Quintin’s attention shifted to the foyer below as he leaned over the wooden railing out of intrigue. There was movement at the bottom of the stairs, conversation. On instinct, Quintin stepped out of the light and stood next to a potted palm. The words of two men tiptoed up the staircase and floated into his ears.

“Ambassador,” a gentle but firm voice said, “we’ve had a breech in security.”

Quintin had to move closer to the banister to get a glimpse of the Ambassador. But there he was: chiseled jaw, dark hair, tailored tuxedo. He was more than handsome—he was breathtaking and enigmatic. The perfect leading man for a glamorous woman like Regina Bremington.

An exasperated sigh escaped the Ambassador. “Whoever it is, get rid of ’em.”

The other man was taller and a generation younger than his boss. His voice seemed concerned, edged with panic. “Someone or something has triggered a silent alarm in the house. We’re trying to determine the source. See if it’s anything we should be worried about.”

The Ambassador put his champagne glass down on the edge of an antique table, next to a gorgeous Tiffany lamp. The light cast an amber glow on his camera-ready face. “It’s probably that damn cat again.” Quintin could have sworn he caught a smile on the other guy’s face but he was too far away to be sure. “Have I ever told you how much I hate cats? My wife insisted we bring that thing with us from New York. She treats it better than she’s ever treated me.”

Quintin tried to get a better look at the younger man standing eye to eye with the Ambassador. He was also well dressed, but not nearly as exquisite as the host. He placed a finger to his lobe, trying to decipher words that were being fed to him from some sort of earpiece. “Sir,” he said, and the rising concern in his voice caused Quintin’s breath to quicken. “We just found signs of forced entry. There was a break in through the tunnel into the wine cellar.”

“How? Did they dig through cement? I was told that tunnel was sealed off years ago.”

“I don’t have all the details yet, sir.”

“Well, then, do something about it, Reed.”

“My men are searching the property.”

“Tell them to look harder. Nothing ruins one of Regina’s parties like an unwanted guest.”

“Will do, sir.”

The Ambassador returned to the ballroom, leaving his champagne glass behind. Reed moved toward the front door. Quintin stepped away from the staircase, turned, and headed down the long, narrow corridor. The wall sconces flickered, casting his shadow across the yellow wallpaper as if he were being haunted by his own ghost. He reached for the nickel-brushed knob on the first door on his right. His fingers stung a little against the cold metal. With a quick spin of his wrist, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The electricity went out the second Quintin entered the bedroom. It was as if he’d tripped an invisible wire, activating it when he crossed the threshold. The immediate blanket of darkness surprised and scared him. He turned back, intending to leave the bedroom and return to the party downstairs, but the corridor was now a sea of murky black. He stood in the doorway, certain he could hear the wild beat of his own heart. A commotion was happening downstairs: an echo of worried voices swam up the staircase, sifting through the ceiling of the ballroom and spiraling through the planks of the wooden floor of the bedroom. Something is very wrong. Quintin feared the lights were out in the entire estate. As if someone cut the power. As if it was planned. A breach in security.

Quintin realized he was not alone in the dark. He sensed someone else there. The slow and steady breath of a stranger caught his attention. He squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust to the blackness. A thin stream of what looked like moonlight was coming from somewhere, seeping out from beneath a door around the corner from where he stood. A bathroom? A closet, maybe? Quintin closed the bedroom door. He took a step forward, toward the small source of pale white light, and waited.

“You are not supposed to be in here,” a voice instructed. It was a man’s voice, deep and solid. The foreign tone of it wrapped around Quintin’s body and kissed his soul. Quintin found himself simultaneously attracted to the warm hollow of the seductive voice, yet also frightened by it. He couldn’t determine the accent, but it was there. French? Greek?

Quintin tried to swallow the thick layer of nerves coating his tongue. “I’m not the Ambassador,” he quickly explained. “I’m just a guest. I was invited here by his wife.”

“I know who you are,” the stranger replied, moving closer until he stood in front of him. His bathwater voice felt warm against Quintin’s face. “You are an American.”

“Yes,” Quintin replied in a half-whisper. “I’m American. And you’re probably right. I’m not supposed to be here. I write lousy articles for a magazine for old people. So, if you’re going to hurt me—”

The stranger’s hot breath reached Quintin’s mouth when he spoke, and the sensation forced him to lick his lips. “I will not hurt you,” he promised.

Quintin hoped the slight quiver in his own voice wouldn’t betray his fear. “Who are you?”

“Shhh,” the stranger said. Quintin felt a fingertip pressed to his lips. He inhaled the scent of the man’s tender skin. It was salty and sweet. “No time for questions. Not now.”