

“Oh, damn,” I muttered when I saw the time.

“What’s wrong?” Rick’s voice immediately grew strained with worry. “Are you all right?”

“I’m running late,” I said as I pulled out of the parking lot.

Rick sighed with relief. “So, you’re saying you put in too many hours at the paper and now you have to hurry somewhere?”

“Something like that,” I grumbled.

Mom was on shift, and Gael had gone to a friend’s house after school. The friend’s parents were supposed to drop Gael off after they had dinner, and I had twenty minutes to get home to meet him. Otherwise, my baby brother would be home alone.

“I’ll let you go,” Rick said. “Can’t wait to see you. Be careful.”

“I will. Bye.”

I hung up and put both hands on the wheel, trying to concentrate on driving as the pain, like a metal spike, slowly inched into my skull.

My stomach roiled. The sun dipped low on the horizon, the glare through the windshield making my headache worse.

At a stoplight, I dug in my purse for ibuprofen and dry-swallowed two pills, the conversation with Rick already a distant memory.

A very small, quiet part of my mind wondered why I wasn’t more head over heels for the guy.

Rick was gorgeous, rich, charming, and successful.

Yet, our relationship had become rather lukewarm from my end while being incredibly intense from his.

Part of me wondered if it had to do with what happened in the past with my last two father figures.

They’d left me, so why would I grow too attached to any man who showed romantic interest in me?

Or maybe it was simply because Rick tended to be clingy? He’d not started out that way, but these last few months, I’d noticed myself pulling back as he was pushing closer. Maybe he and I should talk about that. Either way, I was doing my best to reciprocate.

When I parked at my apartment, I sat behind the wheel, taking a deep and steadying breath. It eased the sickness in my stomach, giving me hope that I might not blow chunks. Maybe I just needed an antacid. The headache, though? That was like a ball-peen hammer tapping away at my temples.

Groaning in exhaustion, I heaved myself from the car and hurried into the apartment building.

I skirted around the curled linoleum on the entry floor—a tripping hazard we’d told the landlord about for years that hadn’t been fixed.

The elevator sat, as it always had, with ancient yellow tape across the door.

In the decade that we’d been here, the damn thing had never worked.

The stairs were the only option. Halfway up the second flight, I let go of the handrail.

It was a broken, jagged piece of wood awaiting anyone unlucky enough not to realize it.

When I reached the landing on the second floor, I wiped at the sheen of sweat on my forehead and moved down the hall toward our apartment, praying Gael wasn’t standing outside with his friend’s irritated parent.

Pulling up short, I let out a small gasp as I rounded the corner and found not a parent or Gael, but a massive muscular man leaning up against our apartment door. At the sound of my approach, he glanced up and locked eyes with me. His face twitched with interest.

I’d inherited my mother’s good looks—almost-black hair that hung in loose ringlets to my chin, dark complexion from our Hispanic background, dark eyes with long lashes that I had to admit were my best feature, and a curvaceous and athletic body.

The beauty that my mother and I shared was the source of many of Mom’s issues, which meant I was used to getting attention from men.

What I wasn’t used to was strange men hanging around my apartment.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The interest in his gray eyes deepened as his gaze traveled over my body.

A shiver ran up my body. I had the distinct feeling I was being weighed and measured in some way.

His broad shoulders shifted under his leather jacket.

A lock of his hair—a strange yet compelling silvery-gray-brown—fell down across his forehead, giving him a devil-may-care look.

He uncrossed his arms and smiled, his jaw—so strong it had to have been carved from granite—flexing as he did. It sent a girlish tremor through my stomach. His chiseled, rustic features softened even as a cocky grin spread across his face. This guy probably had zero trouble with the ladies.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said, putting a hand to his chest. “My name’s Nathan Zane. You can call me Nate.”

He extended his hand, but I stayed where I was. As pretty as his face was, he was still a strange man, waiting outside my apartment unannounced and unexpected. Just because he was hot didn’t mean he wasn’t a scumbag.

Noticing my wariness, he lowered his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, you did,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Alarm bells started going off in my head. A private investigator? For what? Why?

He continued on before I could question him. “I’ve been hired by a family who recently lost a loved one. A young woman was killed not far from here.”

“Is this about the animalistic killings? The serial killer?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. My desire for knowledge about the case was overriding my worry about a stranger on my doorstep.

Nate eyed me for a moment, then grinned. “You’re pretty smart. Beautiful, and a quick mind. A great combo.”

Swallowing, I tried to suppress the weird tingle of excitement that went through me when he said that.

“I’m a reporter,” I said in defense. “It pays to be smart.”

“Fair enough,” Nate said. “I’m investigating something for the families. I have several sources at the paper and in the police force that tell me you may have information I could use.”

“Sources?” I repeated. “What kind of sources do you have?”

I had a hard time thinking this guy could know as much or more than I did. He looked like he’d be more at home on a fashion runway or posing in his underwear for a magazine cover than delving into crime investigations.

He gave me another of those crooked grins. “Well, I know you’ve been assigned to work on the story at The Chronicle .”

My jaw dropped. “How the hell could you know that? I just got assigned today.”

He winked, and that sent another surge of heat through my chest—a not-unpleasant sensation. “I have my ways of getting what I want.”

He stared into my eyes, a flirtatious gleam in his gaze. I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t only talking about work.

Fuck, was it hot in here? Why was I sweating?