After a second, Jessica burst into giggles. No one else even smiled.

Galen stared at the two of them, laughing like fools, before commenting to Z, “Women really are the tougher sex.”

“Indeed.” Z picked up Jessica and sat down with her in his lap. “Silence, pet. Let’s keep going.”

“Z said you’d heard the man during your captivity. Do you remember when?” Vance asked Linda.

Her amusement disappeared, and she tried to steady her breathing. “It would have to be before the first auction. On the boat. I-I had my eyes closed. Didn’t look at anything.”

Galen tilted his head. “Why only then?”

The temperature in the garden seemed to drop, and she wrapped her arms around herself, wishing Sam would hold her the way Z was holding Jessica. But today…today he wasn’t the man she knew. “They stored us belowdecks in k-kennels.”

Galen nodded. “We impounded a boat like that.” His level gaze met hers, silently saying, It can’t hurt you now.

The tightness around her chest loosened a little. “On the boat, select buyers came to look at us. I-I felt like an animal. In a cage. Being stared at. I’d curl up on the floor and close my eyes.” She pulled in a breath. “The man I heard in the Shadowlands was in a group arguing the merits of older or younger slaves.”

Vance frowned. “Z said you were sure that was the man, so he must have a pretty distinctive voice. Can you describe it?”

She cocked her head to listen to the memory. Her nausea increased. “Tenor. Thin and slightly metallic.”

Everyone stared at her.

“What?” she asked.

Marcus smiled. “That won’t help to find him, darlin’. Tell us, how is his voice different from a normal one?”

“There are no normal voices. Everybody is different.”

“Are they now?” Galen gave her an odd look. “If we blindfolded you, would you be able to tell our voices apart.”

She nodded, feeling like a freak.

“An auditory person,” Z murmured. “Do you sing?”

She nodded again.

“Dropped out getting her BA in music,” Sam said. “Sings in a choir—was director for a while. Has a piano and a guitar.”

She looked up at him. He might be staring out at the gardens, but apparently he was listening. Her feeling of loss lightened slightly. “My son tries to fake me out on the phone by assuming different voices. He never wins.” She stopped, searching for a word that didn’t exist. “The resonance? Timbre? The pattern is the same whether baritone or soprano.”

“I have the attendance records from last night, but almost the entire membership was there,” Z said grimly.

“Line up all the members and Linda listens to them?” Olivia suggested.

“Getting them there at one time would be difficult, even without the members who were present from out of the area,” Z said. “And unfortunately, contact information isn’t always current.”

“If the spotter caught a whisper of a lineup, he’d disappear.” Galen turned to Linda. “Can you spend time at the Shadowlands? Just to listen?” Galen asked. “Then if you can’t pick him out that way, we’ll try rounding them up.”

“I… Yes. I can.” The thought made her feel sick.

“No.” Sam growled, speaking for the first time. “You won’t.”

She stiffened. “That’s not your choice.” Memories swamped her. Sickened her. “I decide when you piss. When you eat. Who you fuck.” The Overseer’s hand lashing across her face, the pain as he slapped her over and over. “Don’t think, slut. Just obey.” She swallowed against rising bile and tried to straighten her shoulders. She was free. No one could order her around. Never again.

Galen frowned at Sam and then gave her an intense look. “It could be dangerous. Despite the arrests of his companions, the spotter is bold enough—and needy enough—to return to the Shadowlands. He’d react badly to the threat of exposure.”

Vance nodded. “The club won’t be open until next Friday. You think this over.”

A chill of fear raised the hairs on Linda’s nape. “I’ll let you know.”

She’d had enough. Although none of the rest appeared ready to leave, she turned to Sam. “Can you take me home?”

* * *

Sam pulled up in front of Linda’s house after a trip as silent as the one to the Shadowlands. He needed to talk to her, to convince her to stay away from the Shadowlands.

He didn’t speak.

“Thanks for the ride.” Linda slid out of the truck and closed the door.

Hell. Watching her walk up the sidewalk, he spotted white blotches on the house. More paint had been scrubbed away. The spray painter had hit again. Anger lit a low burn in his gut.

He got out of the truck. “Wait.”

She came back down the sidewalk. “Yes?” Her voice was tight. The afternoon had been hard on her.

He hadn’t been any help. Guilt and worry started to erode the ice inside him. “Got your paint. King’s antigraffiti stuff. I stopped by the paint store, and they matched your blue.”

“Really?” Her eyes brightened. “No more coming home to nasty words? Best news all day.” She grabbed him around the waist and hugged him hard. “God, I love you, Sam.”

He froze.

“I love you, Sam. Can I have some money?”

“If you loved me, you’d give me money.”

He had no control over the way his body turned stiff or how he pulled away.

Her big brown eyes searched his face as she drew in a breath. “Maybe I rushed my fences, but Sam, I know you feel something for me even if you don’t say the words.”

He fought against the thickness in his throat. The ice in his gut.

“Sam.” Her voice came out pleading. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Is it something I did?”

“No.”

“Then. I-I need to know.” She bit her lip, blinking hard. “I thought… Is that what today was—you pulling away?”

She looked vulnerable. Hurt. “Linda, I—” His lips were stiff. He knew his face must be cold.

“They looked at me like that,” she whispered.

He never wanted her to feel like that. “I’m sorry.”

Regret darkened her eyes, and she backed up.

Pain filled him as he realized she’d taken his words for a good-bye rather than an apology.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered. She turned and—not running, no, not Linda—walked steadily into her house and closed the door.

