Was she shutting out the place? Or simply sleeping? He started to question his insistence that she come back to Charleston. Damned arrogant of him, and if he'd screwed up, she would pay the price.

The way Tag and the other crew had taken extra hits when his recklessness cost him broken hands and made him a liability during their capture.

He glanced at her quickly. "You don't have to do this."

Her lashes fluttered open for a quick peek his way. "Now aren't you changing your tune?"

"I want you to do this for you, not because I'm a pushy bastard."

Her eyes closed again as she reached to touch his arm. "I am doing this for me. Call me selfish, but this whole trip is about taking control of my life."

She skimmed a finger in a scorching path down his forearm before her hand fell to her lap again.

Well, hell. No mistaking that. How long until they could find a bed?

He navigated the Jeep through a maze of narrow one-way streets lined with squat palmetto trees until he pulled up outside a three-story bank. He backed the Jeep into the tight curbside parking. "Are you ready?"

She rolled her eyes, oak branches rustling overhead, horns honking. "Hell no, but it needs to be done."

"Last chance to make a break for it."

"My running shoes are packed away." She reached for the door. "Let's get this over with."

God, he admired this woman's spunk. He gripped her elbow to stop her. "Hold on a second."

"What for?"

"For this." Leaning, he cupped the back of her head and sealed a kiss to her mouth, firm, intense, full of his restrained ache for her and unwavering drive to see her through this.

Safely. He slid his fingers from the thick tangle of her silky hair and angled back into his seat. "Now it's time to go inside."

She blinked, even swayed a little—ooh-rah—before regaining her balance.

Dodging bustling professionals and slow-strolling tourists, Bo ushered Paige through the revolving doors into the ice-chilled lobby. He scanned...and didn't have to look long before finding the man he recognized from Kurt Haugen's case.

The lawyer—Thomas Creech—peeled away from the wall, smoothing his palm-tree tie into a double-breasted suit that fit well, but didn't scream overpriced slick. Creech's startled surprise at seeing Bo attested to the lawyer's memory of him from the early stages of booking Haugen. The distinguished guy might look okay, but no way was Bo leaving her side.

Creech extended his hand and greeted both Paige and Bo. "I could have done this for you, Mrs. Haugen. It would have saved money, time and grief."

Like it mattered now when she was already here? Bo's approval meter for the fellow notched down. Of course that could have had something to do with how long the forty-year-old dude held Paige's hand, complete with a conciliatory pat.

Bo looped an arm around her shoulder. "Closure's important, Mr. Creech."

"Of course." He nodded before gesturing them forward. "Let's get on with it, then."

Bo kept his hand on her shoulder all the way back to the vault, a tomb-silent room lined with drawers. He wasn't sure if she allowed the comfort because she needed it or if she was too numb to notice. With the lawyer standing off to the side, the teller opened the drawer to reveal...

A lone envelope, plain white, with the words "Paige and Kirstie" scrawled on the outside.

She shivered under his hand, then stepped forward to take out the letter.

Two deep breaths later, she ran her thumbnail under the seal of the letter, scanned it, her face expressionless, before she carefully folded it and slid it back in, smoothing her hand to close the flap. "That bastard."

"What did he do?" Bo braced for whatever life had thrown Paige's way and ignored the niggling voice in his head telling him that forgetting this woman was no longer an option.

The attorney moved closer. "Is there something important?"

Important? Paige wanted to shout, stomp her foot, dig Kurt up and kick his selfish butt all over again. She'd cut her heart open again by coming back to Charleston for this?

Kurt's letter was nothing more than a manipulative ploy, full of justifications for all the horrible things he'd done. No apologies. Just more excuses and meaningless vows of love to his wife and kid.

The narcissistic bastard.

"No. Nothing important at all." She smacked a hand back against the safety deposit boxes. "God, I was hoping he'd left behind evidence to finger every last slime in the operation. But no. He just wanted to let us know—in case something happened to him—

how much he loves us. And how he did it all for us, to give us a better life like in the fairy tales and poems he made up for Kirstie. And to remember those if something happened to him. More bull no doubt meant to manipulate our emotions from the grave."

Would she show the letter to Kirstie? Not now. Maybe someday when her daughter was old enough to sort through the nuances of Kurt's amoral mind-set.

She smoothed the letter along the table again as if she could somehow iron out all the wrinkles in her life. "There's nothing concrete about the mess he drew us all into."

Bo's hand fell to her shoulder again, steadying without being overpowering. "You're sure?"

Of course. Wasn't she? "The letter seems straightforward."

"Maybe you should have the cops analyze it for hidden meanings."

A flicker of hope started that maybe something positive could come from this fresh dose of pain after all.

"Of course. We should give it to the police." She would be more than happy to hand over the latest reminder of her past mistakes. She extended her hand to the lawyer. "Thank you for meeting us on a weekend."

"It's not a problem, Mrs. Haugen." He gestured them out of the vault. "Just call me or my paralegal if you need anything further."

She set her jaw and mentally prepped for another trip to the Charleston Police Department instead of an afternoon at Bo's before he left for his friends' wedding.

