"You've broken another rule." Alison's voice was soft, as if speaking to him—or perhaps to herself. Mark didn't answer. He stepped closer, his tie loosened by half an inch, his gaze sharper than any pitch he'd ever delivered in the boardroom. His fingertips brushed the edge of her desk, then deliberately pushed down the folder she had just organized—*snap*. The sound seemed to mute the world. The lights on the entire floor dimmed abruptly. She stepped back, her spine pressing against the floor-to-ceiling window. The night wind lifted the hem of her skirt. Thirty stories below, the city shimmered, and his breath grazed her ear: "Do you know what the most dangerous rule is?" His low, husky voice curled with amusement. "Pretending you're not affected." "I'm a professional," she said, enunciating each word clearly—though not even she believed it. Her wrist tightened in his grip as he pinned her hand behind her back, then pulled a red rose from his inner jacket pocket—not like a gift, but like drawing a weapon. "Last Wednesday, you were late by exactly seven minutes," he said slowly, sliding the stem into her fingers. "Just so you could avoid the elevator and take the stairwell." "On the fifteenth last month, you changed your perfume." He leaned in, his nose nearly brushing her neck. "Used to be cedarwood. Now it's night-blooming jasmine—know why?" "Because you wanted me to run into you in the break room." Alison jerked her head up, pupils trembling. He knew everything. "This isn't ambiguity, Alison." He smiled, his thumb tracing her feverish wrist bone. "This is hunting. And you—" Suddenly, the entire building went dark. In the flicker of emergency lighting, the rose dropped to the floor. His lips skimmed her quivering mouth: "You started it." In the darkness, only the red rose lay still on the carpet—like a drop of blood, fresh and un-dried. Then, the security alarm blared. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. And her hand still clutched the thorn he had given her.