As he urged Lulu toward Pacific Heights, the city became a blur, a little like the lazy thoughts streaming through his head. His world felt as if it had been tipped over, then righted. Like he hadn’t known how unbalanced he’d been until he experienced how much better it felt to be standing straight.

Every worry he’d had since he’d returned home seemed a little less hopeless. Every problem, fixable. His mind raced the motorcycle, churning out images of a shiny future with Hadley. A big house. A family. Her running the antiquities department. Him . . . well, he hadn’t figured that out yet. Traveling with his uncle wasn’t looking as exciting as it once did. Bad food, sweaty clothes, hard labor, illness, and no sleep. All of that was tolerable when you were running away from something. But not when you had something to run to. Or someone.

Maybe going back to dig in the wretched sun wouldn’t be so bad if she was at his side. He pictured her walking around the desert in a traditional Egyptian galabiya dress and smiled. Maybe she’d have an easier time than he did. Maybe it would be worth it to see the look on her face when she strolled around the temple ruins.

He was considering all this as he galloped up the side steps of his family home. And after swinging open the screen door, he nearly slammed into Winter, who stood unmoving and icier than a side of beef in a cooler.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“And a fine fucking day to you,” Lowe said, shouldering around him.

Winter held out a hand. “Out all night and you come in looking like this? What were you out doing? Whoring?”

Lowe angled his face inches away from his brother’s. “Say that again. I dare you.”

“Defensive about that curator, aren’t you?” Mismatched eyes narrowed over a dark, stilted smile. “Oh, yes. I know. Greta told me you brought the woman here.”

Damn the staff and their wagging tongues.

“Not the first time you’ve been keeping graveyard hours,” Winter said. “A week ago Jonte told me you rolled home inside the Packard in the dregs of the night. You with the curator then, too?”

“She’s none of your goddamn business.”

“She’s a gold heiress—a society girl. Dammit, Lowe. You want to see a woman like that, you do it properly. If everyone here is talking, don’t you think her people are talking, too?”

Lowe started to protest that she didn’t have a maid, but thought better of it. And Winter wasn’t wrong, exactly. Hadley seemed friendly with the elevator man, who gave Lowe a frigid look today during the trip downstairs. Not to mention all the other apartment tenants—they would definitely talk if they saw him skulking around at odd hours. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“Antiquities business isn’t all that big in San Francisco. Word gets out you’re seeing her, everyone in that museum’s going to talk. Patrons, donors . . . You need to be careful you don’t hurt that lady’s reputation.”

“I’m careful.”

“And you’ve also got a habit of making promises you don’t keep and leaving by the bedroom window. Don’t salt the ground under her feet.”

“Always good to know the strength of your faith in me,” Lowe said sourly.

“Why were you bothering Velma?”

Was there anyone he could trust to keep their damn mouth shut? “Not that it’s any of your concern, but Hadley and I are working together on something for the museum. At the request of her father.”

Winter’s scarred brow lifted. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve Goldberg.”

“Of course not.” Well, not in Hadley’s eyes. Not in the way she believed, at least. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. Or ever. Jesus, it was hot in the house. Lowe loosened his necktie as sweat bloomed on his brow.

A tense pause stretched between them before Winter seemed to give up the fight, sighing heavily. “Lowe,” he pleaded, using the Old World pronunciation, Low-va. He continued in Swedish. “You can’t go on like this. I know you want to make your own way, but you can’t spend your life running around the globe with Uncle, or you’ll end up like him: alone.”

“I hate Egypt,” Lowe admitted angrily in Swedish. “I hate digging.”

“Then don’t! Come work for me. You can run the new warehouse. Wine and dine clients.”

“Nej.” Lowe shook his head. “I can’t do that. I’m so close to a big break, if I can just . . .” He trailed off. “I don’t want to do it forever, but I have to see this last thing through.”

Winter stared at him for a long moment, as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He switched back to English when he finally said, “The shipping company called. The crates you sent from Egypt will be delivered next week. Greta has the details.”

Lowe mumbled his thanks and sidled around his brother.

“You square things with Monk yet?”

For the love of God. Winter was worse than a mother. Lowe had to get out of this house before he went crazy. Maybe get an apartment downtown. It wasn’t part of his bigger plan, which was to buy a comfortable house and make sure Adam and Stella were taken care of. But that wasn’t going to happen tomorrow, and there were other things at the top of his to-do list. The most pressing of which was to secure enough cash to pay off Monk—sooner rather than later.

And the closest funding within his reach was tied up in the crossbars hunt, something that was turning out to be much more complicated than he’d originally hoped, what with Dr. Bacall’s health, Noel Irving, Oliver, magic . . . Hadley.