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To me, he looked like a man hiding something. The nondescript clothing, the relaxed yet alert body language, the angling of his face away from surveillance cameras—this was a professional.

A plain blue cap obscured half his features. He was around six foot two, Caucasian with a muscular build and dark hair. Black T-shirt, no identifiable logos.

Sean read my mind. “The shirt he’s wearing is a potential match for the fibers,” he said. “We pieced together the surveillance footage from surrounding businesses. We don’t have a direct shot of his face, but when you take timing, clothing, and other relevant factors into account, he’s the most likely suspect.”

I examined the photo again and caught something I’d missed the first time—a hint of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt. He was too blurry and far away for me to make out the details, but that was nothing a good enhancer couldn’t fix.

Once again, Sean picked up on what I was thinking. “We’ve enhanced the image and are analyzing the tattoo. It’s difficult since we only see a quarter of it, but once we have the specs, we’ll run it through our database.”

I sent my reply.Good. Chase it as far as you can. Money and time aren’t an issue.

I didn’t care how many months or years it took; I was going to find the bastard who’d tried to kill me.

Earlier this year, during a walkthrough of the now-famous Vault nightclub where I was a silent partner, I’d nearly died during a “freak” fire. If the Vault’s owner, Xavier Castillo, hadn’t risked his life and dragged me out in time, I would be a pile of ashes.

Official sources chalked it up to old, faulty wiring, but the timing and method had been too coincidental.

I didn’t believe in coincidences, and I definitely didn’t trust the city investigators. I’d ordered my team to look into the fire themselves.

It was a testament to their loyalty that they’d never questioned me despite half a year of dead ends.

But we were getting closer. Like Sean said, the tattoo wasn’t much, but it was something, and that was all I needed.

The bathroom door opened.

I exited out of the video call without another word and shut my laptop before Ayana even stepped foot in the bedroom.

“Sorry for hogging the shower,” she called out. “It’s all yours if you want it.”

I glanced over. My teeth clenched as a visceral bolt of heat streaked through my blood.

Fuck.

She wore a gold silk robe that flowed past her knees. It was perfectly modest, but it didn’t matter.

Makeup-free face.

Bare feet.

Glistening skin.

The sight of her fresh out of the shower was so goddamn intimate, it hit me like a punch in the gut.

I could handle her in a fancy gown or a swimsuit, but not like this. Not when the only thing that separated us was an expanse of carpet and my own fraying self-control.

She was my friend’s fiancée. I had no business noticing the lush curve of her lips, or fixating on the bead of water dripping down her neck.

And I certainly had no business imagining my mouth following that water—down, down the slender column of her throat and into the shadow of her neckline.

But I’d always done things I had no business doing. No one had ever stopped me.

No one had ever dared.

I leaned back, my face impassive as Ayana walked over to grab her phone off the table. The sleeve of her robe grazed my arm when she reached across me.

An electric current ran the length of my body, intensifying my loathing, and I turned my head so I didn’t have to breathe her in.

Some women had a signature scent, but Ayana wore a different fragrance every time. Sweet one day, sultry the next.