The afternoon sun broke through the heavy winter clouds leaving brilliant, blinding shafts of white light across the hardwood floor of the Tribeca penthouse.
Ryan stood in the massive, slate-tiled master bathroom, the hot water of the dual rainfall shower washing the sweat and exhaustion from his skin.
The glass enclosure was thick with steam.
He turned the heavy brass valve, shutting off the water, and reached for a thick towel.
When he stepped out of the enclosure, drying his hair, he stopped.
Diana Lockridge was sitting on the edge of the massive marble soaking tub.
She wore a plush, white hotel robe, belted loosely at her waist.
Her hair was still damp from her own shower earlier, combed back off her face. The severe, aristocratic venture capitalist was gone.
She looked serene, deeply grounded, her dark eyes tracking the water droplets rolling down his chest.
