“Right.” Luke nodded, thumb still in his back pocket, legs slightly spread, the full cowboy stance. “Your name has come up a few times.”

“In regard to what?”

“We’ll get to that.” Luke fanned himself with the manila envelope, then nodded at the double-wide front door. “Any chance we can step inside? It’s hotter’n a stepmother’s kiss out here, and I’ll bet that big glass house has one heck of an air-conditioning system.”

Xander considered this request for a moment, the thoughts zipping across his face like buzzing insects. He decided, though, that cooperating was the wisest course of action. A slight nod, then he turned and entered the house. Luke followed, his bootheels clipping off the marble steps.

“What’s this about?” Xander asked once they were both inside. He stood in the foyer, his arms folded again, not prepared to go any deeper into the house.

Luke inhaled the cooler air, ignoring Xander for now. Let him wait. Let him writhe. The foyer was a bright space with a water fountain, several tall plants, and a broad white wall decorated with Norse art. There were various runes and symbols, a painting of Yggdrasil, the tree of life—Luke had done his homework—and two crossed swords that looked as if they might have been wielded by Ragnar Lodbrok.

“This is all very Nordic,” Luke remarked, gesturing at the wall.

“Johan is descended from the great Norse warriors,” Xander replied with total conviction.

“Really? He traced his family tree all the way back to the tenth century? That’s impressive.” Luke whistled through his teeth, looking from the wall to Xander. “Mind you, those Viking men put their dicks in just about anything that moved. That is one wide DNA pool. We’ve probably all got a little Viking inside us.”

He winked, then drew a couple of horns out of the sides of his head and growled. “Grrrr.”

“Vikings didn’t wear horned helmets,” Xander said with a gray expression. “That’s a fallacy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly up on my Norse history. I’m more concerned with the present.”

“Me, too. So what do you want?”

Luke reverted to the cowboy stance, letting his jacket flap open again—another flash of the sidearm, just to remind Xander who was in charge. His jitters had subsided. There were still a few resolute butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, but not enough to affect his performance. Maybe the calming supplement had kicked in. Or—and this was more likely—it was because he’d become Colton Stone. This happened all the time on set. His performance anxiety dissipated the moment the tape started to roll and he dropped into character.

“I’m investigating a homicide,” he said, walking over to a potted olive tree, letting this statement percolate while he studied the plant’s dull green leaves.