He nudged her toward the steps again. “Now go.”

A tiny path wound through sea oats and sedges, across beach dunes, and down to the white-sand-covered beach. Hector trotted up and down the sand, his stick held high.

“Bring it here,” Cullen said. The dog pranced closer and dropped the toy. Master Cullen threw it straight into the ocean; Hector darted after it. The dog splashed through the waves, and a minute later, returned with the prize.

After several tosses, Cullen sent the stick flying back toward the house. It landed in what looked like a jungle-gym setup of bars and logs and small platforms. A giant-sized playland. Metal poles with a high bar across them. Rings like a gymnast would use.

“What is all that?” Andrea asked.

Señor's warm hand covered her breast, and his hand on her bottom held her still while he pinched her nipple gently. “I use it for working out…and to string up insubordinate submissives.”

“Oh, well.” Her words came out disgustingly breathy. “It's good that I'm so obedient.”

His grin flashed in the moonlight, his rough-hewn face dark with shadows. “Isn't it.”

Eventually Hector returned, his head held high as if bringing the crown jewels. He dropped the stick at Cullen's feet and flopped down on the ground, his sides heaving.

The sand chilled Andrea's bare feet as she moved closer to the water. The waves washed onto the shore, hissing as they receded again. Moonlight glimmered off the water and turned the froth an iridescent white. “This is really beautiful. And so quiet.”

In fact, she could barely see the lights of the nearest house. A private beach. How did a cop afford a beach house? She frowned.

He must have registered the suspicious look, and he chuckled. “I'm not taking bribes. My great-grandparents bought this place, and it came to me instead of money or property in Chicago. Everyone knows I hate the cold.” He grinned. “I see my family every winter after the first few snows.”

The affectionate way he spoke of his family made her smile. Maybe they had more in common than she thought. He'd certainly seemed at home with her horde of relatives.

Once back on the deck, Cullen leaned on the railing to watch the water. She stood next to him, enjoying the peace of the night. But as the moist breeze cooled, she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Would he yell if she put her clothes back on? She looked up and met his gaze.

He frowned. “Andrea, it goes like this: 'I'm cold, Sir—' no, 'I'm cold, Señor. May I have something to wear?' Say exactly that.” His voice was soft as the murmur of the waves.

Her hands fisted, and she stared at him. Why did he insist on making her do this? “I'm cold, Señor. M-may I have something to wear?” Why was it so hard to admit a weakness? That she needed help?

“Good girl.” His smile of approval set a glow inside her that helped ease the unsettling emotions. He disappeared into the house and returned with a long, fluffy robe and two drinks. After helping her into the robe, he picked her up and settled into an oversize Adirondack chair. His body radiated heat like a Tampa sidewalk under a hot sun, and she sighed and snuggled closer.

“Amazing you could get cold in Florida.” He handed her a glass. “Ever seen snow, little beach bunny?”

She thumped his shoulder for the nasty term, then curled an arm around his big chest. Expecting water, she took a hefty gulp of the drink and choked. A very, very strong Seven and Seven. The alcohol burned all the way down and spread outward. “I go skiing in Colorado every winter.”

“Do you now? Skiing is good. What else?”

“Well, backpacking here and there: Yosemite, Banff, the Rockies. Scuba diving sometimes.”

He huffed a laugh. “You're a macho little sub, aren't you?” She might have taken offense except for the pleased tone in his voice.

“So what do you do on your vacations?”

“Exactly the same things and visit my folks in Chicago.” He tugged on her hair. “I'm sorry your parents are gone, although Antonio didn't sound like he liked your father.”

“He didn't know my father before—” She lifted her glass for a drink. Empty. Had she drunk it all already?

“Before what?” He plucked the glass from her fingers and set it on the table.

“Before an IED exploded near him.”

“Right, military. How badly was he hurt?”

Andrea watched a cloud drift in front of the moon. “Arm and leg. The doctors amputated his leg above the knee. He had a prosthesis so he could walk with a cane. Not very well, since he had a hook instead of a hand on that side. He joked about being Captain Hook.” But in a way that said he didn't find it funny, although he expected people to laugh. Every time Papa made fun of himself in that bitter, bitter voice, her stomach would twist.

