When he finally surfaced, climbed out of the pool, and shook the water from his eyes, the crowd had moved on to new entertainments. A threesome was taking place in the lower garden and apparently welcomed an audience. He glanced around for his clothes. Found them scattered like water lilies on the pool’s surface, sinking slowly downward. He would gather them later. Mick sloshed along the Spanish tiles around the pool’s edge to the bathhouse, water streaming down his body. He wasn’t too hopeful, but it was worth a try. Yep. The stack of towels that had filled the bathhouse linen cupboard when he’d purchased the place had been depleted. When or by whom? He had no idea. Mick sighed.

A couple ensconced on a lounge chair glanced over as Mick strode by. “Hey, Mick,” the guy said, giving him a thumbs-up. “Loved Retribution, and this party is fire.” The guy’s girlfriend had multiple body piercings and a tattoo sleeve. Her gaze trailed the expanse of Mick’s naked body. “Yeah,” she cooed, her eyes turning sultry. “Real fine . . .” Making it clear that if Mick crooked his little finger, she’d come running.

There was a time when a party like this would have rocked Mick’s boat. Women looking him over would have caused his chest to swell just a little and his ego to expand. Not anymore. Weirdly, it made him feel a deep-seated melancholy, a sense of isolation, as if people with a moral compass were a myth. Decency and human kindness were a fairy tale made up as a bedtime story to lull innocent gullible children into thinking the world was a good and wonderful place.

He entered from the garden through the kitchen door. Ding dong . . . Ding dong . . . The doorbell was ringing. Ding dong . . . Nobody was answering it. Ding dong . . . Ding dong . . .

He strode down the hall and pulled the door open. “If you’re here for Peterson, he’s out back in the garden.” Mick stepped aside to let her pass.

However, the prim Mary Poppins creature that was perched on the doorstep just blinked at him. Her mousy brown hair was scraped severely back from her face and corralled in a tight knot at the back of her head. Thick-framed glasses stood in stark relief against the creamy paleness of her complexion. Her eyes, wide behind the charcoal frames. She had surprisingly long, lush lashes. Her uniform, for that was all one could call it, was boring. Conservative. Black slacks, neat cream blouse, sensible footwear. Must be one of those evangelical types banging on doors trying to save the world and selling unsuspecting fools a promise of heaven. Either that or it was a costume and she’d been hired to strip. “The Peterson party is out back,” he repeated.

Her gaze slid downward, then abruptly jerked up to lock on to his eyes. A flush rose upward from her neck, suffusing her face with color.