The scrape of Ryan's chair pushing back from the table echoed like a gunshot in the cavernous dining room.
He walked down the length of the heavy mahogany table with the slow, measured stride of a man entirely comfortable in hostile territory.
The thick Persian rug swallowed the sound of his boots. The crystal chandelier overhead cast sharp, fractured light across the half-empty plates of seared duck and the pooling dregs of red wine.
Diana stood at the far end, her knuckles resting white against the edge of the wood.
The pristine, slate-grey silk of her blouse shifted with the rapid, uneven rise and fall of her chest. She didn't back away, but the sudden, rigid locking of her spine screamed of cornered panic.
"Stop right there," Diana commanded, her voice dropping into a harsh, frantic whisper. She threw a desperate glance toward the closed oak double doors leading to the hallway. "We cannot do this again. It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment."
Ryan kept walking.
