Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, March 18, 5:30 p.m.

“Diesel? Baby, are you okay?”

Dani’s soft voice—even calling him “baby”—was actually the last thing he wanted to hear as he hugged the toilet in the condo’s gleamingly clean bathroom. He rested his cheek on the cold rim, wishing he could tell her to go away, but unable to speak the words. Not to her. Not ever to her.

He heard the running of water in the sink, then felt the cool wetness of the washcloth she pressed to the back of his neck. The palm she ran over his stubbled head was gentle. Soothing.

“What do you need?” she asked.

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even shake his head. He didn’t have the energy. And his body wasn’t getting any of the messages his brain was frantically firing. Go. Make sure nobody sees . . .

He hadn’t closed his laptop before running for the bathroom. Go. Close it. Nobody else should have to see that . . .

Oh God. That.

He heard a whimpering sound and realized it was coming from him.

“Shh.” Dani knelt beside him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her head a welcome weight against his back. He heard sniffling and knew she was crying. For me. “I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

A sob sat hard in his throat. He couldn’t let it go, so it stayed there, growing harder and bigger until he couldn’t breathe. He gasped, and she took the wet cloth from the back of his neck and wiped his face.

Then she held him. Saying nothing. Not demanding answers.

She just held him until he could feel the wetness of her tears seeping through his shirt to his back. Eventually her quiet crying stopped and she shuddered out a breath. Still she said nothing.

Rising to her feet, she pressed a kiss to his temple, then filled a glass with water. “Drink,” she said softly. “Please.” She cupped his chin, holding his head up, and pressed the glass to his lips. “Please.”

He drank because he could deny her nothing when she said “please” like that.

She leaned in to rest her forehead against his. “Go lie down. I closed your laptop. Should I shut it off, too?”

His eyes opened, his gaze flying up to meet hers in panic. She’d seen. Oh God. She’d seen . . . that.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, his voice sounding like a rusty crank.

“Oh, baby. Me, too. So sorry.” Her hand caressed his head again and he leaned into her touch. “Come with me. Let me help you. Please.”

She stood, holding out her hand, her beautiful eyes full of sorrow, and somehow Diesel knew that she knew about him.

How? How did she know? Marcus hadn’t said a word. Of that, Diesel was certain. He trusted Marcus O’Bannion with his life. So how does she know?