“Tell me about what happened Friday night,” she said.

Kieran’s free hand clenched. “You need to understand that I was saddened by the breakup with Haley. I haven’t been out much. I was home, alone, bored, restless. I went to the club to break out of the rut. But when I saw Haley there . . . with that other man. Dressed the way she was dressed.” A slide show of emotions passed across Kieran’s face. Disappointment. Sadness. Resignation.

“How was she dressed?”

“Her dress didn’t leave anything to the imagination.” His sniff was oddly prudish. “This is going to sound arrogant, but I’d thought she slept with me on our first date because we had some special chemistry. Now I know she was just a slut like most other young women today. They have no interest in commitments or relationships. They just want to hook up.” He used air quotes around the term.

Kieran had a narrow, negative opinion of women. He stopped talking and stared over Morgan’s shoulder. She glanced back, but there was nothing there but a cinder block wall.

Morgan steered him back on topic. “What time did you leave the club?”

Kieran’s gaze dropped to the magazine in his hand. When his gaze lifted, his eyes were shuttered, and his emotions seemed to be back under control. “I don’t remember exactly what time I left, but I didn’t stay that long. If I had to guess, I’d say I left around ten thirty. But I wouldn’t be able to swear to that time.”

“What time did you get home?” she asked.

“I already said I’m not sure.” His tone turned defensive. “I went for a long drive in the country.”

“You must have been upset.”

His gaze lifted to hers. “Why would I have been upset? I already said Haley and I haven’t dated in a long time.”

Morgan paused. “You were not upset to see her with Noah Carter?”

“Not at all. I was merely disappointed in her behavior. Do not put words in my mouth, Ms. Dane.” His voice dropped to a threatening tone. “Are you trying to trap me?”

“Into what?” she asked.

Without the gun, Kieran wasn’t especially physically threatening, and Morgan refused to be bullied by his wealth and position. Did he think they were living in feudal England?

His mouth snapped shut, and his eyes narrowed to mean slits. “Typical lawyer. Talking in circles. Trying to twist my words around. I won’t play your legal games.”

“I assure you, I’m not playing.” Morgan’s head pounded, and she lacked the patience to deal with his bull.

Kieran’s personality had done an about-face after Lance had left the basement. Did he have such little respect for women, or was it because there wasn’t a witness present? Either way, Kieran was either trying to intimidate her or he was unstable. Maybe both.

“I think we’re done here.” Kieran closed the box of bullets and picked up the pistol. “Where is your partner?”

Coffee sloshed uneasily in Morgan’s belly. That was a very good question. She could think of only one topic that might distract Kieran from Lance’s absence. It was time to poke the badger.

She leaned forward a few inches. “Eight years ago, you were arrested in Connecticut for stalking your ex-wife. Can you explain?”

Except for a twitch next to his left eye, Kieran’s face froze.

“Did you text her multiple times a day, demanding to know where she was and who she was with?” Morgan propped her hand on her hip, closer to her own weapon. “Like you did with Haley.”

“My ex-wife has mental health issues. The charges were dropped.” Despite his explanation, livid red crept up his neck, and his gaze hardened. “My attorney made sure that the arrest record was erased. How did you get a copy?”

Morgan met his gaze head-on. “You can erase official records, but an article in the newspaper lives forever.”

Glaring, Kieran shoved the magazine into the handgrip.

Where is Lance?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lance hurried down the hallway. He didn’t have much time. The house was large, but Haley had said the study was near the master bedroom. He took the stairs two at a time, keeping an eye out for the butler. On the left, a set of double doors stood open to reveal a library. He turned right and went through another set of double doors to another hallway. A long carpet runner silenced his steps. He glanced in open doorways as he walked. He passed several bedrooms, impersonally decorated. How many guest rooms could a house have?

He stopped in front of another set of double doors. He listened at the door but heard no sounds. Cracking the door open a few inches, he peeked inside. It was the only room that looked even remotely lived in. He peered in the closet at perfectly neat rows of men’s clothes and shoes. This must be the master bedroom. It was the size of Lance’s whole house.

What did one person do with all this space?

Lance continued down the hall. Two doors from the master suite, he found the study. It was exactly as he’d imagined it: an entire wall of bookshelves, a leather executive chair, and a desk the size of a barge with a matching credenza.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The butler was on the first floor of the house, but Lance didn’t want anyone to see him snooping. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on. Then he went behind the desk and started opening drawers. Haley had found her photo in the pencil drawer, but if Lance were going to hide illegal photographs, he’d lock them up.

Lance opened the desk drawers one by one. In the top right drawer, he found the Polaroid camera. It was a new model that produced an instant photo the size of a credit card. He spun the chair toward the credenza. The drawers were locked. Fortunately, he’d come prepared. He took his lock-picking tools from his pocket and went to work. The locks were simple, and he popped them in a couple of seconds. But the drawers held contracts and other paperwork that Lance didn’t have time to peruse. He closed and locked them again.

He turned back to the desk. Had Kieran moved his stash to a different room? The photo of Haley indicated more than the desire to look at a woman naked. Kieran had the real thing in his bed when he’d taken her picture. The lack of consent was part of the thrill. He’d gotten off on breaking her trust. If he had more pictures, he’d want to look at them often, to relive the excitement. He’d want to keep them close at hand.

Lance reached under the desk. His fingers hit something. He examined the underside of the desk. A yellow envelope was tucked under the rear-drawer support. He slid the envelope out and opened it.

Bingo.

Polaroids of naked, sleeping women, and Lance would bet all had been unaware they were being photographed.

Movement in the hall caught his attention. He slid the pictures back into the envelope and stuck it under his shirt at the small of his back, tucking it into the waistband of his pants. Something jingled in the hallway. Keys?

He stood and went to the door. Opening it two inches, he scanned the hall but saw no one. Lance listened for a few seconds, but the hallway remained quiet. He slipped out of the office, stuffing the gloves in his pocket.

The jingle sounded again, followed by heavy breathing. Lance turned and stopped dead. A Rottweiler stared at him from the other end of the hall. The jingle hadn’t been keys but dog tags.

Lance considered the distance between him and the double doors that led to the second-floor landing. Twenty feet never seemed so far.

He took a step backward. The dog moved forward an equal distance. It emitted a low growl, the hair on its back rising.

Shit.

“Good boy.” Lance eased backward another foot.

The growling intensified. But the dog did not bark.

Lance slid his foot backward on the carpet. His heart slammed in double time, and sweat dripped between his shoulder blades.

The dog bristled and took a stiff-legged step forward.

Lance glanced behind him. Could he make it?

Did he have another option?

No. He couldn’t call for help without revealing his unauthorized search. That would be awkward. He’d have to make a break for it. But he’d rather face ten angry men than one large dog.

Lance spun and sprinted for the door. He heard the dog’s feet dig into the carpet as it charged, but he didn’t dare look back. He focused all his attention on the door. Fifteen feet. Ten. The jingling rushed up behind him. Almost there. Was that the dog’s breath on his ankle?