“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmured in a low voice. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“I said I’m sorry!” I couldn’t be any more embarrassed. I thought I’d seen enough idiotic behavior in Tambuku to swear off drinking, but now I definitely would never touch a drop again. Ever. “Look, if you don’t want to go look for this detective with me, that’s fine. Let me just go pack a few things, and I’ll drive”—I began backing up as he strode toward me—“myself, and . . . no, no. Please don’t transmutate again. Don’t read my thoughts. Because my, uh, head hurts, so if you’ll just give me some aspirin—”

My ass hit the back of the sofa. He grabbed my upper arms and squinted down at me, face tight and unreadable. “What do you remember about last night?”

“Whatever I did, I said I was sorry. Jeez, give me a fucking break! I’m going through a lot right now.”

“What are you going through? Tell me.”

“What am I not going through? I killed the most powerful man in town, just got out of the hospital after being in a coma for a month, and my crazy mom wants to bodysnatch me.” I wiggled out of his grasp, thoroughly irritated. “Look, whatever I did or said, I’m sure you’ll get over it. Why the hell did you let me drink, anyway? My mom could’ve tapped into me. You know I’m not supposed to let my guard down at night.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

Damn right. I wasn’t taking the blame for this, whatever “this” was. Surely we hadn’t actually had sex. I hadn’t had sex in forever. Not since . . . a year or something. Holy Harlot, I was pathetic. Lon probably had his pick of beautiful models when he was on photo shoots. Or maybe he had some girlfriend I didn’t know about. I mean, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his personal life. God, please don’t let him have a girlfriend. Especially not if I made a fool of myself last night . . .

He made a small noise.

Crap. “Get out of my head! Those thoughts are private,” I said, punching him on the arm.

He absently rubbed the spot where I’d hit him, staring at me as if I was certifiable. “This can’t be happening,” he murmured.

“Nothing’s happening. Zero. Nada. It’s exactly the same as it was before between us. Christ, I’m not some virgin girl who draws hearts around your name on the cover of my notebook. Get over yourself.” His eyes widened, but I finished my thought. “I’m sure I would’ve done the same to any man who’d been around.”

One brow arched oh-so-slowly. And the way he looked at me, unblinking, as if his head might rotate and explode, almost made me want to cower. Almost.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, pushing past him and making a beeline for the nearest bathroom. I did a quick examination of myself—whoa, I needed to make a waxing appointment, and pronto—but even if no signs pointed to a night of drunken sexcapades, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe nothing happened. Or maybe it was bad sex—so bad my body had already forgotten it.

A loud crash came from somewhere in the house. I left the bathroom and traced the source to Lon’s photography room, where a tableful of equipment was now scattered across the floor. Lon was hunched over the efforts of his rampage.

I thought about backing out of the room, but if he was listening with his knack, he probably already knew I was there. “Please don’t be mad.”

“It’s not you,” he answered after a long moment.

“Do you want me to go?”

He shook his head. When he turned around, his eyes met mine. The anger melted away. “Let me make a couple of phone calls, then we can get on the road.”

“Okay. I could use a shower, if you don’t mind.” Where was he showering? He must have moved into the guest room. That didn’t seem right.

Lon’s head jerked up, as if he’d remembered something important. “Wait. I need to . . .” He sighed heavily. “Let me grab a few things upstairs.” He grumbled to himself and sidled around me warily. “Just . . .” He held up his hands and made a few awkward gestures, as if we didn’t speak the same language and he couldn’t decide how to get his point across. “Just stay in the living room until I come get you.”

I felt a little sorry for him when he walked away. He seemed so defeated.

I knew one thing. If it was bad sex, it damn sure wasn’t my fault. Maybe he was too old to get it up. I’d remember that the next time he wanted to drink.

* * *

Lon was determined to leave before Jupe got home, and he only relaxed somewhat when he found out that the kid was going to a friend’s house to study for a test. We each packed a change of clothes, and after Lon made arrangements with the Holidays, we finally headed out in his SUV late in the afternoon.

Golden Peak was a straight shot down Pacific Coast Highway. Fog and clouds ringed the mountains and hills, and the gray sky occasionally threw a spatter of rain droplets on the windshield, but it never actually rained. The GPS put us arriving at eight, but Lon figured he’d shave off a half hour by driving like a maniac once we got out of the city limits. The road hugged the coastline, straightaways broken up by a million hairpin and switchback curves, and all of it dotted with RVs chugging in and out of scenic pull-offs.

Neither of us said anything until we crossed Bixby Bridge. Lon was never one for small talk, but I could tell the difference between comfortable and uncomfortable silence. “Can we put last night behind us?” I finally said. “I still don’t remember what happened, but whatever I did, I wasn’t in my right mind.”