The band finally ended their set. As the crowd on the main floor dispersed, Bo tracked Astrid’s sparkling dress to a table across the main aisle, where she sat down with her back to him. Alone. Waiting for her friends, he supposed. Or was she? Was that just a fabricated excuse to shake off any protests that she’d be out alone, acting like a spoiled flapper, drinking and dancing with anyone in sight? What the devil was going on here, anyway?

“Oh my,” Sylvia said, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “My-oh-my-oh-my.”

Bo’s gaze flicked to his companion’s face.

She gave him a pitiful smile. “What I wouldn’t have given for you to look at me like that.”

He relaxed against his seat and tapped his fingertips against the linen-covered table. Casual, cool. Slow breaths. He didn’t dare look in Astrid’s direction again. In fact, he banished her from his head completely, proud that he actually could.

“But if I’m being honest,” Sylvia continued, “I do think I prefer you better as friend. You are less intense.”

“You were the one who told me I was coming by too often.”

“I got tired of you looking at the clock and hearing you talk about her.” Sylvia lifted her chin in Astrid’s direction.

“You didn’t want a commitment,” he argued.

She lowered her eyes. “No woman wants to settle for second prize, Yeung Bo-Sing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and meant it. “I wish things had turned out different between us. We’ve never talked about it, but that last night, with—”

“I agreed to it. We were drunk.”

“My good sense failed me.”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “Amy was always more adventurous.”

“It changed things between us, and I can’t even look at your sister anymore without feeling guilty.”

She dismissed his words with a coy smile. “No need for regret. Amy has long forgotten it.”

It may have been two years ago, but her sister still flirted with him shamelessly and occasionally tried to talk him into coming over when Sylvia wasn’t around. Which would be a temptation to even the most pious of priests. But he couldn’t. Sylvia would be hurt, for one, and he valued her friendship too much. More than that, just thinking about it made him feel like he was cheating on Astrid . . . a woman he’d never even kissed.

He was pathetic. Truly.

“Besides,” she said. “I’ve forgotten it already, too.”

“Ugh.” He clutched his chest and grinned. “My male pride.”

Sylvia swatted his hand playfully. “What about my female pride? You drag me out here tonight for what—to make your little biscuit jealous?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed with cool incredulity.

“All right, yes.” Was she mad? He felt a little ashamed, and hoped she wasn’t mad, considering their history. Sylvia was hard to read. Sometimes he felt she was full of light, uncaring about what anyone thought, and other times, he worried that she cared too much and went to great lengths to hide it.

But she only laughed at him right now, and relief washed through him.

“Fine,” she said. “But you really owe me, and I get to name the price.”

They ribbed each other good-naturedly for a while, Sylvia naming off favors that became more and more exorbitant, until she elbowed his arm. “Hold on a minute. Now who is that she’s talking to?”

Bo looked. A man sat at Astrid’s table. Well dressed, older. No friend of hers that Bo knew—and Bo knew them all. In fact, he’d go so far as to call the mystery man at Astrid’s table . . . dangerous looking. An animal toying with its prey. That’s likely your jealous heart talking, he told himself. But he realized a moment later that his instincts about the man were not based on anything the man himself was doing. Bo was only reading Astrid; she had gone completely rigid in her seat.

Without thinking, Bo pushed away from the table. But before he could stand, Astrid was on her feet and saying something to the man as she dashed away and disappeared behind a column.

“What was that all about?” Sylvia said in a low voice.

Bo wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like it. And he liked it even less when the mystery man followed Astrid into the shadows.

“Stay here,” Bo instructed Sylvia, and strode off after the man.

SEVEN

The restroom was empty but for a single woman fixing her hair in a mirror. No attendant. Maybe she was on a break. Astrid breezed past the mirrors, headed to the last of three marble-walled toilet stalls, and closed the door with a sigh of relief.

Tonight was not going well. She sat on the edge of the toilet seat and cursed her friends for not showing up and leaving her here to deal with drunken strangers on her own. Cursed herself, too, for telling Jonte she’d find her own ride home. At least she had money for a taxi. If she could just sit it out here long enough for that shady man to leave, she could make a beeline for the lobby and get her coat.

It will be fine, she told herself as she blew out a long breath. He was just a drunken lout. A nosy reporter trying to get a scoop. So why couldn’t she get the image of his garish ring out her head? She was being paranoid, surely, but the ring reminded her of the turquoise idol . . .

What if he wasn’t a reporter after all?

A faucet squeaked off. Heels clicked across the floor, and for a moment the noise of the club filled the tiled restroom. Then the door blocked it out again.