Owen glanced around the room. Since it was only three o'clock, the upscale watering hole was almost empty. Too late for a three-martini lunch and too early for happy hour. Perfect. Now all he had to do was strike up a conversation. What did Zari always say?

Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy? Yeah. Right.

Owen slid onto a stool and rested his arms on the black marble countertop. The bartender nodded, finished delivering a drink to a guy at the other end, before making his way to Owen.

"What can I get you?"

"Shot of Makers 46."

He tapped the bar. "Coming right up."

Owen wondered how many sentences qualified as a conversation. Before he did the math, a woman claimed the stool next to him.

He swung his attention back to the bartender as he set down his drink. Eric, according to his name tag, eyed the woman, then raised his brows at Owen.

No problem there. She was about as far from Owen's type as a woman could be. Which made a conversation with her appealing. He knocked back the shot, then faced the lady.

"Buy you a drink?"

She smiled. "Sure. I'll have a cosmopolitan."

He nodded to the barkeep, placed the order, then spoke to her again. "You staying here at the hotel?"

"No. Was meeting a guy for drinks. He ghosted me. Tinder isn't what it's cracked up to be. Of course, you probably don't need to use it."

Owen didn't know what to say to that without sounding like a jerk. Thankfully, the bartender brought their drinks. "Thanks."

"You want me to start you a tab?"

"Yeah." Owen passed him his keycard, and Eric walked away.

The woman stuck out her hand. "I'm Alyson."

"Owen."

"So, what brings you to town?"

"PTSD."

She raised her eyebrows, half a smile on her face as if she was gearing up for the punchline. "Excuse me?"

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

She blinked. Her smile died.  "I know what it is. So—is there a conference or something?"

"No." He figured he'd said enough to count as a conversation and that exchange should end it.

She sipped her drink, set the glass on the bar, and surprised him. "My brother has the same thing. Two tours in Iraq. He was messed up for a while, but it's all good now."

Owen drew his brows into a sharp V. "How long did it take?"

"A while. Are you getting help?"

He signaled for another drink. That was all the help he needed. "Yeah. You're an assignment. My shrink says I have to talk to people."

She fluttered her eyes. "And I thought it was my dazzling beauty that got your attention."

"Oh—sorry—I—"

She whispered a laugh and flapped her hand in the air as if shooing a mosquito.  "I'm kidding. Your homework brightened my day. Nothing makes anyone feel worse than being stood up. And hey, I got a free drink out of it." She looked at her phone. "Sorry to drink and run, but I have to pick up my daughter from piano lessons." She rose and stuck out her hand again. "It was nice to meet you, Owen."

"Yeah. You, too."

She turned to go, then stopped and faced him again. "Oh, one thing that helped my brother was joining a group. He actually runs it now." She pulled a pen from her purse and wrote on the napkin next to her empty glass. "Here's the address, in case you want to give it a try. Good luck."

"Thanks." Owen went back to his drink and motioned for another. One more, then he'd head upstairs to take Dash for a walk.

"What the hell are you doing, Aly?" A man's voice snarled.

She gasped. "Are you following me?"

"Leave her alone," Owen said without turning around.

"Mine your own fucking business," the guy said.

Owen twisted to face the couple. The man had his fingers wrapped around Alyson's arm. She struggled to get away. Clearly, he wasn't her missing date. "Let her go."

"I'm her husband," he spat. "This doesn't concern you."

"Ex-husband, Peter. You're violating the restraining order. If you don't leave, I'll call the cops."

Owen came to his feet. "I'm only going to tell you one more time. Let. Her. Go."

Peter didn't move, and all the fury Owen had bottled up for months napalmed through every artery. His ears roared, and his pulse rate soared into the stratosphere. He fisted his hands ready for battle. Maybe he hadn't been able to defend himself against his captors, but he could damn well save this woman from hers. He nudged his way between the pair.

Peter stumbled backward, then regained his footing and pushed Owen.

Owen threw a punch that made the guy stagger, but he had more brawn than brains and came back with a counter punch, which Owen dodged, and landed a quick jab to Peter's throat. He wheezed and sputtered.

