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one else sitting in the immediate area around them, so she assumed he had spoken to her. “I’m sorry; what did you say?”
    â€œThis stratagem of yours.” He sat forward. Soft light from an overhead spot gilded the straight black hair brushing his shoulders, but only skimmed down the imperial line of his nose to jump to the rim of his wineglass. “It won’t work.”
    Stratagem . Chris couldn’t remember ever hearing another person actually use that word in conversation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œUsing that large, friendly fellow at the bar as an excuse to change seats was utter genius,” the stranger told her. “Anyone would think that you moved here simply to escape him.”
    Chris caught the scent of something like citrus and dark, sweet violets, and guessed it came from the red wine he was drinking. “Anyone but you.”
    White teeth flashed briefly before he picked up his drink and merged back into the shadows.
    Chris watched Nacho Man lead Killer Cleavage out of the bar and toward the nearest elevator. “Am I that obvious?”
    â€œYou’re a quiet, beautiful woman in a loud, ugly place. An orchid among weeds. You define obvious.” He placed his empty wineglass back on the table. “Men have been besieging you since the moment you arrived, yet each time you’ve politely declined their attentions and sent them on their way. One must draw from that certain conclusions.”
    Usually Chris picked up right away on other people watching her—an occupational hazard—so she felt mildly annoyed not to have noticed his interest. “What have you concluded?”
    â€œYou came here for me.”
    He was either deadly serious, or simply having fun with her. Even with her ten years of experience evaluating what people said, and why, the elegant accent made it hard to judge.
    Chris waited to hear more, but he didn’t expand on the outrageous statement. Instead he lifted a narrow, long-fingered hand and with a single, sinuous gesture conjured up a cocktail waitress.
    He might have the voice, the class, and the moves to be the Magician, Chris thought, but he was too young. The fact that he was British also didn’t fit. They knew the Magician had helped himself to rare art collections and museums in seventeen countries, but he’d never pulled a job or sold his goods in the U.K.
    Magic Man didn’t seem to like the Brits, so it was a safe bet that he wasn’t one himself.
    â€œYes, sir?” The waitress’s grin stretched so wide it distorted the shape of her nostrils. “Would you like another glass of wine?”
    He shook his head. “A ginger ale for the lady, if you would, please.”
    The waitress trotted to the bar, ignoring three other patrons trying to flag her down, and returned in thirty seconds with the soda, which she plopped in front of Chris without a glance in her direction.
    â€œThank you.” Chris waited until the waitress reluctantly withdrew to attend to another table before she asked the stranger, “How did you know what I was drinking?”
    He answered with only a deep, velvet-soft laugh. The resonance of it danced across her skin, as intimate and warm as a lover’s whispered secrets.
    Slightly unnerved by her physical reaction, Chris drew back. You’re here to work, she reminded herself, not to flirt with mysterious foreign strangers in the dark .
    Across from the main bar, the three-piece band returned from their dinner break and positioned themselves behind their instruments. After a short sound test and tuning, the eldest member of the trio switched on the microphone overhanging his keyboard.
    â€œHow are we all doing tonight?” The Jerry Garcia look-alike waited a beat, but no one replied. “That’s great, that’s great. Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to welcome you all to the Bar with a View at the St. Carlson Hotel in