Mick swiped at the fogged-up bathroom mirror with a thick hand towel. It didn’t do much good, but at least he could see a blurry version of himself and should be able to manage a shave without slitting his throat. His mind was still mulling over the long conversation he’d had with Peterson. The man was shaken, balling his eyes out. Mick had never heard him so undone. After he’d hung up, there was the call to the police department. A promise had been extracted. Mick would drop by the station when he returned to Los Angeles. A hot shower was no longer a luxury but a necessity. He needed the ritual of washing off the weight of the day. The thought of Harmony with all her hopes and dreams extinguished. Why had death chosen her? Didn’t seem fair.

Generally, Mick kept his showers short, doing his bit for the environment, but this night a long shower was needed. Steaming hot, with lots of soap. And in the shower, perhaps there was a component of salt intermingled with the water beating down, but if there was, it was nobody’s business.

Mick had removed his travel-sized shaving cream from his toiletry bag and began lathering his face when he heard a knock on his room door. “No thanks,” he called, figuring it was hotel housekeeping or minibar service.

“Hey, now,” he heard Sarah retort from out in the hallway. There was a trace of laughter in her voice. “You haven’t heard yet, sir, what’s on offer.” Her husky, honey-drenched tone wreaked havoc on his body. Mick adjusted himself so he wasn’t tenting the towel slung around his hips and walked to the door, blood pulsing through his veins like a drumbeat.

He braced himself, then opened the door. “Yeah,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel, because being in her presence snatched the breath from his lungs

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Have you been crying?”

“Hell no. Got soap in my eyes. What’s it to you?”

“Ah,” she said softly. She glanced over his shoulder to the living room beyond. “I called the switchboard and had them forward any phone calls to your room. Thought we’d have dinner together. You good with that?”

The tightness eased in his chest. Grateful he wasn’t going to face the evening alone. He leaned against the doorframe and drank in the sight of her, barefoot, scrubbed face, wet hair, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick white robes. Clean. Fresh. Like a new beginning. Jesus, you’re a goner, Talford. He was glad he had something sturdy to prop him up until his knees lost their sudden gelatinous quality. “So, this offer you mentioned,” he drawled. “Were you talking about dinner? Or . . . something else?”