Scarlet Blackwell writes my guilty pleasures: masculine men, hot sex and damaged bastards (because those are the best kind of bastard) and so I indulge myself, even though I know I will probably throw my Kindle across the room in disgusted and/or incredulity at some point in the narrative. This book was really no different for me. It was hot, the protagonists were manly, bastardly and damaged and, yes, there was Kindle-throwing. It was compelling and entertaining and I enjoyed the mystery aspect quite a lot. But this book had a bipolar-mood-disorder quality to it: the love/hate thing got old really fast and the back-and-forthing was giving me motion sickness. Ultimately, I enjoyed it but was just left feeling tired.