Getting out, they ran over to find a chilled Nikau drunk off his ass and slurring his words. “Saw her today,” he mumbled as Will hauled him into the cabin and Anahera got to work starting the fire. “Wearing emeralds. Guess pounamu wasn’t enough for her.”

He kept on rambling about his ex-­wife while Anahera got the fire going and Will wrestled the mostly empty bottle of whiskey from his hand. Giving the bottle to Anahera, Will told her to get rid of what alcohol remained. Anahera had no compunction in pouring it down the sink. If Nikau had wanted to save his expensive whiskey, he shouldn’t have come drinking on her porch.

“Just leave him in front of the fire,” she said to Will. “It won’t be the first time he’s slept on a floor, but I do have a spare pillow for his head.” She went into her bedroom and found ­it—­another little gift courtesy of Josie.

Taking it to the fire, she placed it under Nik’s head, then covered him using a throw she’d had on one of the chairs. When he mumbled again, she sat down beside him and began to brush her hand over his hair.

Sitting down in a chair across from her, Will just watched. A patient wolf, she found herself thinking. Not a dog, because he’d never come to anyone on command. But a man who was a hunter, and who could be dangerous if he slipped the tight leash he kept on himself.

The next time she looked over, she found him staring into the flames. It gave her a chance to examine him without being watched in turn. He was all craggy lines carved into his skin, experience woven into his bones, and pain stamped onto his features. Life had been hard on him, but he was still moving, and he was still working, and he was still fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.

Suddenly, Anahera didn’t care that Nikau was here. She wanted to steal some of the cop’s fire, that smoldering heat that kept him going, that dark anger deep inside him that called to her own fury. But leaving Nik wasn’t an ­option—­he might throw up in his sleep, end up choking to death.

Frustrated, she got up and went to the cop. His eyes turned to take her in. He didn’t stop her when she shoved her hands into his hair and tugged back his head as she bent down and took a kiss as harsh as it was needy. He accepted her demand, his hands coming to settle at her hips and his body heat sinking through her clothing to scald her flesh.

Beside them, the fire ­crackled… and Nikau moaned.

Wrenching back from Will, Anahera looked over her shoulder to see that her friend was asleep but restless. “Consider this an IOU,” she said to the cop with the fogbound eyes. “Come for dinner tomorrow night.”

40

Will knew he shouldn’t be getting in deeper with Anahera, but he also knew he’d return to her cabin tomorrow. Tonight, as he sat in his kitchen again while a new band of heavy cloud blotted out the stars outside, it was time to read more of Miriama’s journal.

Finding out the identity of her lover was no longer the reason why. He had Vincent’s name, would talk to the other man tomorrow. Even as that thought passed through his head, Will ­second-­guessed his choice.

What if Miriama was alive?

What if, by delaying until morning, he cost her that life?

Decision made as soon as those questions formed in his head, he got up and, popping the journal into a plastic bag, slid it into the inner pocket of his outdoor jacket, then went out to the SUV.

He didn’t call Vincent until he was nearly at the other man’s home. Then, he just said, “I need you to come down the drive. We have to talk about Miriama.”

The smallest pause before Vincent’s reply. “I’ll be there.”

The lights of his vehicle cut through the ­pitch-­blackness about three minutes later. Will flashed his own lights from where he’d parked a little off the drive.

“Thank you for not coming up to the house,” Vincent said, after they’d both gotten out to stand between the ­cars—­under a sky so dark that a few more feet of distance and they wouldn’t have been able to make out each other’s faces. “I told Jemima I was heading out to have a quick drink with you, said you sounded down about the lack of progress on the disappearance.”

Will didn’t care what lies Vincent had told his wife; he was already well aware the man was a better liar than any of them had ever expected. “I know you had an affair with Miriama.”

Smart enough to read the situation, Vincent didn’t feign shock. “She was the most honest thing in my entire life,” he murmured. “If I’d known who she’d grow up to be to me, I would’ve never married Jemima.” He dropped his gaze to the ground. “Back then, I thought it was time to get the right kind of wife, create the right kind of family, begin building the profile that would help me advance in politics.”

When he looked up, his eyes shimmered with wetness. “That’s what I’ve always ­done—­the right thing, or the right thing as mandated by whoever it is that decides the rules. In my case, that happened to be my parents.”

A mocking smile. “They wanted the perfect son and I was happy to give them one. It was easy when I had no other passion in my ­life—­not like Anahera with her music or Nikau with his academics, or even Daniel with his lust for money. Following my parents’ script gave me direction.”

“How did it start with Miriama?” Will took nothing Vincent said at face value. The other man’s tears could be window dressing, his anguish perfectly pitched to arouse Will’s sympathies. It was also equally possible that Vincent had been deeply in love with Miriama and unable to stand her rejection.

Vincent blew out a shuddering breath. “It began the first time I saw her after she went from being a girl to a woman.” Gritty words. “It took me two months to build up the courage to speak to her about anything but how I liked my coffee, even longer before I dared kiss her. I was terrified the entire time that she’d slap my face and tell me I was reaching above myself, but my beautiful Miriama never did that. She loved me as much as I loved her.”

“What about Dominic de Souza?” Will had deliberately thrown in the question cold, with no buildup; he wanted to see Vincent’s unvarnished reaction.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Hands fisting, Vincent spun on his heel to stalk down the narrow space between the two cars and all the way to the tree line. He stood staring out into the pitch dark for at least two long minutes after Will joined him before he spoke. “He’s not good enough for her. He’s promised her a life of travel and adventure. But what his small mind conceives as travel and adventure will bore her within the space of a year.”

“Did you offer better?”

Vincent turned, his face haggard. “I should have. But, heaven help me, I didn’t.” Legs crumpling, he fell to his knees. “I should’ve said to hell with political aspirations and the perfect ‘family man’ image and just divorced Jemima. Only ­then… I would’ve had Miriama, but I would’ve lost the chance to watch my children grow up. My wife would’ve fought tooth and nail for sole custody and it wouldn’t have taken much for her to prove that she’s always been the main parent.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Vincent choked back a sob. “But dear God,” he said afterward, his voice rough, “much as I love my children, not breaking up my marriage so I was free to be with Miriama is the biggest regret of my life. If anything’s happened to her, if I’ve wasted my one chance at true happiness, I’ll never forgive myself.”