“Then…” He lowered his face, kiss close. “You…” One more inch, the heat rolling off him. “Would still be…” He put his mouth over hers. Not a kiss, just a whisper of a touch. “Very wrong… about what you think I am.”

“I don’t care.” She let her lips move against his, putting the words right into his mouth. “Right now, this minute, I don’t care, Con.”

He completed the kiss, sucking in her admission and her tongue. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull him down, wanting all of him on top of all of her.

He resisted, breaking the kiss. “You will care tomorrow, Lizzie. You will. And you have no idea how not good I am.”

She searched his eyes, looking right into the depths of them. “I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I want to know you.” She put her hands on his face, the whiskers scratching her palms. “I want to climb right inside your head and figure you out.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Would you ever let me? Would you ever let anyone?”

He opened his mouth, clearly ready to say no, but then he stopped.

She seized his hesitation. “Would you, Con? Because if the answer is yes, I want it to be me.” Tears burned behind her lids. “I want to know who and what you are, and why you think it’s so critical to hide it from me.”

“Who I am?” Under her fingers, his jaw clenched. “I am Constantine Xenakis. What I am?” His eyes narrowed. “For the past six years I’ve been a professional thief.”

Pain splashed in her chest, but she didn’t move. She had to know this.

“And why it’s critical to hide it from you? Because you deserve better.”

He rolled off her and stood, leaving her cold and bereft and confused.

A professional thief. It fit perfectly. At least it fit with what he was able to do, but not with what he was doing right now.

And she did deserve better.

“Then what are the Bullet Catchers?” she asked.

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “It’s exactly what I told you-the best security and investigation firm in the business. I’m trying to join the company.”

“And they hire former thieves?”

“They might. That’s what I want.”

“Why? To clean up your act?”

“So to speak.”

A million questions formed and she went with the first one. “What did you steal?”

“Whatever people like Gerry Dix wanted. Art. Information. Jewels. Money.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Treasures.”

The word punched her chest. “Why? Just for money?”

“Because I could,” he said gruffly. “Because I learned how as a kid, and after my brother Alix died, I left the SEALs, and the first thing I did got screwed up by somebody else. I got accused of stealing, because that’s what I was, so that’s what people thought I would always be.”

“So you thought, what? Can’t fight ’em, then be one?”

He shrugged, his defensive walls up so high Lizzie could practically see them. “More or less.”

“I suspected something,” she admitted. “Not that, exactly, but you know an awful lot about stealing stuff.”

“I know everything about stealing stuff. I’m wanted in four states, and well connected to some of the people you hate most in the world-Judd Paxton and others like him, private collectors rich with money and greed.” He gave her a sharp look. “You wanted to know, Lizzie. And now you do.”

She certainly did. “Have you…” The words wouldn’t come out. Did she want to know this?

“Have I what?” he prompted.

“Ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

Relief rolled through her.

He smiled. “So maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“And I appreciate the desire to… what was it? Get inside my head and figure me out.” He lifted one shoulder. “Now that you have, no doubt you’d like to get right back out again.”

Had she figured him out? She knew his past now, and it was ugly.

But the man in front of her was still made of something good. Wasn’t he?

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t like what you’ve done, But I like the potential for what you could be.”

He said nothing, but his face said it all. Gratitude. Surprise. Hope.

Outside the door, loud footsteps broke the moment, along with a hard rap on the door. “Miss Dare?”

“Gabby!” Lizzie rolled off the bed as Con let her in.

Gabby filled the little doorway, shouldering a large bag and greeting them with a concerned look. “I heard you didn’t find your sister.”

“Mrs. Bettencourt said she left on the ferry to Flores.”

Gabby glanced at Con, then back to Lizzie, frowning. “That’s not possible. I was on the ferry this afternoon and just came back. That ferry’s small, maybe twenty people.”

“She said she left this morning.”

Gabby shook her head. “The morning ferry was canceled because of high chop in the seas, or I would have been on that one. She was not on the ferry.”

“Could she have flown out?”

“No,” Con said. “I already checked that. We got the names of every person who left via the Corvo airport today, remember?”

“There’s no other way to leave the island, unless she had a private boat.” Gabby frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked. “What don’t you like?”

“That woman, Bettencourt, is certifiable. And I seem to be the only one who thinks Ana’s trip off the top of the windmill was not the suicide everyone’s claiming it was.”

“Think we can get that scooter again?” Con asked.

Gabby nodded. “No problem.”

“I’m going up to pay a visit to Mrs. Bettencourt.” He reached under the bed and got his Glock. “This time I’ll be the first to pull the gun out.”

“I’m going with you,” Lizzie announced. At his look, she held up her hand. “Don’t even think about it. She’s my sister, and I’m going.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHITE-HOT PAIN BURNED Brianna’s shoulder, a vicious, blinding hole of hurt that seared through from front to back.

Which meant she was still alive.

Digging deep, she attempted to open her eyes, fighting the darkness of unconsciousness, desperate to awaken. She blinked, but that didn’t clear her blurred vision. Shades of gray swam before her eyes, the smell of earth and sea and something metallic filling her nose.

Gunpowder.

The thought forced her head up, causing a suctioning sound as her face separated from a sticky, wet floor. Sticky with… blood. Her blood.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered. She’d been shot by that lunatic.

Where did she go? Was she standing over her right now, aiming that gun at her head, ready to push Brianna into that grinder thing that belonged in a horror movie? Why didn’t she say something?

Using every drop of strength she could muster, Brianna lifted her head higher, a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling over her as the sound of a gear a few feet away passed by then headed around the other side.

She managed to tilt her head back, her knees digging into the stone floor, one hand smashed against her wound. The bitch missed her heart, but left a hole in her shoulder. Was the bullet still in there?

She couldn’t tell. And she couldn’t see where that woman went. The door to the sweeps was closed, blocking out light. But she could see the ledge, only six inches away. And if she fell over it…

The nasty gear groaned as it rolled by again.

The teeth of the two gears meshed on each pass, crushing anything caught between them. Not the way she wanted to go.

Crazy Lady appeared to be gone. Brianna forced herself up on her knees, finally letting go of the wound, another whimper escaping her as she stared at the blood all over her hands.

But she was alive. And if she was alive, she could get the hell out of here before her killer returned. She didn’t dare call for help. Solange might have left her thinking she was dead. She might just be planning to let her rot up here.