Z

Marcus Vale did not attack the Calder house with guns.

He attacked it with photographs.

On Monday morning, Philadelphia woke to a celebrity gossip website carrying twenty-two images of Vincent Calder and Margaret Hart.

Vincent walking behind Maggie outside Owen’s school.

Maggie entering the townhouse at night.

Vincent placing a hand at her back as she stepped into a car.

The headline was crude.

BILLIONAIRE WIDOWER’S SECRET ROMANCE WITH SON’S NANNY.

By eight, television trucks waited outside the gate.

By nine, reporters knew Maggie’s full name.

By ten, someone had posted the address of her old apartment.

At ten fifteen, Vincent broke a glass.

Not intentionally.

He was standing in his office when Rourke told him Maggie’s address had gone public.

The whiskey tumbler in Vincent’s hand cracked beneath his fingers.

Blood ran across his palm.

Rourke stared.

“You want a towel?”

“I want Marcus Vale.”

“That is considerably more difficult to hand you.”

Vincent opened his fist.

Glass fell onto the desk.

“Find who leaked the address.”

“We already are.”

The office door opened.

Maggie walked in.

She saw the blood.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Rourke looked at the shattered glass.

Maggie looked at Rourke.

Rourke shrugged.

“I’m going to find a towel.”

Coward, Vincent thought.

Maggie approached.

“Show me.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“You’re bleeding on a nineteenth-century rug.”

“You know too much about my rugs.”

“Your housekeeper complains about all of them.”

She took his wrist.

Vincent became completely still.

The last time he had touched her wrist, she had recoiled.

Now she held his hand without fear.

Maggie picked a piece of glass from his palm.

“You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“At me?”

His head lifted sharply.

“No.”

“At the photographs?”

“At the danger.”

She wrapped his palm with gauze from the first-aid box Rourke had conveniently left outside the office.

“The reporters don’t scare me.”

“They should.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Maggie.”

She tied the bandage.

“Darren scared me.”

Vincent fell silent.

“He scared me because I knew there were no rules. If he was angry, anything could happen. If he apologized, it meant nothing. If he promised he’d stop, he never did.”

Vincent listened.

“You scare everyone else,” she said. “But I’ve watched you with Owen.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves plenty.”

“It proves I love my son.”

“It proves you know how to stop.”

Vincent stared.

Maggie touched the bandage lightly.

“That matters.”

No one had ever described restraint as one of Vincent’s virtues.

Mostly because it had not been one.

Before he could answer, Rourke returned.

“We found the photographer.”

Vincent’s expression changed immediately.

Maggie noticed.

The father disappeared.

The businessman vanished.

Something colder remained.

“Who hired him?”

Rourke glanced at Maggie.

“Say it.”

“Vale’s PR consultant.”

Vincent nodded once.

“Bring him in.”

Maggie released Vincent’s hand.

“No.”

Both men looked at her.

Rourke muttered, “I’m beginning to understand why Owen likes her.”

Maggie ignored him.

“You’re not dragging some photographer into a basement.”

“We do not have a basement suitable for interrogations.”

Rourke looked offended.

“We absolutely do.”

Vincent shot him a look.

Rourke cleared his throat.

“Bad timing.”

Maggie crossed her arms.

“This is what Marcus wants.”

Vincent frowned.

“He wants you angry. He wants headlines about the dangerous Vincent Calder threatening journalists.”

“He published your address.”

“So beat him at something else.”

“What?”

“The truth.”

Vincent almost laughed.

“Truth is rarely useful in my business.”

“Then maybe that’s why your business keeps requiring men named Thomas to show up at four in the morning.”

Rourke nodded.

“She has a point.”

“You are dismissed.”

“Gladly.”

After Rourke left, Maggie turned toward the television.

Reporters stood outside the gate speculating about her relationship with Vincent.

One claimed she had moved into his bedroom.

Another suggested she was using Owen to secure Vincent’s money.

Maggie’s cheeks burned.

Vincent picked up the remote.

She stopped him.

“No.”

“You do not need to hear this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because hiding makes their version louder.”

Twenty minutes later, Maggie Hart did something Vincent Calder could never have predicted.

She walked outside.

He caught up to her in the foyer.

“What are you doing?”

“Talking.”

“To reporters?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

She turned.

“Choices, remember?”

His jaw tightened.

She smiled.

“You’re doing better.”

Outside, microphones appeared immediately.

“Ms. Hart!”

“Maggie!”

“Are you romantically involved with Vincent Calder?”

“Did he buy your apartment?”

“Are you living with him?”

Maggie raised one hand.

The shouting slowly stopped.

“My name is Margaret Hart. I work for the Calder family as Owen Calder’s nanny.”

Cameras clicked.

“I am currently staying in this residence because a former partner asNextlted me and threatened my safety.”

Silence.

Behind her, Vincent went rigid.

Maggie continued.

“Mr. Calder provided me with a safe place to stay after I filed a police report. He did not ask for anything in return.”

A journalist shouted, “Are you denying a relationship?”

Maggie paused.

Then she smiled slightly.

“I’m saying my private life is private.”

The reporters erupted.

Vincent almost smiled.

Another question came.

“Did Vincent Calder threaten the man who asNextlted you?”

Maggie looked over her shoulder.

Vincent stood behind her.

Dark suit.

Bandaged hand.

Expression unreadable.

She turned back.

“The man who asNextlted me is alive and in federal custody.”

That produced chaos.

Questions exploded.

Maggie stepped away from the microphones.

Vincent followed her inside.

Once the door closed, he stared at her.

“You enjoyed that.”

“More than I expected.”

“You have just created twelve additional problems.”

“Only twelve?”

His eyes narrowed.

Then she laughed.

And unexpectedly, so did he.

The sound stopped her.

Vincent seemed equally surprised.

For a brief moment, the enormous foyer became quiet.

Maggie realized she had never heard him laugh before.

Not really.

It transformed him.

Then Rourke appeared from the hallway.

His expression destroyed the moment.

“Vincent.”

“What?”

“We have another problem.”

He held out a phone.

On the screen was a photograph taken less than five minutes earlier.

Owen’s school.

A black sedan parked across the street.

Inside it sat Marcus Vale.

Vincent stopped breathing.

The room changed instantly.

Maggie felt it.

“What does he want?”

Vincent stared at the photograph.

“This is not about photographs anymore.”

He turned to Rourke.

“Get Owen.”

“Already moving.”

“And Vale?”

Rourke’s face hardened.

“Gone.”

Vincent looked at Maggie.

“Stay inside.”

She opened her mouth.

He stopped himself.

Then tried again.

“Please.”

That single word told her how frightened he truly was.

Maggie nodded.

Vincent walked toward the door.

She caught his arm.

“Come back.”

He looked down at her hand.

Then into her eyes.

“For Owen?”

She swallowed.

“For both of us.”

Something fierce and quiet entered his expression.

“I will.”