Chapter 1 - The Man in the Mirror
The crystal chandelier above Saraphene Winters scattered light across the polished marble floor like fragments of broken diamonds.
Under any other circumstances, she might have stopped to admire it.
Tonight, she barely noticed.
Her entire world had narrowed to one man standing across the Beaumont Gallery.
Trent Morrison.
Saraphene’s fingers tightened around the silver tray she carried until the muscles in her hand began to ache.
For eight months, she had trained herself to recognize his silhouette before his face. She knew the slight forward tilt of his shoulders when he was pretending to listen to someone. She knew the way his right hand disappeared casually into his trouser pocket when he wanted to look relaxed.
She knew the smile.
Once, that smile had made her feel chosen.
Now it made the back of her neck turn cold.
Trent stood beside a woman in a red evening gown, laughing at something one of the men around him had said. His hand rested lightly on the woman’s elbow.
Possessive.
Familiar.
The gesture sent Saraphene back two years—to dinners where Trent had ordered for her without asking, to evenings when he had checked her phone because he said couples should have “nothing to hide,” to mornings when he had apologized so tenderly that she had almost convinced herself the night before had been her fault.
She had spent too long confusing control with love.
She had finally left.
Trent had never accepted that.
“Miss?”
A guest lifted an empty champagne glass toward her.
Saraphene blinked.
“Sorry.”
She exchanged the glass mechanically, keeping her head turned so Trent wouldn’t see her face.
The Beaumont Gallery charity auction was supposed to be simple.
Seven hours.
Three times her normal pay.
Go home.
Pay rent.
Forget the rich people whose watches cost more than her car.
But Trent had changed the equation the moment she saw him.
Saraphene retreated toward the service station.
Marco, the floor manager, barely looked up.
“Table seven needs another bottle.”
“Okay.”
Her voice sounded normal.
That surprised her.
She reached for a chilled bottle, but her hand trembled badly enough that glass clicked against metal.
Marco finally noticed.
“You all right?”
“Just tired.”
He shrugged.
The moment he turned away, Saraphene looked back toward the main gallery.
Trent was gone.
Her heart stopped for one terrible second.
Then started much too fast.
She scanned the crowd.
Red dress.
Two businessmen.
A white-haired collector.
No Trent.
Saraphene abandoned the champagne.
She slipped through a service door and entered one of the gallery’s rear corridors.
The transformation was immediate.
Crystal chandeliers became fluorescent ceiling lights.
Marble became concrete.
Music and polite laughter faded behind thick walls.
Saraphene walked faster.
She told herself she was being cautious.
Not panicking.
She had a restraining order.
Security was downstairs.
There were hundreds of witnesses in the building.
And yet every practical reassurance collapsed under one memory: Trent parked outside her apartment at two in the morning, watching her bedroom window after a judge had ordered him to stay away.
Paper had not stopped him then.
Why would it stop him now?
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Male voices.
Saraphene did not turn around.
She saw an unmarked door ahead and reached for it.
Storage closet.
Office.
Anything.
She slipped inside.
And froze.
It was a private restroom.
Black marble walls reflected low amber light. Gold fixtures gleamed beneath an enormous mirror. Fresh white flowers rested beside the sink.
A man stood in front of the mirror fastening the expensive watch around his wrist.
Saraphene had seen plenty of wealthy men that evening.
This one was different.
He was tall enough that the room seemed smaller around him. Broad shoulders filled a charcoal suit tailored so perfectly it looked less like clothing and more like armor. His dark hair was swept back, and short stubble sharpened an already severe face.
A dark tattoo disappeared beneath the collar of his open white shirt.
His eyes met hers through the mirror.
Gray.
Cool.
Alert.
“I’m sorry,” Saraphene whispered. “I thought this was—”
The voices outside grew louder.
Her eyes snapped toward the door.
The stranger’s gaze followed hers.
Something in Saraphene’s face must have answered a question she had not yet heard.
He moved.
Fast.
Not frantic.
He reached past her and switched off the main light.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Saraphene instinctively pulled back.
A hand closed around her wrist.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not painful.
The stranger guided her behind the door just as the handle turned.
Her shoulder almost touched his chest.
The scent of cedar and bergamot surrounded her.
The door opened several inches.
“Thought I saw somebody come in here,” a man said from the corridor.
Saraphene held her breath.
It wasn’t Trent.
But she did not recognize the voice.
The man beside her answered calmly.
“Bathroom’s occupied.”
There was something about his tone.
No raised voice.
No threat.
Still, the response outside came immediately.
“Oh. Sorry, sir.”
“The sign was removed for repair.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed.
Footsteps retreated.
Saraphene stayed motionless.
The stranger waited.
Only after the voices disappeared completely did he release her wrist.
No lingering touch.
No attempt to keep her close.
He switched on a smaller lamp above the mirror instead of the overhead lights.
Warm amber filled the room.
“You can breathe now,” he said.
Saraphene realized she hadn’t been.
She released the air slowly.
“Thank you.”
He studied her without staring.
