Michael’s gaze, cold and impenetrable, flickered from Linsy’s composed face to the intercom. "Let her in," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth.

Linsy’s lips pressed into a thin line, but any protest she might have voiced was preempted by the crisp, confident click of high heels on marble. Violet Bento swept into the dining room, a vision of calculated elegance in a tailored celadon-green skirt suit, her hair a cascade of artful waves. She carried a garment bag draped over one arm, a ...