“I’ll tell you what he didn’t know. He didn’t know you’d tell him to kiss your ass.”

Malory sat back. “You’re right. He didn’t know I’d refuse, or that I’d understand—even in the dream—that he wanted me trapped somewhere, however wonderful, where I couldn’t find the key. Both of those things surprised and irritated him. And that means he doesn’t know everything.”

WITH considerable reluctance, Dana tagged along when Malory decided to work at Flynn’s house. It made sense, as the two paintings were there. But so was Jordan Hawke.

Her hopes that he would be out somewhere were quashed when she saw the vintage Thunderbird in Flynn’s driveway.

“Always had a thing about cars,” she muttered, and though she sniffed at the T-Bird, she secretly admired its lines, the sweep of tail fins and the sparkle of chrome.

She’d have paid money to get behind the wheel and open that engine up on a straightaway.

“Don’t know why the jerk has to have a car when he lives in Manhattan.”

Malory recognized the tone, both the sulkiness and the bitterness, and paused at the door. “Is this going to be a problem for you? Maybe we can make arrangements to see the paintings again when Jordan’s not here.”

“No problem for me. He doesn’t exist in my reality. I long ago drowned him in a vat of ebola. It was a messy, yet oddly satisfying, task.”

“Okay, then.” Malory lifted a hand to knock, but Dana nudged her aside.

“I do not knock on my brother’s door.” She shot her key into the lock. “No matter what morons he might have staying with him.”

She strode in, prepared for a confrontation. Unwilling to be so easily deflated when she didn’t see him, she slammed the door.

“Dana.”

“Oops. Slipped.” Hooking her thumbs in her pockets, she strolled into the living room. “Just where we left them,” she said with a nod at the paintings. “And you know what, I don’t see anything different about them either. Job’s done for today. Let’s go shopping or something.”

“I want to do a more thorough study of them, and I want to go through all the research notes. But there’s no reason for you to hang around.”

“I promised Flynn.”

“Flynn’s a worrywart.”

“Well, yeah, but I promised.” Sensing movement in the doorway behind her, she stiffened. “And unlike some, I keep my promises.”

“And hold a grudge with equal fervor,” Jordan commented. “Hello, ladies. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to go over the paintings and my notes again,” Malory told him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Who’s he to mind? It’s not his house.”

“True enough.” Jordan, tall and tough in black jeans and black T-shirt, leaned against the doorjamb. “Help yourself.”

“Haven’t you got something better to do than lurk?” Dana tossed out. “A book to pretend to write, a publisher to skin.”

“You know us commercial fiction hacks. We just knock ’em out in a couple weeks, then lounge around on our royalties.”