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‘Silent’.
    FOR A GOOD MOOD, BREAK A LEG.
    She can’t help smiling. And also wondering what the hell is up with Brian that he had to rush off like this?

9
     
    The alarm has long been deactivated when Brian arrives at the doors of his penthouse. Two security guards are waiting for him.
    “We can find no signs of breaking or entering, sir,” one of them says, indicating the door. “It may be that the alarm system is faulty.”
    It’s true. The doors do not appear tampered with. And it’s unlikely someone climbed in through the window, seeing as they are thirty-three floors up.
    “Thanks, Gus,” Brian says. He inserts his key into the lock. Pushing the doors apart, he enters his apartment.
    The complex alarm system on the side of the door is flashing. Brian swiftly disarms it.
    “Zone Three,” he pronounces. “That would be . . . ” he raises his head skyward “ . . . the bedroom.”
    “Let us check it out, sir,” Gus says.
    The guards fan out. One of them combs downstairs while the other rapidly ascends the wooden spiral stairway that leads to the upper level. Brian’s pulse taps a steady beat at his neck. He’s not unduly worried that anyone would break in. That is the reason why he has a penthouse – for the security.
    But he has had a lot of visitors. A lot of one night stands.
    He hasn’t been too careful in that regard. Any one of them could have ferreted out his alarm system. But they are all women anyway. He didn’t think any of them were criminals.
    Maybe he should buy himself a separate fuck pad. Somewhere he doesn’t live.
    Gus comes down the stairs. “All clear, sir.”
    “Good to know. I need to head out again. Thanks and sorry for the literally false alarm.”
    “You should get the alarm company to have a look at it Monday, sir.”
    For answer, Brian smiles and holds the door open.
    When the security guards have taken the elevator downstairs, he arms the alarm again and exits, locking the door behind him. Aida has probably finished killing herself over her hot commander by now, but maybe he can catch Sam and the rest for drinks – provided Cassie hasn’t burned the opera house down with her witchery.
    He pushes the button for the private elevator – the only car available on the floor. When it arrives, he steps in. He rides all thirty-three floors down, thinking of Sam pitching to Old Man Moody and smiling. He has full confidence in her, even if she doesn’t seem to have much in herself.
    The elevator doors slide open and he steps out.
    And collides into a woman carrying a dish.
    Whatever was in that dish upturns and spills onto the woman’s dress. But she manages to catch the dish before it can slide down her front and splinter into a thousand pieces upon the floor.
    “Oh, oh, oh,” she wails.
    “I’m sorry,” Brian says, reaching for the dish and righting it again. “But look on the bright side. At least we managed to save half of whatever’s cooking.”
    If there’s a glass lid to the dish, which is made out of white china, he can’t find it on her, or on the floor, or anywhere else. Unless it has slid down her dress.
    And what a dress.
    He finds himself looking at a pretty redhead in a green gabardine dress cut to show off plenty of cleavage. And that cleavage – which immediately arrests his eyes – is now covered with a generous helping of Bolognese sauce.
    She says, “Now I’m a mess.”
    “It goes well with your hair.”
    She glares at him. “Are you always this smug?”
    “I was only trying to compliment you . . . and to get you to see the bright side of the situation. That’s me, an eternal optimist.” Brian flashes his most charming smile, the one he knows will get women out of their panties faster than they can raise their skirts.
    He points at her cleavage. He is on his predatory mode again – the one that comes naturally to him like the air he’s breathing.
    “If you’d like to come up to my place, I can get you cleaned up. And nothing else will