Owen slammed his fist into the guy's middle, and he went down. Owen should have been done, but he wasn't. He cocked his leg, fired off a kick, waited for the recoil, then slammed his toe into Peter's gut again.

Owen's vision blurred, and as if in slow motion, he grabbed the guy by the shirt collar and punched him in the face. Once. Twice. And as he drew back for number three, someone pulled him away.

Gasping for breath, he came out of his fog and glanced from side to side. On his left, the bartender. On his right—hotel security.

Dante chewed the inside of his jaw. Owen should have been back an hour ago. Maybe it was a mistake to trust him with the car. Given his unstable behavior, it'd be like him to take off for parts unknown. And, with no way of contacting him, Dante's only choice would be to report him missing—or the car stolen. Damn. How had he become everyone's keeper? Lately, running interference between Owen, Silbie, Dad, and Bea's business associates exhausted him.

He wasn't sure how much longer Bea could keep her illness a secret. As much as she tried to hide it, he saw the subtle differences. Going to bed earlier. Sleeping later. Taking longer naps. Unsteady on her feet. But the biggest change—she'd lost the desire to put on day clothes, or even comb her hair. And then there was her appetite. For the last week, she'd lived on peanut butter and crackers.

He'd waited long enough. Dante grabbed his cell and punched in Doctor Sequig's number. After a short conversation with the receptionist, in which she'd confirmed Owen left on time, Dante's heart kicked up a notch. Now what? Where the hell was he?

He reached for his phone again. If he planned to leave the hotel, he needed someone to stay with Bea. Thankfully, he had a caretaker nearby who could be there with little notice.  "Hey, Hannah. It's Dante. I need you to come right away."

"Yes, sir. Be there in ten minutes."

Maybe it was time for a full-time caretaker. At least it'd allow Dante to keep better tabs on Owen. Or, maybe hire a PI to follow him. Crazy idea. Maybe. However, today's stunt proved Owen needed a babysitter.

He called the front desk. "Have the valet bring my car around, please."

Dante grabbed the key fob, his sunglasses, and wallet, then glanced around the room a second time to see if he'd forgotten anything. His phone chimed. Hopefully, it was the renegade. Nope. Front desk.

"Hello."

"Sir, do you want the Corvette or the Lexus?"

Dante narrowed his eyes. "I thought the Vette was gone."

"No, sir. It's here."

"Hold off on the car. I'll get back to you." If the car is here, Owen must be. Dante opened the door and hurried down to Owen's room. What a jerk. At least he could let Dante know when he got back to stop him from worrying.

Within seconds, Dante pounded on the door. When he got no answer, he let himself in. Empty. Where was he? He walked back into the hallway, and the elevator dinged. Dante waited for the doors to open.

Out of breath, Hannah stepped into the corridor. "What's going on downstairs? There's an ambulance and police car out front."

Dante's stomach knotted. "Holy hell. You got your key?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let yourself in. I'll be back in a little while." He rushed away.

By the time he got to the lobby, there was no sign of a problem, but he still had a bad feeling. He bolted to the desk clerk, who had the phone pressed to his ear. He caught sight of Dante and hung up. "Mr. Filgard! I was just calling you. I'm afraid there's been an incident with your brother."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes, sir. But he's been arrested."

The word landed in Dante's brain like a bad coin toss. Not that Owen leaving in an ambulance would have been better.  "What the hell for?"

"He assaulted a man," he gravely announced.

Dante wanted to defend him, and if they'd still been in college, he would have. Owen had always been the calm one. Not a troublemaker. But PTSD robbed him of those qualities. Dante wanted to comfort him and kick his ass at the same time. He'd do both later. Right now, he needed to find out where they'd taken him.

"Any idea what precinct?"

"Most likely central division."

Fear curled through Dante's stomach. "What about the other guy? How bad was he hurt?"

"Broken nose, I think. And, he may have lost a tooth."

Dante sighed. At least he'd not killed someone. "Thanks. If there's any damage, I'll take care of it."

"There wasn't any. But keep your brother out of the bar."

"I understand. Thanks."