* * *

Feeling as stunned as after his first mortar-shelling barrage in ’Nam, Sam drove through the tiny beach town. His jaw was clenched so hard his teeth made a grinding sound. What had he done?

A black animal ran right in front of his truck, and Sam stomped on the brakes. With a shriek, the truck skidded to a halt, rocking back and forth. The stench of burned rubber wafted through the open window as the scrawny mutt skittered under a hole in a fence.

He’d almost killed a dog with his goddamned inattention. As stupid as driving drunk.

After parking at the curb, he headed toward the beach a few blocks away. A yellow-haired boy ran past him, chased by a smaller girl.

When a woman pulling weeds looked up and stiffened, Sam knew he must look bad. He’d visited Michigan once in the winter. Froze his face so bad that his lips didn’t want to move. Felt like that now.

Felt like that with Linda.

At the edge of the beach, Sam put a foot up on the low railing, leaned on his knee, and watched the rough waves splash against the sand. Dark clouds had covered the sky, and the palms lining the sidewalk bowed against the bitter wind. The whole damn world felt cold.

Over and over today, Linda had needed him, and he’d stood silent. Unmoving.

And now… “God, I love you, Sam.” He scrubbed his face as if he could erase the memory of the hurt in her eyes when he hadn’t spoken. Years of being a Dom meant he could see when his words—or lack of them—did damage.

He’d known. But couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t speak. She’d been damned brave today, and he hadn’t told her that. Hadn’t told her how proud he was of her.

What kind of a bastard got involved with a woman and didn’t help her when she needed him? Got so twisted into knots that he couldn’t even tell her how he felt? Or take her hand when she looked lost?

He straightened, looking up into the ugly sky as the first drops of rain hit. Linda deserved someone who’d be there for her.

That someone wasn’t him. He rubbed the tight spot in his chest, then headed back to his truck.

As he climbed in his truck, he remembered the paint cans in the back and the white blotches on her house. He’d taken that task on himself, and it wasn’t finished. Once that was done…

* * *

Linda hadn’t been able to cry or eat or even think. Her emotions felt battered, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to them. The television had bothered her. She’d turned it off. She’d tried reading and then stared at one page for half an hour. The basket she started was a misshapen disaster. Finally she went to bed and stared at the ceiling.

She’d think tomorrow. Me and Scarlett O’Hara—we know how to handle life. You bet.

A man shouted.

Linda jolted upright in bed, realizing she must have finally drifted off. The red display on her clock said four a.m., and her room was dark. Quiet. Unlike all the noise outside. What in the world?

“Fucking son of a bitch, let me go!” The man’s voice was high-pitched but familiar.

The low growl in response was instantaneously recognizable. Sam.

Linda yanked on her robe. Her heart was pounding crazily. Really, this wasn’t a good way for an ex-slave to wake up. I need a dog.

She pulled Frederick’s ancient golf club from under the bed and ran into the living room.

A hammering on the door burst like a bomb into the quiet house.

With a tight grip on her weapon, Linda cracked the door. “What’s going on?”

Sam stood on her doorstep. She started to smile, then saw the man sprawled at his feet, squirming like a worm. His wrists were restrained behind his back with handcuffs.

When he tried to sit up, Sam flattened him with a boot on his back. “Annoy me, asshole, and I’ll break your spine just to enjoy the crunch.” He glanced at Linda, eyes colder than she’d ever seen. “Feels like cracking ice cubes with your teeth.”

“Good to know.” She swallowed, remembering the sound from something much, much more horrible.

Sam’s gaze softened. “Sorry, girl.” He thumped the man with his boot, getting a pained oomph. “This is your graffiti artist.”

“Seriously?” When the man looked up at her, her jaw dropped. “Dwayne?” Dwayne had been painting filth on her house?

“Know him?”

“Yes!” She took in his nod. “You’re not surprised?”

“Too persistent. Too nasty. Doubted he was a stranger.”

Dwayne glared at her. “Let me go, or I’ll sue the fucking crap out of you. I was just walking by when this…”

Sam put weight on the man’s back, and Dwayne squeaked. “Idiot,” Sam muttered. “No gloves. Your prints will be all over the cans out there.”

Dwayne’s eyes widened.

“Why, Dwayne?” Linda tightened her belt against the chill night. The rain had swept through, leaving the air fresh except for the scent of paint. “What did I do that you’d hate me this much?”

Silence. Sweat broke out on the reporter’s brow as he continued to struggle.

“Talk to her, boy.” Sam dropped his voice into a Dom’s low threat. “Or you’ll scream for me.”

Dwayne stared up at Sam like a mouse confronting a hawk. After a minute, he managed to pull his gaze away and say to Linda, “Why? We fucked, and it was good, but then you dump me and go to a sleazy club. You’re a whore.”

“Watch the language, boy.” When Sam fisted his hair and yanked, Dwayne shrieked like a girl. His cheek was mashed into the step, one brown eye staring up at her.

“You wrote filth on my house because I didn’t want to date you?” That didn’t make sense. Dwayne wasn’t that energetic, which was why he worked for the small Foggy Shores newspaper…although he was always talking about getting his big break by writing a prizewinning article.

Oh heavens, that was it. Fury flamed inside her. “You just wanted more stories for the paper. The graffiti kept the gossip alive.” She heard something outside but couldn’t get past her anger.

“Like anyone would believe you,” Dwayne muttered. “You’re a slut. A nothing in this town. And everybody knows it.”

“You painted that crap on her house to get a goddamned story?” Sam’s voice rose.