While the others kept their gun sights trained on her, one of them put a knee to her back and cuffed her. He hauled her to her feet. Without a word—and, curiously, without a glance at the body on the floor—he shoved her ahead of him into the first airlock. Four men stepped in behind them, and the doors slid shut.

A whoosh of suction from above, that same siss of pressurized air when the rear doors had closed, and another set of doors in front of her opened. A rifle poked into the small of her back, which she took as an invitation to step forward.

Once through all three airlocks, she stood blinking in a long, bright, sterile corridor. More of the black-clad men with rifles lined either side, down its entire length. She said loudly into the silence, “Not a great plan, boys, lining up on both sides. How many do you think would be killed in a cross fire?”

This caused more than a few of the men along the walls to shift their weight from one booted foot to the other.

“Move,” said the guard with the gun at her back, and so, more curious than anything, she did.

The room the guards led her to required a long elevator trip, but the ride was so smooth and swift she couldn’t tell whether it went up or down. Another lighted corridor, another row of men with guns, a short stairway carpeted in plush, ivory wool, and then she stood before a set of polished wood doors. The doors opened, and she looked in.

The room was big, but the time she’d spent in her cell made it seem cavernous. Decorated in muted tones of ivory and gold, the furniture, carpeting, draperies, and silk-paneled walls were all of the finest quality, which her eyes, so long denied anything of beauty, drank in.

A guard uncuffed her, and said, “In.”

She stepped forward a few feet, then stopped, shucked off the cotton slippers, and went on, stifling a moan at the silky decadence of the carpet against her bare soles. The doors closed behind her with a quiet snick.

The main room opened to another: a formal dining room, complete with a glittering crystal chandelier. Beyond that was a gleaming kitchen she didn’t approach; she turned instead the other direction and found a master suite right out of Architectural Digest. A curving staircase led her to the second floor, where the dramatic strains of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for organ playing through wall speakers teased a wry smile to her lips.

Phantom of the Opera music. Someone had a sense of humor.

She recognized the Monet above the fireplace, the Renoir above the sofa in the sitting area, the exquisite little bronze Degas ballerina on a lighted stand against one wall. A profusion of white roses scented every room, bursting from vases of bone china and marble, and after so many years of smelling nothing but antiseptic and dead air and the sour human smells of the man who came to visit her on Thursdays, the lush perfume of fresh flowers was so welcome she had to stand still for a moment, inhaling greedily, drunk with the unexpected pleasure of it.

She’d had money once, a great deal of it, and knew that every piece of art and furniture in this place had been carefully selected by someone with a vast amount of wealth, and perhaps an even greater sense of style.

But it was the view that really moved her.

One entire wall of the second floor was composed of windows, floor-to-ceiling glass that showcased in the most brilliant, stunning detail the long white strip of sand and the glimmering ocean that loomed beyond. The sky was ablaze with purple, lavender, and crimson, the most spectacular sunset she’d ever seen. As she watched, a pod of dolphins broke the surface of a cresting wave, sailed weightlessly for a heartbeat, then sliced back into the water, disappearing without a trace.

The sight made moisture well in her eyes. She’d swum as a dolphin only once, but it had been one of the greatest joys of her life.

Where on Earth was this place?

Behind her, someone said, “I knew you lived by the beach when you were a young woman. Venice, wasn’t it?”

She whirled around, stunned that she’d been so engrossed she hadn’t even heard anyone enter. There stood a man, tall, slender and sophisticated in a beautifully cut suit of deepest royal blue.

“Jenna,” he said warmly, his voice a rich, seductive baritone, “I’ve wanted to meet you in person for so long.”

He was neither handsome nor ugly, but rather . . . interesting, with the kind of features that wouldn’t stand alone well under close examination—his nose was too long, his lips too thin, his hairline asymmetrical—but when brought together managed a pleasing, oddly trust-inspiring harmony. It brought to mind a respected newscaster, or a beloved character actor rather than a movie star. He was slightly stoop-shouldered, and his close-cropped pale hair and veined hands belied the age his smooth facial skin tried to hide, but he exuded the robustness and vitality of a far younger man.

You’re seventy if you’re a day, thought Jenna. Vain bastard.

The color of his suit perfectly matched his eyes. She wondered if it was intentional.

“Funny,” she said, “I would have thought you’d choose the word torture instead of meet.”

He ignored that and moved closer with a slow, easy stride that telegraphed he had no fear of her. He didn’t smell of fear, either. Surprisingly.

“Technology,” he said as he searched her face, correctly guessing her thoughts. “There are as many things in this suite that can kill you in an instant, if I deem it, as there are flowers in that vase.” He gestured to a nearby urn dripping roses.

“Only ninety-seven? In all this space?” She looked around. “I’d think you’d want a little more coverage per square foot.”

The man frowned at the vase. “There should be one hundred roses in that vase. In every vase.” He didn’t seem at all surprised that she was able to calculate the exact number in a passing glance.

“Guess the florist miscounted. Are you going to chop off his head? Or just stick him with a few electrodes and turn up the juice?”

Her withering tone didn’t rile him. Instead, he offered her an apologetic smile. It actually looked sincere. “I regret the necessity of using force on you, Jenna. I’m not a violent man. But you must admit, it was only when you yourself provoked it.”

“Strange how I wouldn’t like being a prisoner. It’s such a wonderful way to spend one’s life.”

Was that smile of his now admiring? He lowered his head and looked at her through his lashes, something she’d only ever known simpering heroines in romance novels to do. “He said you were a spitfire,” he murmured, and she grimaced at the thought of Dr. Evil describing her that way. It sounded much too . . . chummy. And grossly familiar.

He shook his head. “Please forgive me. I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Sebastian Thorne.” He had the nerve to proffer his hand.

Jenna said quietly, “I know who you are. And I’m sure you realize I can easily crush your hand if I wanted to. Or a whole lot of other things I doubt you’d appreciate having crushed.” She managed not to glance at his crotch, but only just.

Without lowering his arm, he said, “Yes, my associate now cooling on the floor of your cell is proof enough of that. However, you’d be dead before you could do any real damage to me. And I think you’re going to want to stay alive to hear my proposition.”

Still not afraid, just calm, cool, confident. She almost envied him his composure; she herself was feeling the first stirrings of an array of unpleasant emotions. He didn’t seem to care one whit she’d murdered his associate. Another “subject,” no doubt.