The city glittered outside Victoria’s mansion windows, skyscrapers rising like glass teeth against the night. She stood by the bar with a crystal glass of wine in hand, every inch the picture of control — fitted silk blouse, hair pulled into a low chignon, legs crossed as she leaned lightly against the counter.

Julian Sinclair wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in her home. Not standing so close that her perfume — sharp jasmine with a shadow of smoke — curled around him like a trap. But ...