Cullen studied her, then asked, “What happened to your mom?”

“She died of an aneurism when I was nine.” So sudden. Complaining of a headache, then gone.

“I'm sorry, sweetie.” He pulled her closer, kissed her temple, and the unexpected sympathy made her eyes burn. “How did your father handle it? Didn't he need a fair amount of help?”

“Oh, I learned to do whatever he couldn't. And he was pretty competent with just one hand.” Until he started living in the bottle. Then his good hand would shake so hard, he couldn't fasten the buckles on his artificial leg or the buttons on his clothing. His temper would explode and… She'd had her first lessons in dodging by the time she'd turned ten.

“Shhh,” Señor murmured and raised her fisted hand to his mouth, opening and kissing each finger. His breath blew warmth over her cold skin. “You were just a puppy, weren't you? Jessica said you learned to fight at ten. He taught you?”

“After Mama died, we moved to a cheaper…nastier…neighborhood. When I got roughed up, it really upset him that he couldn't do anything.” “Can't work, can't protect my own. Worthless. I should have died over there.” One afternoon, he'd taken his rage out on the kitchen until all Mama's wedding plates lay in shatters.

“Anyway,” she continued, “he decided I'd have to defend myself. He wasn't an easy teacher. I swear, he gave me more bruises and bloody noses than—” What was she saying? She put her hand over her mouth.

“Did he?” The clipped words didn't sound like Master Cullen at all. “Couldn't anyone there help you?”

She stiffened. “We did fine.”

“I see. Just you and him, making do. And from what you said at the club, your father wouldn't have accepted help anyway, right?”

“Of course not. And it wasn't that bad. We had fun together.” Sometimes. Especially in the earlier days before he was drunk all the time. They'd watch TV, like The Incredible Journey, and he'd talk about the dog he'd had as a kid. One day they'd run out of almost everything, so she made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, and he'd laughed. He'd once bought her an ice cream cone to celebrate a good report card.

“You loved him, eh?”

“Uh-huh.” Loved him and hated him and cursed him for being too weak to stop drinking, for being a mean drunk, for never, ever doing what he promised. Not even staying alive. She blinked when Cullen ran his finger over her wet cheek.

“Oh, baby,” Cullen murmured, his voice coming out hoarse. “You didn't have it easy, did you?” Alcoholic father, and those training sessions of hers sounded like a regular bloodfest. Yeah, the man had definitely run into some bad luck, but, rather than pulling it together, he'd made his little girl into his caregiver and punching bag. Fucking asshole.

“But you have family to help you now, right?” Cullen asked.

“I don't need help,” she answered, so automatically that he knew this was a normal response for her.

His eyes narrowed. “We all need help sometimes.”

“It's better to just count on yourself. Other people…”

Will let you down, he finished in his head. Like her father always had. Good thing the guy had gone toes-up, or he and Cullen would have a short discussion. “You think your grandmother would let you down?”

She blinked. “Well, no. But I like being able to do things for myself. I don't want to bother anyone.”

“'I don't want to bother anyone,'” Cullen repeated slowly, the words scraping his nerves like a shard of glass. “My mother said that a lot.”

He knew he'd growled from the way Andrea's expression grew wary. “Why does that make you mad?” she asked.

“Mom had been having stomach pains. Her eyes were too bad to drive, but she didn't want to bother anyone to take her to the doctor's office. Not for something that was probably nothing.”

Andrea's fingers curled around his hand. “What happened?”

“The nothing was ovarian cancer. By the time the pain got to be too much to ignore, it was way too late.” All that energy and fire slowly snuffing out, leaving only a heartbreaking husk behind. He opened his hand before he crushed Andrea's fingers.

“I'm sorry, Señor.”

“We all were. My father still blames himself.” He stroked a finger down her soft cheek. “He shouldn't. He would have done anything for her, but she never accepted that. She wanted to give, but wouldn't accept the same.”