The distasteful man hung an irritating three steps behind us. He had met us at the steps of Trent’s main building and remained a silent, accusing, professionally cold presence since. The man was six-ten if he was a foot, his features pointy and sharp. An aristocratic, hawklike nose gave him an air of smelling something offensive. His eyes were a cold blue, and his carefully styled black hair was graying. I hated him, and I was trying really hard to overlook that he had tormented me when I was a mink trapped in Trent’s office for three unreal days.

Warming at the memory, I took off my coat as we walked, struggling, as neither man offered to take my garment bag. There was a definite moistness to the air the farther back we went. Faint to the point of being almost subliminal was the sound of running water, piped in from who knew where. My steps slowed when I recognized the doorway to Trent’s secondary office. Behind me, Jonathan stopped. Quen continued without pause, and I hurried to catch up.

Jonathan clearly wasn’t pleased. “Where are you taking her?” he asked belligerently.

Quen’s steps grew stiff. “To Trenton.” He never turned around or changed his pace.

“Quen …” Jonathan’s voice was thick in warning. I glanced mockingly back, pleased to see his long wrinkled face showing worry rather than his perpetual stuck-up sneer. Brow furrowed, Jonathan hastened forward as we halted before the arched wooden door at the end of the hall. The overly tall man pushed in front, placing a hand atop the heavy metal latch as Quen reached for it. “You aren’t taking her in there,” Jonathan warned.

I shifted my garment bag in a sound of sliding nylon, my eyes going from one to the other as the political currents passed between them. Whatever was behind the door was good.

The smaller, more dangerous man narrowed his eyes, and the pox scars went white in his suddenly red face. “She is going to keep him alive tonight,” he said. “I’m not going to make her change and wait for him in a secondary office like a paid whore.”

Jonathan’s blue eyes went even more determined. My pulse quickened, and I stepped out from between them. “Move,” Quen intoned, his surprisingly deep voice resonating through me.

Flustered, Jonathan stepped back. Quen pulled it open, the muscles in his back tensing. “Thank you,” he said insincerely as the door swung out, slow with inertia.

My lips parted; the door was a freaking six inches thick! The sound of running water chattered out, accompanied by the scent of wet snow. It wasn’t cold, though, and I peered past Quen’s narrow shoulders to see a soft mottled carpet and a wall paneled in a dark wood that had been oiled and rubbed until it glistened with golden depths. This, I thought as I followed Quen in, had to be Trent’s private quarters.

The short hallway immediately expanded into a second-story walkway. My feet stopped as I looked out over the large room below us. It was impressive, maybe 130 feet long, half as much wide, and twenty feet tall. We had come out on the second floor, which hugged the ceiling. Below, amid the rich carpet and woods, were casually placed seating arrangements of couches, chairs, and coffee tables. Everything was in soft earth tones, accented with maroon and black. A fireplace the size of a fire truck took up one wall, but what drew my attention was the floor-to-ceiling window that stretched the entirety of the wall across from me, letting in the dusky light of early evening.