Finally, the woman stepped away from Allison, absently patting her arm. “Very good,” she said, turning away from her and heading across the room.

“If you don’t mind,” she added as she moved away, “I’ll be taking this with me.”

And, out of the darkness of Allison’s living room, Asian men appeared. She hadn’t even sensed they were there. Hadn’t known that she wasn’t alone with this woman. They were Asian, like the woman, and broad. Short, but so powerfully built, Allison had no doubt any of them could have killed her with one blow.

They went over to the stuffed honey badger and picked it up. And she couldn’t explain it, but they seemed to do it with . . . respect. With honor. As if carrying the casket of a fallen soldier.

With care, they lifted the carcass up, stopping briefly by the woman. She rested her hand on the back of it, her head momentarily bowed. That was when Allison felt real . . . pain. Grief. Yes. She felt grief from the woman.

Confused, she watched the woman remove her hand and toss her head back. She let out a breath and made a motion. The men walked out, and the woman looked back at Allison.

“We’ll be leaving through the front door here and then the lobby. You will not call the police. You will tell no one we were here. Anyone. I don’t care who it is. Understand?”

Allison nodded, and the woman walked across the living room, but she stopped one more time when she reached the archway. The woman faced her.

Allison took in a breath, steeling herself for whatever nightmare was about to come next. Threats? Had this woman changed her mind? Would she now kill Allison?

Gazing at her with those cold black eyes, the woman said, “I love your shoes. Are those from the new line?”

Shocked, Allison swallowed, and said, “Next year’s fall line. I have a male friend who works with the company.”

“Lucky you!” The woman smiled. “I’d kill for that.”

Then the woman was gone. The steel door slammed shut.

Allison dropped to her knees, urine running down her legs and into a puddle beneath her, while her entire body shook senselessly for hours.

While Joan’s brothers put poor Damon into the back of the van, she called Balt.

“Yes, my beauty.”

She grinned. The man would just never give up, would he? She liked that. “She didn’t have a name.”

“You believe her?”

“I do. She couldn’t have lied to me if she’d wanted to.”

“We will take from here then, yes?”

“Good luck. See you when you get back.” She disconnected the call and got into the front passenger side of the van.

“Where now?” her younger brother asked.

Joan glanced back at the remains of her mate, but she couldn’t lookat him for long. It was too painful.

Focusing on the streets in front of her, she said, “Crematorium.” Her brother stared at her, and she added, “You don’t really think he’s going to shift back to human now, do you?”

“You have a point.” Her brother started the van, and waited to pull into traffic. That was when he added, “But if I find out there’s any insurance policy out there with my name on it . . . me and you? We got problems.”

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing like that out there.”

Then to turn that lie into a truth, Joan put a reminder in her phone to cancel the insurance policies she had on her brothers.

John Lindow had come home early from the party, and he was glad he had. There was someone in his office. A room even his bitch of a wife didn’t go into. And even if she was brave enough to try, she was out of the country for the next month, spending his money in France. His own fault, though. He didn’t have to marry a “model,” as she still liked to call herself.

With his two bodyguards behind him, John quietly walked up the stairs of his Miami mansion and stopped outside the office.

There was a man working at his computer. A man he didn’t know. Because he had an amazing view from this room and bodyguards to protect him, John’s desk faced the big windows, so the man’s back was to the door.

John held his hand out, and one of his guards handed him a .22 he kept on him for this sort of thing.

He took aim and shot the man in the back. The power of the shot pushed the man forward, and then he fell out of the chair and onto the floor.

John handed the gun back to his guard and walked into the room. He didn’t want to kill the man right away. Not until he knew what he was doing here.

Leaning down, John studied his computer screen, ignoring the splatter of blood.

“Ahh. I see.” This man wanted to know who was involved in the shipment that went to Allison Whitlan. Frankie Whitlan’s daughter. John’s company delivered all sorts of things for anyone who could afford their prices. From expensive rugs legally sent from France to elephant tusks illegally sent from Africa, John’s company did it all. But the illegal jobs were dealt with differently. There might be a record of a package going to a certain location, but he wasn’t stupid enough to actually write “nearly extinct tiger meat inside. Handle with care” on the box.

Knowing the man hadn’t found anything he could use, John stood. “Okay, guys, let’s—”

John frowned. His guards were gone. He walked out into the hallway, but they weren’t there, either. Had they heard a noise? Maybe, but even when that happened, one guard always stayed with John while the other investigated.