A family of quail scurries past, the babies following their mother in single file. They pause at the edge of a scrubby bush, the mother alert for danger while her chicks dart for cover. Nature’s own little power dynamic—protect and control, lead and follow.
The sun touches the western mountains, and suddenly everything is gold. The light paints the rock faces, transforming the landscape into something almost otherworldly.
Does Ruby ever watch sunsets? I doubt it.
“Stop it,” I tell myself. The desert swallows my words. This isn’t why I came here. I didn’t drive into the desert to think about Ruby Walsh. I came here to escape thoughts of her.
I’m alone by choice, by design, by necessity. The club provides everything I need—power, pleasure, the illusion of intimacy without its complications. I need to keep it that way.
The sun slips lower and violet shadows pool in the canyon depths while the peaks still flame with light. A raven calls somewhere below, its voice echoing off the cliff faces. This is the magic hour, when the desert reveals its secrets. When the line between earth and sky blurs, when anything seems possible. The time when decisions made in daylight’s harsh reality might shift.
But I know better. Love can be dangerous—I learned that lesson well enough in another life. Better to trust in what you can control.
I watch until the last rays fade from the highest peaks, until the first stars appear in the deepening blue above. Time to head back and hold Mark’s hand through Pankration Night in the Palestra. The massive arena, designed to echo the ancient Greek wrestling schools, has become the Olympus’s main attraction on Tuesday nights. Mark gets nervous handling these events without my input. Our modern take on the combat sport draws a particular crowd—mostly MMA enthusiasts, all wanting to prove themselves in what they call “the purest form of fighting.” The combination of ancient tradition and modern egos can be volatile, especially once the betting and drinking start. While our security team is excellent, some situations require a more diplomatic touch, making sure no one gets too creative with the wrestling rules.
The stars multiply across the sky as I get into my car. My mind isn’t clear, but it’s a little calmer. The desert’s done its job.
NINETEEN
RUBY
The lights in the other offices have dimmed one by one, leaving our corner on the fortieth floor glowing like a beacon. Miranda is still at her desk outside my office, powered by what must be her tenth espresso of the day.
“That’s the last of the Morrison paperwork,” she says, adding another stack to my desk. “See? We’ve almost caught up on the backlog. Youcantake a vacation from time to time.”
I glance at my watch—7:02 p.m. Usually at this hour, I’d just be hitting my stride, settling in for a long night of more work. But tonight, my mind keeps wandering to white suits and handcuffs.
“Earth to Ruby?” Miranda waves a hand in front of my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks for this.” I shuffle papers on my desk, trying to look busy. The truth is, I haven’t accomplished nearly as much as I should have today. Every time I try to focus on work, I remember Athena’s hands on my skin and fantasies flashbefore me.
Miranda perches on the edge of my desk—something she only does when we’re alone.
“So…” she says carefully. “How was your week off? Did you actually relax for once?”
I consider my answer. “It was…interesting. Difficult at first.” I pick up a random file, not meeting her eyes. “I finally dealt with some things I’ve been putting off. Claire’s clothes, her subscriptions, calls I should have made ages ago.”
“Oh...” Her voice softens. “That must have been hard.”
“It was time. I’m ready to focus on work again.”
That’s not entirely true. While I’ve cleared some of the physical reminders of Claire from my house, my mind is caught between two worlds. Every memory of Claire that surfaces now tangles with new images—women giving themselves over to pleasure, leather against skin, power exchanged like currency. And through it all, Athena’s dark eyes watching me. I’m suspended between grief and hunger, between letting go and holding on, between what was and what could be.
“Miranda?” I try to sound casual. “This is going to sound strange, but…where would you go lingerie shopping in Vegas? Somewhere high-end.”
She nearly chokes on her coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Lingerie. You know, nice stuff.” I can feel my face heating.
Miranda sets down her cup and studies me. I’ve never asked her anything personal, let alone for shopping advice. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my boss?”
“Never mind, forget I asked?—”
“No, no!” She grins. “This is fantastic. There’s an amazing boutique at the Wynn. Small, private brands. Verysexy, very exclusive. Or La Perla at the Shops at Crystals.” She pauses. “Are you…seeing someone?”
“No!” I say too quickly. “I just need…I mean, I want…”
“You don’t have to explain,” Miranda says. “I’m just glad you’re thinking about…well, anything besides work.”
