London, 9:03 a.m.

Luke was waiting downstairs like nothing had happened.

He was dressed in a black coat with blacker sunglasses and steel in his jaw, plus a perfectly blank expression as he stood by the Bentley’s open door. He looked like a man ready to guard royalty, not someone who’d had his hands up her dress and his mouth on her neck six hours ago.

Anna Rossi descended the marble steps in a blazer-dress that screamed “fuck off” in a dialect only billionaires could afford. Her lush hair was scraped into a high ponytail.

She didn’t speak. She merely slid into the backseat with the elegance of someone who’d...