Page 45 of Art of Sin

The man in question raises his glass in a mock salute.

Is there nowhere I can escape him?

I’m unaware of asking the question aloud until Maggie chortles. “Certainly seems that way.”

Sitting beside Gideon is a man no less powerful in presence. The owner of Crossroads, Dominic Cross, whose intervention saved my life on a dark night three years ago. If he notices my stare, it’s ignored.

The woman next to him, however, is waving and grinning at me—London Limerick, Cross’s girlfriend and true-crime novelist of recent fame. We met at Nate’s birthday last year. I wave back, wishing I didn’t feel as awkward about it. She was kind to me; pretty sure I was my usual, standoffish self.

“Where’d these drinks come from?” asks a disgruntled Trent, shifting them aside to make room for our glasses of Chardonnay.

A speculative sound comes from Maggie. “Gideon Masters.”

Trent scans the bar until he sees Gideon, then frowns. “That dude is everywhere.”

I swallow inane laughter. My skin prickles with anticipation. Foreboding. Before the thought fully forms, I’m on my feet with one of the cocktails in hand.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them.

Behind me, I hear Maggie murmur, “Do you think Boss and Gideon—”

Trent replies, “No way. Don’t even think it...”

I don’t hear the rest of their conversation, drawn inexorably away, into the orbit of my personal black hole. He watches me approach, eyes narrowed, that damned smirk still on his lips.

“Hello, Snowflake. You remember Finn, don’t you?”

At the name, energy zings through my bones, a deep jolt of fluttery awareness. I follow Gideon’s twinkling gaze to the adjacent couch and find bright blue eyes staring up at me. In tattered jeans, Converse, and a T-shirt showcasing his muscled, tattooed arms, Finn looks like every woman’s bad-boy wet dream.

A slow smile spreads on his handsome face. “Hi, Deirdre. I like the hair.”

“Thank you.” The words come out startled and breathy. I clear my throat, my eyes veering back to Gideon, who for some unknown reason is the safer port. “I just came over to thank you for the drink.”

His smile grows, a silent response to my bullshit. I should have downed my cocktail before coming over here.

“Join us?” he asks.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m with friends.”

“Aww, Deirdre, can’t you sit for a few?” This from London, who leans around Dominic to smile at me. “We need more estrogen in this sausage fest.”

Dominic barks a laugh and finally looks at me. His dark eyes are surprisingly warm. “It’s good to see you, Deirdre. How’ve you been?”

“Fine, thanks, and you?”

“Great, thank you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Silence settles. This isn’t awkward at all.

“Okay, well… I should get back.”

“Next time?” asks London with a grin.

“Sure.” Not a chance.

“See you tomorrow evening, Snowflake?”

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