Bruce grabbed the dirt bike from its lean against the wall and walked it up to Mark. "You have to admit, she thinks pretty fast on her feet." He jerked his head toward the house.

Mark tore his eyes from the retreating car to focus on him, a moment of deep anguish flashing in the otherwise angry stare. "Make sure she leaves."

Bruce stayed where he was, watching his boss head back inside. The man hadn't spoken a word about his nephew's death. Hell, the guy hadn't said much of anything since the funeral. They'd worked together for how many years now? Twelve? Thirteen? Long enough for Bruce to realize all those bottled up emotions were going to find a way out sooner or later. And he wasn't talking tears, either. No, that release, when it came, would likely involve blood and destruction. He could only hope to be outside the range of flying debris when it happened.

Julia, Simon's mother, hadn't said much of anything, either. She'd gone off to Europe with the first sucker rich enough to meet her needs and foolish enough to fall for her flattery. Not that Bruce was bitter. His and Julia's relationship had never been anything more than a convenience, two warm bodies coming together—or so he tried—whenever the need hit. She certainly didn't owe him any explanation. Still, it would have been nice if she'd stuck around for her brother's sake.

Throwing a leg over the bike, it took only one kick to start the thing up. Bruce took his time on the return trip, knowing how much it would annoy the woman waiting down the driveway.

As he walked out of the gatehouse, things were humming and bumping their way through the motions. The hat was off and she'd let her hair down, the dark waves hanging loose around her shoulders. Music played over her radio and she had one arm draped out the open window, but Bruce wasn't buying the whole relaxed act—she was wound up tighter than a cat at a dog fight.

"Goodnight," he said gaily, as if they'd just had a friendly visit.

She kept her sights locked on the opening gate without saying a word. The raised middle finger was true to form, though.

Look at me, he silently willed. See me.

Damn. Where the hell had that come from? He scrubbed a hand down his face, thinking a lobotomy might be in order right about now.

She drew her arm in and started rolling forward once freedom was down to a matter of inches.

"I'll be watching," he shouted when she hit the gas and pulled away.

Her hand reappeared, the hundred-dollar bills tossed high in the air. The clump of cash separated and fell with a softly drifting hang time before being scattered by the tug of the Mustang's slipstream.

"Bitch," Bruce muttered, watching her taillights disappear down the driveway.

He spent the next ten minutes searching in the shadows for the unwanted money, all the while cursing her very existence.

)l(

Virginia returned to the gym and marched straight over to the two intruders mounted on the far wall.

Within seconds Dominique was at her side. "You still pissed at me?"

"Yes," she hissed, glaring up at the cameras.

They were right back where they had started the evening, the silent strain feeling like elastic being stretched to its limit and about to snap.

This time she was the one who caved. Determined not to let Mark come between them, she lowered her chin, took a deep breath, and turned her face to Dominique. "If you insist on having these safety patrols, they'll need proper training. Tell them to come in on Saturday morning at nine, and we'll spend a few hours teaching them how to restrain people without beating the crap out of them."

He nodded with a lopsided grin.

"We'll see how it goes."

He was still nodding.

She grunted and headed to her office, feeling the anger still bubbling near the surface and fighting the urge to throw towels over the cameras. No, she was willing to play their game—business as usual—and not give them the satisfaction of seeing how it bothered her.

Reaching for the edge of the door, she threw one more fierce look over her shoulder before slamming it shut, grateful to have at least some small degree of privacy in her windowless, paper-strewn, eight-by-ten sanctuary.

)l(

Paul Sullivan stared back at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror as the woman he was currently banging moaned in his ear. Was that really him? The dark, curly hair was definitely his. Green eyes? Check. Must be the vacant expression that was throwing him off. What is your problem? he asked the bored-stiff man in front of him.

Thinking it was time to finish up before all the self-analysis caused him to lose the stiff element of that description, he leaned forward, forcing her to unwrap her arms from around his neck in order to brace her own weight on the granite.

"Yes . . . yes . . . yes. . ." she groaned as he pushed harder, deeper, his fingers digging into her hips.

Paul cringed. If she got any louder, they were going to be heard, and then he'd have to spend the rest of the evening enduring high fives and stupid grins.

His buddy had lured him to this house party with the promise of single women attending, and he'd been right. For the last two hours Paul had been making the rounds, scoping out the options, but this hot little number had been giving him the eye across the room all night. When he'd finally made his way over to her, it had only taken fifteen minutes to get an invite into the bathroom. Whereupon she had locked the door, reached under the short skirt to shed her thong, and hopped up onto the double-sink vanity top.

