As the afternoon went on, the pleasant buzz from the lunchtime martinis wore off, leaving her feeling headachy and dull.

She headed back to the hotel and stopped at the bellhop desk in the spacious hotel lobby to have her shopping bags delivered to her room. When she turned away, she noticed the doorway that led to the hotel bar.

The open space seemed to beckon invitingly, and she gave in to the impulse to go inside. Maybe the sugar and caffeine from a Coke would banish her hangover.

As she stepped across the threshold from the lobby into the bar, a change occurred that was hard to define. The air felt different—cooler and sharper, full of energy. Her headache vaporized.

If the bar manager could bottle whatever was in the air, he would make a fortune. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her shoulders and looked around.

Dark cherry tables lay scattered over a patterned tile floor. Several of the tables were occupied. The bar itself was made of the same wood as the tables, and light reflected off shelves of colored bottles of liquor and the mirrored wall behind them, making everything seem hard and bright.

A solitary, dark-haired man sat at the bar, his long, folded figure indicating height and broad shoulders. As she glanced at him, he looked up from his drink and into the mirror.

His eyes, yellow like a cat’s in a lean, suntanned face, met hers.

Surprise throbbed a single pulse beat throughout her body. Josiah Mason, Atlanta’s new DA, lounged at the bar as if he owned it. As if he were waiting for something or someone.

Seeing him here, in a place she had unconsciously claimed as her own, brought back the sickened adrenaline from Thursday night. She fought an instinctive urge to bolt.

Leveling a long look at him, she thought, I’ll be damned if I run. She gave him a civil nod and walked to the bar several seats away to settle on a stool and set her purse beside her.

When the bartender came to take her order, all her good intentions to avoid more alcohol vaporized. “I’ll take a single malt scotch. Your best one.”

“We have a twenty-one-year-old Balvenie, will that do?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes.”

“You got it.” He slouched away.

While she waited for her drink, she spread her hands flat on the smooth, gleaming wood surface of the bar.

Coincidences happen, she told herself. Don’t look at him again. Look at your hands. People wig out and scream at their husbands at dinner parties all the time. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Austin is the one at fault, not you.

Besides, maybe he won’t recognize you. You look completely different than you did at the party. This is no big deal.