Since there was nothing to be done for it at the moment, he turned toward the interruption, grateful for the respite from his thoughts, until he saw who waited.

His mother.

He'd been the dutiful son, calling her about the break-in so she wouldn't worry or hear it from six different people before he could give her the real details. He'd even taken the two subsequent calls when she'd both fretted over him and played amateur detective on who might have been responsible.

But he'd still avoided seeing her face to face.

Doing that meant he had to find a way past the barrier he'd built for the past month and, damn it, that just wasn't possible yet. He wasn't ready, and he had no idea what to do about that.

Louisa didn't wait for permission but headed in his direction, the large bag that perpetually hung from her arm banging against her hip.

"Hello, sweetie."

"Hey." He pressed a kiss to her cheek and ignored the small twitch that registered on the back of his neck when the action felt perfunctory.

Required.

If she noticed she didn't say, instead gesturing toward a small walled-off area that functioned as the office's conference room. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Of course."

He followed her to the conference room, their walk largely ignored by his suite-mates. Most had earbuds in, and even the few who were talking to each other were so focused on whatever they discussed over on their computer screens that he and his mother offered little distraction.

"It's busy in here."

"Always."

"You can feel the energy." His mother's smile was distracted, but bright. "I remember that feeling. It's a good one. That sense of productivity."

Whatever he'd been expecting, a blatant reference to her earlier life wasn't it. "You miss those days?"

"No." She stilled. "Sometimes. Not the place, per se. But that sense of productivity, of collaborating with others. I think of it sometimes and remember the enjoyment. I have managed to block the irritating clients, the office tantrums, and the strings of late nights, so I've no doubt my memories have a sheen on them that's not fully accurate."

What about the other memories? The ones that had risen from the dead and were even now haunting her?

Haunting all of them.

"I guess I get that."

Her distracted smile faded as she fully focused on him. "Of course, the more I think about those late nights, maybe I really don't miss it after all."

She'd already settled her large bag on the conference table and began digging around the bottom. When a small striped box and handful of napkins emerged from the worn leather, Landon knew he was in trouble.

His mother had gotten serious.

A midafternoon visit and a box of Stewey's brownies-albeit a small one-were clear signs of a surprise attack. Their rich, chocolate scent wafted toward him when she opened the box. He was helpless to resist. "You don't play fair."

Louisa assessed the open box before pulling a corner piece with extra frosting for herself. "I could say the same about you."

"Is that supposed to be guilt?"

"I meant it as truth. Unvarnished, but not unkind."

Landon took a brownie of his own, one of the middle ones without crust and with heaps of frosting weighing down the center. "I know I've hurt you. With my reaction. With my silence. And I'm sorry for that part."

He hated having this conversation at work but was honest enough with himself to know it was his own behavior that had finally forced her visit. "Truly sorry for that part."

"Yet you won't change your mind? Won't see things from my point of view or acknowledge that was a different time in my life?"

"That's the part I'm working on." He took a bite of brownie and chewed, allowing the sweetness to register for a moment. "Or working through, more like."

"I know that. And I've tried to give you the space to work through it. But enough is enough, Landon. I won't see our relationship ruined over something that happened so long ago it doesn't matter anymore."

And there was the real rub. On one level, she was absolutely right. Something that happened decades ago-with a man who wasn't even alive any longer-shouldn't still matter. But it did. His mother's choices were a reflection of her. And it was those choices he didn't agree with that had brought them all together.

The end of her relationship with Kincade Reynolds had brought her back to Park Heights and directly into Landon's life, along with Fender's and Nick's. How did you reconcile something good from the bad like that? Or, worse, did you use the good as a way to excuse the bad?

He hated the judgment that gripped him over this. Hated how it had caused such a rift between them. Worse, he hated that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fully shake it off.

Yet every time he tried to push past it, he was forced to see the truth of her actions. That the woman who'd saved him was as flawed as the one she'd saved him from.

"But it does matter."

"For a long time I'd have agreed with you. And then at some point it stopped mattering so much. I got involved with my children, got wrapped up in a new life, and the old one seemed so far away. And far less appealing."

They sat there for a few moments, each focused on their dessert, both hovering on the precipice of the canyon that divided them.

"Why did you do it? Why would you think it was acceptable to sleep with another woman's husband?" The words spilled out, accusation layered over every syllable, and even the lingering sweetness of the brownie couldn't erase the bitter, acidic flavor of his questions.

If he upset her with his honesty, she didn't let on. Instead, she set her half-eaten brownie down on a napkin she'd already spread out and gave him her full attention.

"I've asked myself that many times. At first I thought it was because things between us were meant to be. That marriage and commitment to another wasn't big enough to stop the feelings Kincade and I had for each other. I believed those feelings and my own desire were more powerful than any preexisting commitment or the illusion of family he was playing at."

"He told you that? That his family was an illusion?"

"Some of it was what he said. Some was what I'd already observed of the two of them at office events. A bit more was what I heard as office gossip. Kincade had been a longstanding member of the firm, along with his father before him. People talk regardless of who you are, but when you're the top brass, everyone has something to say."

"And you believed them?"

"I believed it all. Because I wanted to. Because it was heady to be the object of his attention. And because it felt good."

"He had a family."

"Yes, he did."

Landon pushed his brownie aside, the peace offering as unappealing as their conversation. "His children. You honestly felt it was alright for him to leave your bed and go home to his children?"

The question was wrong-it was raw and terrible and even as he regretted the words, he knew it was a lie to keep them from her. His mother wanted him to open up to her and wanted to put this behind them. But if he held this back-this raw, unfocused anger that was so deeply rooted in his past he couldn't escape it-then he'd be the liar.