What's a man supposed to do?

"Yes, yes, yes," she kept up, her words quickening to match his rhythm.

He thought about putting a hand over her mouth and wondered if it would be considered rude.

Probably.

His breath came in short gasps as the orgasm he'd been working on drew closer. Catching one of her bouncing breasts, he pinched its puckered nipple, knowing it would help push him over the edge.

Paul closed his eyes as all the energy in his body converged and exploded in a roaring climax just as she reached hers. Coincidence? Was she faking? If she was, she was a damn good actress. And did it really matter?

He'd pulled out, removed the condom, and had his jeans zipped up in the time it took to give her his standard, "Thanks. That was great."

"Amazing," she said, as she shimmied her way off the counter and pulled at the skirt bunched around her waist.

Paul bent over to retrieve her bra and sweater off the floor and handed them to her before grabbing his shirt from its dangle on the doorknob. There was an awkward silence, but they both used the excuse of redressing to cover it.

With everything back in place, she turned to check hair and makeup in the mirror. He waited, not wanting to appear too anxious to get away from her, using the opportunity to really look at her now that the rush of lust had passed, along with the temporary blindness that often came with it. He needn't have worried in her case, though. Even in the bright lights of the bathroom she was a striking woman, her blonde hair cut shorter than he normally liked but in a style that flattered her face, her almond-shaped, blue eyes alluring and sharp, her compact, tight body up to any challenge. Added to all that was the pleasant surprise of discovering the impressive rack pushing against the soft blue of her cashmere sweater had been one-hundred percent her and not fifty-percent padded bra.

Catching his scrutiny, she smiled into the mirror. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

He nodded. "You're a beautiful woman, Brittany."

"Bethany."

Shit. He could have sworn her name was Brittany.

As if reading his thoughts, she elaborated, "Brittany is the redhead you were talking to earlier."

He frowned, not remembering a single redhead in the crowd.

"It's fake by the way."

"What?"

"Her hair. She dyes it that color."

"Oh."

She pursed her lips. Paul wasn't sure if it was a pout or a coverage test for the lip gloss. "You're going to call me, right?"

Nope. "Yeah, for sure." An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "That's not why you did this is it? To get me to call?"

"Excuse me? I do believe we did this, and uh, yeah. If I hadn't dragged you in here, one of those other bitches would have. I could see them all drooling over you." Her nose turned up. "Especially Brittany," she nearly snarled, seeming to chew on the words before spitting them out. "She'd have blown you in the closet when you went to get your coat."

Jesus. Women were worse than men sometimes. Picturing his own face in the mirror again, he sighed and braced himself for what was about to come out of his mouth. "You didn't need to do this you know. I meant what I said. You are a beautiful woman. It doesn't hurt to play a little hard to get. It'll keep a man interested."

She turned on him like a pit bull tired of its abusive owner. "You sound like my mother, for Christ's sake."

Actually, he sounded like his sister—must be one in every family.

Oh, great. Now Virginia was in his head, giving him I-told-you-so attitude. Although, he was more than willing to go twenty-four/seven with the lecturing if it would eliminate some of the guilt and sadness she'd been carrying around for the last little while. His anger spiked. Fucking Spinelli. He was glad the thug was out of her life, but he could kill the bastard for the way he'd hurt her.

Of course, none of that was Brittany's, er, Bethany's fault. He took a deep inhale. "Sorry, I was just trying to help you out."

"You had no problem helping me out of my clothes," she said snidely.

Time to go, he thought. He made his way to the door. "Listen, I have an early morning meeting, so . . ."

"You're an asshole, you know that?" she said, her face twisted and no longer beautiful. He got the feeling she would have thrown something at his head if anything besides the display of layered towels had been within arm's reach.

He opened the door and checked the hallway. "I've heard that before," he replied, doing his best to sound apologetic instead of relieved when finding no other guest in sight.

But I'm going to work on that, he vowed to himself, the bathroom door closing behind him as he headed to the exit.

END OF CHAPTER THREE

There is a lot going on in this chapter. Bruce seems a little confused, doesn't he? And what do you think of Paul? Is Bethany right? Do you believe him when he says he's going to work on it?

If you like the sequel so far, please consider voting, commenting, and sharing this story by adding it to your reading list! It really does help new works get discovered. And don't forget to point out any typos you might find along the way!