And for no apparent reason, Lane remembered something Edward had said when he’d been making that confessional to the police at the Red & Black: They’re going to try to tell you I had an accomplice, but I didn’t. I worked alone.

Lane narrowed his eyes on his brother.

“What?” Max demanded.

In the periphery, Gin glanced across sharply, and that was a perfect reminder that they were hardly alone—and especially with Amelia around, this was no place to bring up touchy subjects like, Hey, did you team up with Edward to murder our pops?

“Will you help me put that in place?” Lane said as he pointed to the marble slab that was in the corner.

“Trying to be sure he stays where he’s supposed to?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not in the slightest. I only came to make certain the bastard was ashed.”

The two of them went over and bent at the knees around the three-by-three-foot section of marble. Lane had only asked Max to help with the stone as a way of covering up the awkward moment, but it turned out he needed the extra pair of hands. The white veneer was attached to steel backing that weighed a bloody ton, and both of them grunted as they got the thing up off the floor.

Shuffling back to where the urn was sitting rather unceremoniously in its hole—sort of like a soup can on a shelf, actually—they hefted the square up and fitted the thing into place.

Stepping away, Lane wondered if it just sat like that . . .? Or did it need to be bolted in?

“Is it going to fall out?” Max said.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s heavy as hell. I didn’t see a latch on the back or anything, did you?”

“I wasn’t really looking.” Max glanced around. “Are they all just sitting in there like that? ’Cuz one good earthquake and those urns are going to go flying—and this place is gonna need a Dustbuster and a half.”

Lane laughed first. And then Gin joined in. When Amelia, Lizzie, and Samuel T. followed suit, it was pretty clear they all needed a release of tension as they stood around the sarcophagi.

“So this is it?” Gin murmured as everyone quieted down again.

“So surreal.” Lane put his arm around Lizzie and drew her in close. “Like some kind of dream.”

“Not a nightmare, though.” Max shook his head. “Not for me, at least.”

“Nor I,” Gin agreed. “Are you going to get him a plaque?”

“I don’t know.” Lane shrugged. “I don’t really want to.”

“Let’s leave it.” Max crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s already getting more than he deserves. I would have scattered his ashes in the cornfield before we laid the manure—”

As another figure came into the tomb’s open doorway, Lane noticed the intrusion first—and instantly recognized who it was.

Chantal.

His curse brought everyone else to attention.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” she demanded.

In the back of his mind, Lane heard Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: “I’m not going to be ignored, Dan.”

Who in the good God had told her about this? he wondered.

As Chantal came inside, her perfume was an assault on the sinuses, a fake bouquet that made him want to sneeze. And her brightly colored blouse and white jeans were utterly out of place.

“Well?” she said. “I have a right to be here, too, Lane.”

When she put her hand on her belly, he rolled his eyes. “Let’s not play this game, shall we. You’re not any more of a mourner than we are.”

“I’m not? Says who. I loved your father—”

Lane looked over at Samuel T. “Would you be so kind as to escort my sister and her daughter out of here?”

“Of course.” The lawyer turned to Gin. “Let’s go.”

“As his attorney, wouldn’t you prefer to stay?” Gin said dryly. “And you only have a two-seater. What are you going to do with the both of us?”

“I’ll take Amelia on my bike.” Max put his hand on his niece’s shoulder. “I got another helmet. Come on. Let’s give the grown-ups some privacy. You want ice cream on the way home?”

“I’m sixteen, not six.” Amelia tilted up her chin exactly the way her mother did. “And I want Graeter’s double chocolate chip. In a cone. With sprinkles.”

“Whatever you like.” As Max came up to Chantal, he dropped his voice—but not by much. “You either get out of my way or I’m going to push you back until you fall on your ass.”

“Your father always said you were an animal.”

“And you’ve been a gold-digging bitch since birth. So there’s that.”

Chantal was so flabbergasted at the insult, she tripped out of his path. Then again, anyone who had ever met Max knew better than to take him on, and Lane’s soon-to-be ex-wife was no dummy.

“Come on, Gin,” Samuel T. said as he took her elbow.

Lane stared at his sister and tried to will her to be reasonable and leave. The last thing they needed was her going wild card here.

For once in your life, he thought at her, just back the hell off. Please.

As Gin felt Samuel T.’s hold on her elbow tighten, she smiled across at her brother Lane’s biggest mistake: Chantal Baldwine was second tier, all the way. The only thing that was first place on her?

Social ambition.

“Gin,” Samuel T. prompted. “Shall we?”

For a moment, Gin enjoyed the tension that sprang up in the crypt, each one of them wondering what in the hell she was going to do next. Except she wasn’t going to bicker with Chantal.

No, she was better than that.

“But of course, Samuel,” she said sweetly.

She could practically feel the easing in his and Lane’s bodies, and that was exactly what she was after.

And she behaved herself alllllllll the way to the exit.

Almost.

When she came up to the other woman, Gin leaned in and quickly put her hand on Chantal’s stomach. Before Chantal could jump back, Gin spoke fast and low. “I curse this child.”

“What? What did you say?”

“You heard me.” Gin smiled again. “And when you lose this baby, I want you to think of me.”

“What!”

“Bye for now.”

Gin sauntered out of the tomb and waited at the bottom of the steps for Samuel T. to catch up. Behind her, Chantal had started to yell and Gin rolled her eyes as he paused to try to do damage control.

Ah, lovely. The discord in her wake was so lovely. Chantal was crying now, and trying to get to Gin, but Samuel T. wouldn’t let her.

Meanwhile, Gin was outside in the sun, feeling the warmth on her cheeks and sternum.

After quite some time, Samuel T. emerged and took Gin’s elbow again. “Come on, witch doctor. We’re over here.”

Ordinarily, Gin would have been inclined to pick an argument with him just to keep the drama going, but she remained quiet and content as he escorted her across the grass to the Jaguar. After opening the door for her, he handed her down into the seat—and when she glanced up to thank him reflexively, she was struck by those looks of his.

He was unbearably handsome, it was true. But that wasn’t her attraction to him. The sizzle was a result of his arrogance coupled with his rank independence and total disregard for her sense of superiority. She had always wanted to win against him. Have him submit to her and do what she wanted. Force him to be the purebred dog who heeled to her command.

But Samuel T. wasn’t like that. Never had been, never would be.

And that was why she loved him.

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured as he closed her door.

Gin’s eyes tracked every move he made as he went around the long hood and got behind the wheel. After he put his Ray-Bans on, he looked across at her through those dark aviators and her heart leapt.

“What don’t I have to say?” Her voice was so husky, it was nearly inaudible, and for a moment, he just stared at her.

I want you, she thought. I just want to feel you in me again.

It seemed as though it had been forever since they’d been together. In reality? It was only the matter of a week or two, maybe less. She couldn’t recall.