He'd had a parent once who'd disregarded him in favor of her own whims. Her own desires and addictions. He'd lain in the darkness of their small one-bedroom apartment, praying for whatever happened in the bedroom not to spill over to him in the living room, even as he knew it was possible at any moment. Worse, he'd lived through enough moments to know that it would happen again.

He'd lived with someone who was supposed to protect him and instead chose what felt good. And it was devastating to find that the one woman he'd believed was above that sort of thing had as much of a past as anyone else.

"I'm not her."

Louisa's quiet punch hit him with the force of an atomic bomb.

"I'm not suggesting you are."

"Aren't you? Isn't that what this is really all about?"

He said nothing, just continued to trace an abstract pattern with his eyes over one of the coasters that lined the conference room table.

Louisa Mills wasn't Amber McGee. There was no choice in her past-nothing she could ever have done-that would make them the same.

But fuck it all if that small, huddled boy he'd buried way down deep inside could accept that.

Louisa's hand covered his, clenched tight on the table's scarred wood surface. "You have a right to ask me questions, Landon. You even have a right to your feelings. But you don't have a right to judge me. And you certainly don't have a right to vilify me with her memory."

Six.

"Garbage as art?"

Daphne tried to hide her skepticism as she stared at the canvas covered in discarded yogurt containers, aluminum cans, and was that-oh God-an empty tampon wrapper?

"Perhaps a modern-day treatise on the recycling movement?" Landon asked.

His head was bent toward hers, their quiet conversation meant for the two of them. There was little chance of being overheard-the artist was surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers on the opposite side of the gallery, and everyone else milling around had taken full advantage of the open bar-but it paid to be quiet all the same.

"I think you're on to something. We'll go with that interpretation."

He smiled, as he had all evening, but the expression didn't meet his eyes. Although she normally chalked up her observation skills to her profession, it didn't take a cop's training to see the man was in pain. While she normally would assuage her curiosity and ask the reason why, something held her back tonight.

Perhaps it was the cold, bleakness that seemed to have settled in his dark gaze. Or worse, the sudden, irrational fear that he'd flip out if he knew the files she'd reviewed and the calls she'd placed since yesterday. She hadn't gotten far, and the two brief voice-mails she'd left hadn't been returned. But still, that steady swirl of sticky remorse lingered.

It was her job, damn it. She hadn't crossed any lines, nor made any inquiries she shouldn't in the pursuit of the case. And she'd been more than honest with him about her intentions.

So why did it feel so much like a betrayal?

Maybe it was the simple acknowledgement that she was already in deeper than she'd expected to be. Like sand vanishing beneath her feet, the waters had grown deeper with every interaction she'd had with Landon, until they threatened to pull her under.

Did she want that undertow? And what had happened to going out on a nice, casual Friday night date with an attractive man whose company she enjoyed?

When had it begun to matter so much?

She'd been sucked into the vortex once before. That heady, mind-altering state that produced a mix of clarity of thought and sheer, utter madness. She hadn't survived the last one unscathed, and Mike had far fewer depths than Landon.

Was she actually thinking of abandoning her good sense and solid judgment to do it again?

They moved on to the next piece, a rusty sink suspended from the ceiling at an angle, so the contents of the tub were visible. She scanned the items, which included a can of motor oil, a dirty rag, and a tire iron, suspended in what looked like a tub full of motor oil.

"I hate to be an unrefined ass, but your friend's really into garbage and waste."

"I think the exhibit's called Renewal."

"Oh." Daphne chewed on that one before shifting on her four-inch heels. "I'll try to evaluate through that lens."

"Or we can go get a refresh on our drinks." The smile met his eyes this time, and an answering tug pulled low in her belly.

"Even better idea."

The gallery wasn't large, but it took them a few minutes to navigate the crowd. Landon introduced her to a few people he worked with, and she recognized an old girlfriend from high school whom she'd lost touch with. After navigating through the pleasantries with each-and promising Chandra that they'd connect on Facebook and plan drinks-she stood in line with Landon at one of the two bars strategically placed at opposite corners of the room.

"Thanks for inviting me tonight."

"You're enjoying this?"

"I am."

If he was skeptical of her answer he didn't show it. Instead, he reached for her hand, his lips once more finding their way to her ear. "I say we make a run for it."

"Where to?"

The light thrall that seemed to wrap around her in Landon's presence wasn't lost on Daphne. Neither was the steady thump of her pulse, which settled into an insistent rhythm every time she got within a few feet of him.

Oh, who was she kidding? All she had to do was think about him and her heart began a heavy, rhythmic pound that flushed her skin and had her thoughts traveling toward cool sheets and darkened bedrooms.

"You up for some dinner? There's a great steak place I like in Greenpoint."

"I'm in."

They managed their good-byes in record time, secured a cab that had just dropped off a few late arrivals, and were headed for a back table at the restaurant in less than twenty minutes. Once seated, Daphne couldn't hold back her questions.

"So, I'm curious. . . ."

"About?"

"Your office is on one of the most historic and expensive streets in all of Brooklyn. You just got a table despite it being three deep at the bar, and what looks like an active hostess desk. And you seem to easily swing between beer and single malt Scotch. It's possible you may be the last surviving Renaissance man."

The wait staff interrupted them, and Landon only proved her point when he suggested an excellent wine that had the sommelier nodding vigorously, and an appetizer that had their waiter oohing and aahing. It was only after the duo moved on that Landon answered her.