The garage was a mausoleum of forgotten luxury.

Dust sheets covered four cars. Belle pulled the cover off the red Porsche 911. It was her mother's favorite. A thick layer of grey dust coated the sleek red paint.

"It won't start," Adan said, peering through the window. "Battery is probably dead."

Belle leaned against the door, sliding down until she was sitting on the concrete floor. She put her head in her hands.

"I'm so tired, Adan."

Adan sat next to her. He handed her a bottle of water he'd snagged from the kitchen. "You did it, though. You got the necklace."

"Yeah." Belle touched the stone. "But I have no money. I checked my accounts on the way here. Ewart froze everything. 'Suspicious activity', the bank said. Everything except the one emergency card he lets me keep for appearances-the one with a laughable limit he monitors like a hawk."

"We can use my card," Adan offered.

"No. I need thousands, Adan. The PI needs the final payment or he won't give me the file on the driver."

She pulled a folded, crinkled photo from her pocket. It was grainy, taken from a CCTV camera three years ago. It showed a man's back. He was pulling Belle out of a burning car.

He was the reason she was alive. He was the reason she had left New York. And then he had vanished.

"The Missing Man," Adan sighed. "Belle, maybe he doesn't want to be found."

"He saved me," Belle said fiercely. "And then someone erased him from the police report. Why? I need to know."

She stood up. "I'm taking the Jeep. You stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"To the repair shop. Maybe I can sell some of my old designer bags. I need cash."

"I'm coming with you."

"No," Belle said. "I need you to do something else. You know people, Adan. Find one of your contacts, a PI, anyone. I need to know if Kathern is moving money out of the household accounts. If I can get leverage, I can force her hand."

Adan hesitated. "It's dangerous."

"We're already in danger," Belle said. She climbed into the Jeep. "Text me if you find anything."

She drove out of the estate, her mind racing. Money. She needed money.

Her phone rang. It was the Private Investigator.

"Belle," the voice was gravelly. "I hit a wall. The license plate on the car that picked up your mystery man? It's fake. Government issue, maybe. Or high-level corporate security."

"So what do I do?" Belle asked, gripping the steering wheel.

"I need more resources. It's going to cost another ten grand."

"Ten..." Belle choked. "Fine. Just... give me a few days."

She hung up, frustration blinding her. She looked down at the phone to disconnect the call.

She didn't see the light turn red.

She didn't see the sleek, black car stopped at the intersection ahead.

She looked up just as the Jeep's brakes locked.

SCREECH.

The sound of metal crunching was sickeningly loud.

Belle was thrown forward against the seatbelt. The airbag didn't deploy-the Jeep was too old, or maybe the impact wasn't hard enough. Her head snapped back, hitting the headrest.

"Ow," she groaned.

She opened her eyes. Steam was hissing from her radiator.

She looked at the car she had hit.

It wasn't just a car. It was a fortress. A Bentley Mulsanne. Black, shiny, and now sporting a very ugly, very deep dent in its rear bumper.

"No," Belle whispered. "Please, no."

People on the sidewalk stopped. Phones came out.

The rear door of the Bentley opened.

A polished black shoe stepped onto the asphalt. Then a long leg clad in dark trousers.

Belle watched in horror as the man emerged. He was tall, imposing, and radiating a cold fury that lowered the temperature on the street.

It was him.

The man from the plane. The man she had spilled milk on. The man she had fainted on.

Denis Stephens.

He walked to the back of his car. He looked at the dent. He looked at the shattered taillight. Then he turned slowly and looked at the Jeep.

His eyes locked onto Belle through the windshield.

He didn't look surprised. He looked... resigned.

Belle opened her door. She stumbled out. Her boots scuffed against the pavement.

"You," Denis said. His voice was flat.

"It was an accident," Belle said quickly, holding up her hands. "My brakes... they locked."

Denis walked over to her. He towered over her. Up close, on the street, he was even more intimidating than on the plane.

"Are you stalking me, Miss Stanton?"

Belle blinked. "How do you know my name?"

"I make it my business to know the names of people who ruin my suits and my cars in the span of six hours."

His driver, a burly man with a earpiece, was inspecting the damage. "Sir, the rear axle might be compromised. The bumper alone is twenty thousand. With the sensors and paint... we're looking at six figures."

Belle felt the blood drain from her face. Six figures.

Denis saw her reaction. He saw the panic in her eyes. He knew, instantly, that she didn't have the money. A Stanton heiress with no cash? Interesting. A flicker of amusement, cold and sharp, cut through his annoyance. This was far more entertaining than a simple insurance claim.

He waved the driver away. He stepped closer to Belle, invading her personal space.

"Insurance?" he asked.

Belle bit her lip. "It... might be expired."

Denis raised an eyebrow. "Driving an unregistered vehicle. Reckless endangerment. I could call the police right now. You'd be arrested."

"Please don't," Belle said. Her voice was small. "I can't go to jail. My father..."

"I don't care about your father," Denis cut her off. "I care about my time. And my car."

He looked at her. Really looked at her. She was a mess. But she was a beautiful mess. And she owed him.

"We can settle this privately," Denis said.

Belle looked up, hope sparking in her eyes. "Really? I can pay you back. I just need time to access my trust."

"I don't want your money," Denis said. He glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner tonight. A charity gala. My suit is ruined because of you. My car is ruined because of you."

He opened the back door of the Bentley.

"Get in."

"What?" Belle recoiled.

"Get in the car," Denis commanded. "You're going to help me pick out a new wardrobe. And you're going to be my date tonight."

"You're crazy," Belle said. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Then I call the cops," Denis pulled out his phone. "Officer, I have a hit and run..."

"Fine!" Belle shouted. "Fine. Put the phone away."

She marched over to the Bentley and slid into the leather seat. It smelled of him. Sandalwood and power. That scent again, clinging to the leather, a phantom echo of the man who saved her and the man who was tormenting her, twisting together in her mind until she felt sick.

Denis got in beside her. He signaled the driver.

"Bergdorf Goodman," he said. "And drive carefully. We have precious cargo."

He wasn't looking at the car. He was looking at her.