“Yes.”

“And if someone was upstairs in Trotter’s office pouring some sort of hellish oil into the basement, then the jars aren’t loaded with protective magic. Someone is following us and sending magical creatures—”

“To get the crossbar pieces,” she finished. “Both times, the creatures were after the pieces. Can I please see it?”

Lowe fished the crossbar out of his pocket and handed it to her. She inspected it, reporting that it looked much the same as the first one, and that the magical symbols continued on the back. “It’s real,” she said, handing it back.

“I’ll take it to Adam as soon as possible.”

Oncoming headlights beamed a triangle of slow-moving light across the front seat as a car drove past. Lowe thought of all the trouble he’d had in Egypt when news of his discovery spread. But all of those attacks had been dumb and brute. No finesse. No magic.

Monk was still looking for him. And Lowe was counting on the fact that Monk had heard about the amulet—he needed Monk to trust that Lowe would be offering him the real deal and not a forgery to pay his debt. But Monk would stick a gun in his face or pressure Winter to drag Lowe into his office for a meeting. He wouldn’t bother fooling around with stealth and magic. Especially not Egyptian magic. That significantly narrowed the possibilities.

He supposed it was possible a wealthy Egyptian had sent someone after him to steal the amulet. But how would any of these people know about their search for the crossbars? The only person who knew was Bacall, and it didn’t make sense that he would he pay Lowe to find the pieces, only to go to all this trouble to steal them.

Something else troubled Lowe. Dr. Bacall had never told him why he wanted the complete amulet so badly. Yes, he’d claimed it was an obsession, and that it was something in the middle of a longtime quarrel between him and his old partner.

But he never would say what started the quarrel.

And then there was the warning Bacall’s wife’s spirit had given during Aida’s channeling. She said to keep the amulet away from both Dr. Bacall and “Noel.” Why? Maybe this was a question best put to Dr. Bacall. He made a mental note to do so before pain in his left arm suddenly became unbearable.

“What’s the matter?” Hadley asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I think I may have a small burn.”

“Where?”

Lowe shifted his hand on the steering wheel and winced. Now that his victory buzz was wearing off, his body decided to tell him something was wrong. “My shoulder.” He ducked his chin to get a better look at it. “Damned bitch burned a couple of holes right through my coat.”

Hadley leaned surprisingly close and tried to inspect it, nearly blocking his view of the road. “When she grabbed you?”

“Apparently. Hurt like hell. Hurts worse now, to be perfectly honest.”

“I’ve got first aid supplies at my apartment. I’ll bandage you up.”

He nearly ran off the road. Well. If he wanted a distraction from the pain, he certainly got one. Her apartment. Him. Her. Touching. Yes, please.

“No sense in paying for medical care if you aren’t badly injured,” she said in a defensive voice that made him want to grin deliriously. Oh, yes, please do argue your point, Miss That-Kiss-Can-Never-Happen-Again. Because a man and a woman didn’t kiss each other like there was no tomorrow and then walk away. That was the kind of kiss that inspired poetry. Just the memory of it was inspiring something beneath the fly of his pants even now.

But another thought sobered his good mood. “If someone’s following us, I don’t want to lead them to your apartment.”

“If someone’s following us, they already know where I live,” she said in a quiet voice.

That certainly didn’t calm his fears.

Half an hour later, with his shoulder throbbing in pain, Lowe pulled into her building’s entrance and parked the Packard in the shadow of a wall covered in climbing bougainvillea. It was nearly eight, and traffic up and down California Street was still brisk. He followed her into a swank lobby, where they entered an elevator.

“Mr. Walter must be on break,” she surmised, looking at the crank mechanism as if it were an unsolvable math problem.

Lowe shut the scissor gate. “I think we can manage on our own. What floor?”

“Nine.”

He flipped a switch and slowly moved the lever until they began ascending. Neither of them said a word, not even when they got to her floor and she unlocked her apartment.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” Hadley called out. No reply came. “My maid must have stayed with her daughter tonight. She only started last week, and we haven’t got her schedule worked out.”

She flipped a switch and a pair of etched sconces came to life on the nearby walls, casting light into the room. It was spacious and elegant, just as he suspected, all polished marble and clean, modern lines. It was also very formal. Not exactly a welcoming place to cozy up.

