Under the Stars

No warning.

No reason.

All she left behind is the shortest “Dear John” note in history.

Dear Mark,

I love you more than I can ever say, but I can’t pull you any further into this. I can’t ruin your life. I’m so sorry.

Please don’t try to find me.

Love,

Lara

Don’t try to find me, my ass.

I’m out of bed, tearing through the large house, going from room to room searching for any clues to where they went. All I get is the same sickening déjà vu from the last time she ran.

The room we’ve been sharing is clean except for my things. Molly’s room is pristine, like no one has ever been in it. Not even a trace of her little dog. Racing downstairs, the living room looks like the showroom of a furniture store. The kitchen could be featured in fucking Pottery Barn.

Whipping out my phone, I call her number. It rings once, and her voicemail picks up. My voice is strained as I leave a message, unconvinced she’ll even hear it. I know how call-blocking works.

“Don’t do this, Lara. Call me back.”

Dropping onto a barstool, I put my face in my hands.

“Lara.” The force of anger and frustration coursing through my body changes my voice to a growl.

When I ran into her on the White Pass-Yukon Route, the first time I’d seen her in five years, she left behind a dead body and me with my dick in my hands trying to figure out what happened.

I finally found her here, in a villa in Nice owned by Freddie Lovel, the rich guy who used to visit her after her Pussycat Angels performances.

For three weeks, we’ve been the only people living in this elaborate home.

Returning to our bedroom, I stand in the open doorway of the balcony. Overhead is an awning covered in wisteria, and in front of me is a panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea.

My jaw tightens as memories of the nights we sat out here listening to the ocean, drinking wine, making love, and making plans for our wedding, for our daughter, flood my mind.

We planned to name her Jillian after my mother, who died when I was only ten. She’d been the only good thing in my life when I was a boy, and when I lost her, it felt like everything unraveled.

I’d wanted to give that name a fresh beginning, welcome its grace back into our home, and Lara had agreed.

She’d sat there and fucking agreed to everything.

Now she leaves me flat, like I’m some kind of one-night stand.

Anger burns in my chest as I storm into the bedroom and start stuffing my things into my bag. I’m out the door and headed to the train station in less than ten minutes.

Destination, Paris, the seventh arrondissement.

When I arrive at the white building w

ith black shutters and antique metal accents, he’s coming out the front door.

“Excusez-moi.” With a nod, he attempts to pass me at the front steps.

“Excuse me.” I put my hand on his shoulder and hold up my badge. “Detective Mark Fitzhugh. I need to speak with you about Lara or Larissa Hale.”