Give himself over to that man? “What happens then?” she asked tightly. “What happens if you . . .”

She couldn’t finish. And he didn’t answer.

Which told her everything she needed to know, didn’t it—

At that moment, the front door unlocked and opened, the sounds of keys and footsteps echoing down the hall as the security alarm was turned off by someone else.

“My father!” she hissed.

Jumping up, she tried to straighten her clothes—oh, God, her hair was a wreck.

The wineglass. Shit.

“Grier?” came that familiar voice from the front of the house.

Oh, damn, Isaac really didn’t need to meet what was left of her family right now.

“Quick, you have to—” When she looked back, he was gone.

Okay, usually, she was frustrated by his ghost routine. At the moment, it was a godsend.

Moving fast, she flipped on the lights, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and headed for the mess on the floor and wall.

“In here!” she replied.

As her father came into the room, she noticed he’d changed into his casual uniform of a cashmere sweater and pressed slacks. His face, however, was anything but easygoing: Stark and cold, he looked as he did when he faced an opponent in court.

“I received notification that the fire alarm went off,” he said.

Undoubtedly he had, but he’d probably been on his way over here anyway: His house was out in Lincoln—no way he could get to Beacon Hill this fast.

Thank God he hadn’t gotten here ten minutes earlier, she thought.

To keep her blush out of the sight, she concentrated on picking up the sharp shards. “I burned an omelet.”

When her father didn’t say anything else, she stared over at him. “What.”

“Where is he, Grier. Tell me where Isaac Rothe is.”

A sliver of fear trickled down her spine and landed in her gut like a rock. His expression was so ruthless, she was willing to bet her life on the fact that the pair of them were on opposite sides of the table when it came to her client.

Houseguest.

Lover.

Whatever Isaac was to her.

“Ouch!” She brought up her hand. A piece of glass was sticking straight out of the pad of her forefinger, her blood bright red as it pooled into a fat, welling drop.

As she headed over to the sink, she felt the presence of her father across the kitchen like a gun pointed at her back.

He didn’t even ask how badly she’d hurt herself.

All he did was say once again: “Tell me where Isaac Rothe is.”

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 25