“I’ll just get my supplies,” she said, hanging up her coat and hat.

He glanced out the window while she rummaged in one of the back rooms. No new cars at the entrance. Nothing suspicious. Carefully peeling his wet coat off his injured arm, he surveyed the apartment. Very little furniture. No decor but a mirror and two paintings, which were fixed to the wall with corner brackets, as if she were afraid someone would try to steal them. Odd.

A radiator beneath the windows felt hot enough to dry his clothes. He shrugged off his vest and long sleeves and hung them over the radiator’s fancy silver fins. His undershirt was mostly dry, but it wasn’t every day that he found himself with a believable excuse to rid himself of clothes inside a woman’s apartment. So he stripped to the waist and admired himself in the mirror for a moment—not bad at all, if he did say so himself—before turning to the side to wince at the burn on his arm. Then he plopped down onto a gray velvet slipper chair and stilled when he felt something brush up against his leg.

 • • •

Hadley strode into the living room with her hands full and nearly dropped it all when her gaze landed on Lowe. Dear lord. He was half naked.

Yellow lamp light spilled over his bare torso. His body was strong and tightly muscled—a body that knew labor. Her gaze crept over burnished arms to an impossibly well-constructed broad chest and broader shoulders. Muscles everywhere. Muscles on his stomach—his stomach! And the middle of it was covered in golden hair that darkened as it arrowed beneath his belt buckle.

George certainly didn’t look like that. In fact, she was quite sure every unclothed male torso she’d ever seen—and there weren’t many, including her own father and the occasional movie star in the theater—were all lumps of dough and loose skin held up by a few bones.

They weren’t this.

If her mind was impressed, her body was ecstatic. A tremor started in her chest and ran through her center, until she was hot all over. She licked dry lips and swallowed nothing. Tried to remember what she’d been doing before her knees had gone weak.

Deep breath.

She calmed down enough to notice Number Four. The damn cat was on his back, stretched out lengthwise on the seam between Lowe’s closed thighs, all four paws in the air. Lowe slowly scratched the beast’s belly.

“I guess that means you’re welcome.” She marched toward them, as if it were the most normal thing in the world that a beautiful man with the body of a god sat in her living room wearing nothing but his pants and shoes. “Though I should warn you that he’s got a nasty biting habit. The building superintendent thinks he’s a demon in disguise.”

“Animals love me.”

“Of course they do,” she mumbled irritably. Animals, secretaries, her father. Lowe had everyone wrapped around his finger. She supposed she could add her name to the list.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a cat lover. What’s his name?”

She set her armload down on the nearby end table. “Number Four.”

He squinted for a moment before chuckling. “A curious cat, is he? Did he go through those first three lives before or after he came into your possession?”

“I didn’t choose him. He chose me. Now I can’t seem to get rid of him.” She reached to scoop him up, but hesitated when she realized where her hands were headed. “How’s the pain?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“I thought we’d established that as an invariable fact.” He groaned and plucked Number Four out of his lap, setting the cat down on the floor. “All right, if you want to know the truth, the pain’s pretty goddamn awful.”

Easy to believe when she tilted her head to get a look at the burn. Nasty. His left biceps were splotched with an angry red patch of blistered skin. “My God,” she murmured. No telling how much he was hurting. “Would you like aspirin or whiskey?”

“Both.”

She screwed off the cap and poured him a couple of fingers of scotch. “Would be funny if this was your brother’s booze,” she said, handing him several aspirin and the liquor. He downed it in one gulp.

“Didn’t envision you as a big drinker.” He handed her the empty glass.

“I’m not.” But liquid courage might be needed if she was going to be near so much bare skin. Skin she’d have to touch if she was going to do this. So she poured herself a drink and tipped it back, shaking off the burn. Malted warmth spread through her stomach. “Every once in a while I can’t sleep, and this does the trick. Though, I do try to avoid drinking while sawing.”

His laugh sounded pained. “Wish I’d taken that advice. Don’t be stingy.”

She poured him another and opened a tin of ointment while he tipped the glass back a second time. “Better?”