By the time Dante reached the police station, his mood had turned darker. He'd gone over all the things he wanted to say to Owen, but then remembered what he had endured. But for the life of him, Dante didn't know what to do. He'd thought they were on the right path. Therapy. The dog. Hell, he'd even let Owen become a recluse. But nothing was working.

He swung into the parking lot, made his way inside, and addressed the police officer behind the counter. "I'm here about my brother, Owen Filgard. He's been arrested."

"See Detective Gribalski. Down the hall. Third door on the left. If it's closed, take a seat and wait."

Dante hated police stations. He'd seen his share, but now the proverbial shoe was only the other foot. Time to repay all those times Owen had bailed him out. Dante slumped into one of the wooden chairs and pinched the bridge of his nose. Gribalski was probably a hard-ass cop who did everything by the book.

Dante took off his Rolex and slipped it into his jeans pocket. Thankfully, he'd left his four-hundred-dollar sunglasses in the car. No need for the detective to judge him because of his money. Or he should say Bea's money.

The door opened, and a woman with a young girl, wearing earbuds came out. The lady glanced at Dante and smiled. He wondered who she had in jail.

Willing steel into his spine, he ambled to the open doorway. "Detective Gribalski?"

He drew a shallow breath. Not a hard-ass cop. At least not a male hard ass. Instead, a small-boned brunette, with hazel eyes and pouty lips. She looked feral and dangerous like a cat ready to pounce. "I'm Dante Filgard. Here to post bail for my brother."

"Take a seat."

"Yes, ma'am."

She locked eyes with him and pursed her lips. "Well, this is your lucky day. We're not charging him."

He raised his eyebrows. "But I thought he broke the guy's nose."

"He did. However, eyewitnesses and the security camera confirm the other man started the altercation. Since the hotel isn't pressing charges, the DA isn't interested in prosecuting the assault or disturbing the peace violation."

This reeked of a lawsuit. If the victim knew Owen had someone with money, this might turn out worse than he thought. "What about the injured guy? Why isn't he pressing charges?"

"A deal was made. Your brother agreed to pay medical expenses, and the man's wife agreed not to press charges against the victim for breaking the restraining order she has against him. Everyone goes home happy. Mr. Filgard will be at the front desk shortly. You can wait for him there."

Dante rose and stuck out his hand. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

She accepted the handshake and hung on longer than expected. A prickle of awareness skated along his spine.

She smiled. "Try to keep him out of trouble. Deal?"

"Deal."

Dante wet to the front and waited until Owen was released. He didn't speak, just stared straight ahead. When they reached the car, he jerked the door open and dropped into the seat.

Dante drove a mile before Owen said anything, letting silence reign supreme.

"Look, the guy had his hands on her. I gave him a chance to walk away."

"So, this was over a woman? Shit. I don't know if I should be happy or sad."

Owen frowned. "What does that mean?"

"You finally showed interest in the opposite sex. Too bad it was with a married woman."

"It wasn't like that," he huffed.

Dante wheeled into a vacant parking lot and turned to face Owen. "Then what the hell was it like?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Dante pressed his lips into a thin line. "Yeah? Fine. Don't talk. Just listen. From now on, when you leave the hotel, you'll take a fucking phone with you. And, by tomorrow morning, I'll have a boxing coach lined up. Maybe if you spend a few hours a day beating a bag, you'll be too damn tired to assault people."

Owen rubbed the back of his neck, then turned to meet Dante's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Owen's expression broke Dante's heart. His arsenal of snide remarks evaporated. All he wanted to do was hug him and tell him everything would be okay. But the way things were going, he was pretty sure they wouldn't.

"And you'll also take Dash with you everywhere you go. He could have calmed you down and avoided this whole mess."

The muscle in Owen's jaw jutted in and out. He gripped his thighs. Dante braced for another outburst, but Owen gulped a breath and spoke through his clenched teeth. "Got it."

At least one good thing might come out of this. Now, maybe Silbie would drop everything to help Owen. Dante was convinced she was the only one who could help save his brother—from himself.

Owen keeps finding himself in trouble.

TEASER: "It was a mistake. A terrible mistake."

Wonder what that's about.