His gaze briefly touched the black server’s uniform, the uncomfortable shoes and the name badge pinned crookedly near her collarbone.
“Saraphene.”
She looked down.
The badge.
“Yes.”
“You’re working the auction.”
“Temporarily.”
“That much I guessed.”
There was the faintest suggestion of amusement in his expression.
Saraphene straightened.
“I should go.”
“Not yet.”
Every muscle in her body tightened.
The man noticed immediately.
He stepped away.
“Someone frightened you enough to run into an unknown room without checking what was inside,” he said. “Leaving thirty seconds later would defeat the purpose.”
Saraphene hesitated.
His reasoning was annoyingly sound.
She leaned back against the marble wall.
He finished adjusting his watch.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he said, “Selian Ashford.”
Saraphene waited.
Nothing.
He turned slightly.
“You’ve never heard the name.”
“Should I have?”
This time, the amusement was unmistakable.
“Probably not.”
“Saraphene Winters.”
“I know.”
Her hand went automatically toward her badge again.
Selian’s eyes followed the movement.
“Relax. I’m not psychic.”
“Good. That would make tonight considerably worse.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
Then his expression changed.
“Who are you hiding from?”
Saraphene looked toward the door.
“Someone from my past.”
“Is he at the auction?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does he represent an inconvenience or a threat?”
Saraphene disliked how quickly the distinction reached the truth.
“I have a restraining order.”
Selian became completely still.
“He ignores it sometimes,” she added.
“How many times?”
“Three violations that were documented.”
“And the undocumented ones?”
Saraphene looked at him.
Selian waited.
“More.”
Something cold entered his gray eyes.
Not anger exactly.
Anger was loud.
What she saw was quieter.
“Name?”
“Why?”
“So I know who I’m looking at if he walks through that door.”
“I don’t want trouble.”
“Neither do I.”
Saraphene almost laughed.
Everything about him suggested that trouble had learned to ask his permission before entering a room.
She rubbed her arms.
“Trent Morrison.”
Selian repeated the name once.
“Trent Morrison.”
He seemed to store it somewhere.
Saraphene pushed away from the wall.
“I really do need to get back. My manager will notice.”
Selian reached inside his jacket.
Saraphene tensed again.
He produced a business card.
Cream.
Heavy.
Minimal printing.
SELIAN ASHFORD
ANTIQUITIES ACQUISITION & PRIVATE SALES
One telephone number.
No office.
No website.
No email.
Saraphene accepted it.
“You run an antiques business?”
“Among other things.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.”
“It’s intentionally vague.”
She looked at him.
Selian met her eyes without embarrassment.
“If you need assistance tonight, call that number.”
“I doubt I can afford your services.”
“Professional courtesy.”
“Do all temporary servers receive professional courtesy?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be flirtation.
It sounded like fact.
Selian moved toward the door.
“Wait sixty seconds after I leave.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Walk through the main room.”
“That’s it?”
“People tend to notice me.”
Saraphene believed him.
His hand reached the door handle.
“Why are you helping me?”
He stopped.
For the first time, something personal passed behind the disciplined mask.
Not softness.
Recognition.
“Because eight months is a long time to spend running from someone.”
Saraphene’s stomach tightened.
“I didn’t tell you it had been eight months.”
Silence.
Selian’s eyes shifted toward her.
The room suddenly felt different.
Saraphene looked at the business card.
Then back at him.
“How did you know?”
Selian did not answer immediately.
From somewhere beyond the restroom came the muffled applause of the auction crowd.
Finally he said, “I saw Morrison before you entered this corridor.”
“That doesn’t explain eight months.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Selian’s jaw tightened.
For the first time since she entered, his control looked imperfect.
Only for a second.
“Not tonight.”
He opened the door.
Saraphene stared after him.
“You expect me to trust you after saying that?”
Selian looked over his shoulder.
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“I expect you to survive long enough to decide whether you should.”
Then he disappeared into the corridor.
Saraphene remained motionless.
The business card felt strangely heavy in her hand.
She counted to sixty.
When she returned to the gallery, Trent was on the opposite side of the room.
Selian stood twenty feet away from him speaking to an older collector.
For one brief instant, Selian glanced toward Saraphene.
A barely perceptible nod.
Nothing more.
Trent never saw her.
Three hours later, the auction ended.
Saraphene changed into flats, collected her coat and was counting the disappointing pile of tips in the service room when Marco entered.
“Miss Winters.”
She looked up.
“Mr. Ashford asked me to give you this.”
He placed a cream envelope on the table.
The same color as the business card.
Saraphene opened it.
Inside was cash.
A lot of cash.
Enough for her rent.
Enough for next month too.
Beneath it lay a handwritten note.
Only eight words.
Take a cab. Do not walk home tonight.
Saraphene stared at the message.
Then she turned the envelope over.
There was something else written on the back.
An address.
Her address.
The apartment she had never told Selian about.
And underneath it, one final sentence.
Morrison already knows where you live.
Saraphene’s blood went cold.
Across the dark street outside the Beaumont Gallery, the headlights of a black sedan came on.
May you like
And somebody inside was watching the door.
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