Luke Marlowe had been shot at three times in his life.



 Once in Libya. The second in Prague and the last while standing too close to a Saudi prince with a questionable poker habit.



 None of those things compared to the quiet fury of waiting in a Bentley while Anna Rossi flirted her way through a blind date with a man named Barclay.



 Barclay.



 Who the fuck was named Barclay? Was he a polo horse?



 Luke glanced at the restaurant door again and still no sign of her. Just some other overdressed men with veneers and inherited confidence stepping out with women who looked bored enough to start fires for...