Suddenly I think of how he went for Saskia at Glow Bar ten years ago. My mind races ahead of me. Did he attack her again after that and kill her? Is that what happened to her? If so, I’m in real danger here. He thinks I invited him here to trap him, so he’ll be like a cornered animal.

Damn. And now I’ve lost the element of surprise. What do I do? Game-show-host Dale scares me. I want Viking Dale back.

I look down at his hand. His nails are neatly trimmed and he has thick blond hair on his wrist.

The best fighters do everything they can to avoid a fight, Milla. But if you can’t avoid it, hit first and hit hard.

My dad taught me how to fight. Tough guy, my dad. Smart as well. I could hit Dale left-handed, or better still, knee him in the balls—and I totally want to—but he would hit me back and we’d both end up hurt. I’ll try another option first. “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll tell your wife you kissed me.”

It’s low of me to use that against him. I was the one who initiated the kiss. But I don’t care. I’m mad. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to knee him and run.

He releases my arm.

I used to have a lot of respect for Dale. He was this fun, easygoing guy with a unique sense of style—in his snowboarding, his fashion sense, and life itself. Should I tell him about Heather in the cupboard with Brent last night?

No. I need to hear Brent’s side of things first. Or better yet, focus on getting out of this place. I climb the stairs, fighting to calm my breathing.

“Hey,” Dale calls.

I turn.

“Sorry.”

Seriously? You do that, then think you can apologize and all will be forgotten? I’m not convinced he’s even sorry, but I nod and continue upward, holding my breath until I reach the relative safety of the kitchen.

Heather’s in there, sleek as ever in skinny white jeans and the heeled boots she was wearing yesterday. Her eyes narrow when Dale walks in shortly behind me.

No, Heather. I didn’t kiss him. Not this time.

Dale goes straight over to her and puts his arms around her—to reassure her, stake his claim, or both, I can’t tell.

I sense Curtis’s eyes on me. Do I look as flustered as I feel?

“Is the bubble running?” Heather asks.

“No,” Dale says.

“And I have a feeling it won’t be,” Curtis adds.

Heads turn his way.

“If someone went to this much trouble to get us up here, they aren’t going to let us go so easily.”

“If only we had our bloody phones,” Heather says.