Moments later, he was in the passenger seat of the blond man’s tricked-out Grand Cherokee, they were heading South on the 405 toward LAX, and Riley was pondering the question. Why had he picked China? His first instinct had been Hawaii. He’d imagined himself watching girls in bikinis as he kicked back on the beach with a thriller in one hand and a beer in the other. But somehow, Hawaii didn’t seem far enough away. He wanted to get lost. To go someplace completely unfamiliar. Where he couldn’t even read the signs. Some place that forced him to think.

And then, maybe, he’d think about what the fuck he wanted to do next. Because the truth was, he’d been at loose ends for one hell of a long time. But damned if he knew how to tie those ends up.

“Mind if I play some tunes?” his companion asked.

“Go ahead. Sorry I’m bad company. I’m already sliding into vacation mode.”

The guy chuckled. “No worries,” he said, then pushed a button on the console and filled the interior with ghetto rap as his blond head and shoulders gyrated to the music. Riley dropped his head back, letting the music pound against his brain.

They were almost to the airport when he miraculously felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket despite the deep thrum of the music. He fished it out, checked the Caller ID, then grinned as he gestured toward the volume. “Sorry, man. Do you mind?”

The guy waved off the question with a good-natured shrug, then flicked the radio off right as Riley took the call. “Hey man, how’s London? I’m about to get the hell out of your neck of the woods.”

“You dick,” Lyle Tarpin said. “You’re in town and you don’t even call?”

“Hello? Because you’re in fucking London. You’re there doing publicity bullshit. Or am I wrong?” One of Riley’s oldest friends, Lyle Tarpin was fast rocketing into one of Hollywood’s most bankable stars. He was also Natasha’s boss, and when Riley had been in town about a year ago consulting on one of Lyle’s movies, she’d once again firmly shut down Riley’s advances. At which point Riley resolved to quit trying. He was a lot of things, but not a masochist, and going after Natasha Black was like beating his head against a very hard—but very pretty—brick wall.

“Shipping out bright and early tomorrow.”

“Ah, hell. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“Me, too.”

There was a pause, and Riley was about to ask about Lyle’s wife, Laine, when Lyle jumped back in with, “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Anything, man. You know that.”

“Can you recommend a security company? I need to hire a bodyguard.”