Her feet slowed along the marble tile. Time to be honest with herself. She hadn't come to Charleston for Kurt or even to read his damn letter. That had merely offered a convenient excuse for what she really wanted.

She'd come to Charleston for a chance to be with Bo, and she wouldn't let Kurt steal anything more from her. But now she had this letter to deal with, and turning it over to the cops would in effect turn over a new leaf for her fresh start.

Paige flattened her hands on the revolving door and pushed— whoomp, whoomp, whoomp—until she stepped out on the muggy street, Bo one whoomp behind her. She spun to apologize for yet another delay and stumbled against a rushing passerby. "Excuse me—"

Her arm was wrenched in the socket. By instinct, she tugged back even as purse strap bit into her arm. The force increased with her confusion.

"Paige!" Bo's shout sliced through at the same time a knife slashed the strap on her bag.

What the—?

The wiry teen in dark clothes and a ball cap sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians with her purse clutched to his stomach. Bo shoved past her, launching himself after the thief, her purse...and the letter.

Screw coincidence. Bo slammed his Jeep door closed outside his three-bedroom rental house. Something was up.

So what if the break-in happened in North Dakota and the purse snatching in Charleston and neither culprit was caught. A pair of attacks in such a short time stretched believing.

Which also had him questioning the faulty fuel gauge and more recent malfunction that almost kept them from arriving in Charleston at all.

He wasn't letting Paige out of his sight.

And Kirstie? She apparently still had her secrets, but at least her uncles were watching her 24/7. He might have questions about them, but he didn't doubt for a second that either of them would die for that little girl.

Bo hitched his duffel bag onto his shoulder, passed Paige her small suitcase and snagged his guitar. At least Paige' wasn't dragging anymore. The slight stomp of her feet along the walkway to his one-story brick house telegraphed her anger over the incident—a good sight better than defeat.

The cops had taken their statements, not particularly concerned about a purse-snatcher with more pressing killings, rapes and a campus stalker on their agenda. She'd been firm

— go, Paige!—insisting on reconstructing the letters as best she could to be included in her husband's file. She wanted everything available if further incidents were linked to him.

Bo shoved his key into the lock and swung wide the door while she strode by with a hefty exhale. Framed vintage record album covers covered his otherwise bare walls, everything from Abbey Road to Jimi Hendrix to an autograph from his personal idol, Carlos Santana.

Little furniture filled the space, just a cheap-ass sofa long enough to stretch out on when he watched TV, and his perfect chair for jamming, parked next to a filing cabinet packed with sheet music. His largest piece of furniture rested along the opposite wall—a beat-up piano he'd bought at a clearance sale for a high school looking to upgrade their music department. Not fancy, but more than he'd owned growing up and everything he needed now.

Paige slung her sack bag onto the brown leather sofa. "What a long day, and it's not even suppertime."

He finally had her to himself and he didn't dare risk touching her since they had to be back out the door in a half hour. He dumped the two bags on the floor beside the couch.

"I'm here if you need to cry uncle again."

"Uncle?" She pivoted in his sparse living room. "How about a battle cry? I'm pissed.

Royally, totally pissed."

"Atta girl." He leaned against the sofa and watched her shine in spite of travel grunge and wind-tossed hair that happened to resemble sex-tossed hair to him.

Of course, now that the initial crisis has passed, he found everything reminded him of sex.

"Thanks. It's probably just the adrenaline talking. Well, and all that caffeine from the crummy police station coffee." She circled in his small living room. "This place isn't what I expected."

"How so?"

"Well, first of all I thought you would live in a condo or town house."

He jabbed a thumb toward the scarred piano. "Can't jam in an apartment without the neighbors griping."

"Good point."

"And second of all?"

"What?"

"You said first of all, which implies there's a second."

"Oh, I guess I expected more of a bachelor pad."

"Lava lamps and a trapeze strung from the ceiling?" A fun fantasy image, but not his style. Besides, he had something different in mind for them later.

"A trapeze?"

She skimmed a finger along the ivory keyboard without making a sound. "Actually, I imagined a flashier decor, but I should have remembered this whole year has been about learning to look below the surface."

"I believe you just complimented me."

"I did. With all your talk about cool toys, I thought you would drive some brand-new sports car." She sat on the edge of the piano bench, and he thought how strange it was that they were alone in a room and had touched less than they would with a houseful of people around.

"Hey, a Jeep's cool." Damn it all, he was a man comfortable in his skin. Her approval of his lifestyle shouldn't be important.

"Especially one you rebuilt yourself."

Now she sure was full of surprises today. "How'd you know that?"

"Good guess."

He wasn't sure how he felt about her dissecting his personality and surroundings. After years in a communal-style orphanage setting, he valued his privacy.

Jesus. She just wanted to talk about his Jeep. He needed to lighten up.

Shoving away from the couch, he joined her on the piano bench just to prove to himself he could stay in control. "I saw Tag working on his truck at the base auto-hobby shop and asked him to teach me about car maintenance.... I may like my toys, but I grew up too poor not to appreciate the value of a good bargain. And if you like my rebuilt engine, then you're gonna go wild over my used jet ski bought at an estate auction."