Quinn checked her coat at the cloak room, stole a quick peek at her appearance in the mirror, and walked into the room where the party was being held as if she had every right to be there. She felt relieved when no one challenged her and made her way to the open bar. It was always easier to circulate with a drink in hand. She ordered a glass of Pinot Noir and surveyed the room from her vantage point. The party had been underway for nearly two hours, and the guests were at the stage where they’d consumed a few drinks and were feeling friendly and less inhibited than they would normally be at a work function. Quinn spotted Robert Chatham right away; he was difficult to miss. Quinn had done some research on the man and his company, but seeing him in person still made her mouth go dry.

Chatham was a good-looking man. He was tall and broad, his ash-blond hair lightly silvered with gray, which only made him look more distinguished. Unlike many men of his age, his jowls hadn’t gone soft, nor had he grown stout about the middle. He looked trim and fit, and his face appeared very youthful for a man on the cusp of fifty. He was deep in conversation with several people, but even from a distance, Quinn could see that the conversation centered on him. The body language of the other guests made it evident that they deferred to Robert Chatham and valued his opinion, putting him at the center of the discussion.

Several people, mostly men, tried to engage Quinn in conversation, but she replied politely and moved on, her gaze fixed on Robert Chatham. She had no wish to interrupt his conversation, so had to bide her time until he was left on his own for a bit. Quinn wasn’t comfortable with what she was doing, since deceit never came easily to her, so she tried to pretend that she was at an Institute do where everyone stood about awkwardly until the alcohol began to flow. A short time later, tongues suddenly loosened and sexual innuendo became the order of the day, not a pretty sight in a roomful of middle-aged archeologists. The day after the party was usually charged with uncomfortable silences and almost palpable regret, pertaining mostly to drunken hook-ups in empty offices. At least there’d be none of that tomorrow, since Quinn would leave as soon as she’d had a chance to speak with Robert Chatham and gather a sample of his DNA. Quinn smiled to herself. Monica Fielding, the only person she could think of whom she genuinely disliked, was the mistress of dissemblance and subterfuge. Tonight, she would be Monica; a woman comfortable with deception and fluid morals. Quinn finally saw her chance and moved toward her target.

“Mr. Chatham?” Quinn asked, a playful smile on her face.

“Yes.” The man was even more attractive up-close, but had the air of a warrior surveying a battlefield and weighing the odds. On the outside, he appeared relaxed, but there was a watchfulness in him, and a coiled energy that was off-putting.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your contract with Samsung. You must be very pleased,” Quinn said, giving him her most winning smile.

“Indeed, I am. It’s was a major coup for the company. Miss?” he looked at her, his eyes full of playful curiosity.

“Fielding. Monica Fielding.”

“Who do you work for, Monica?”

“The competition, of course,” Quinn replied coyly.

“And what are you working on?” Robert Chatham asked, leaning in a little too close.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge trade secrets,” she whispered, making him laugh. “All I can say is that I’m on the administrative end of things, rather than technical. Number crunching, and such. Which is why I’m so impressed with your meteoric rise. You haven’t put a foot wrong in three years.”

“Sadly, my father passed away three years ago. He’d been at the helm of Chatham Electronics since the 1970s, when his own father retired. My father was a shrewd businessman, but like many men of his generation he found himself a little out of step with progress. Things did not move as quickly in his time, so he became fearful of taking risks. I, on the other hand, am all about risk.”

“Well, you must be psychic,” Quinn teased, “because every risk you take seems to pay off.” She watched Chatham carefully, desperate for a reaction. She wasn’t disappointed. He leaned forward again, his lips almost brushing her cheek.

“As it happens, I am psychic. I experience visions of the future all the time. Do you know what I’m seeing now?” he asked, casually brushing his hand against her hip.

“Do tell,” Quinn said. She knew where this was going, but was still hopeful that he wasn’t having her on.

“I see you coming up to my room for a night cap. This party is beginning to bore me.”

Quinn looked up at the man. He made her uneasy, but she’d come tonight with the sole purpose of gathering some form of DNA, and at the moment, she had nothing. Chatham’s jacket was immaculate, with not a stray hair in sight, and he’d given his empty glass to a waiter a few moments before. She’d go for one drink and then leave.

“One drink,” she said.

“One drink,” Chatham agreed.

Quinn nearly flinched when Robert Chatham placed his hand on her lower back and steered her through the crowd, out the door, and toward the bank of elevators in the lobby. She wasn’t prepared for this, but her plan, although not bulletproof, was relatively basic. Have one drink, ask to use the loo, collect stray DNA, make her excuses and depart.

Robert Chatham stood across from her in the lift, studying her with a small smile. “You remind me of someone,” he said, tilting his head to the side as if appraising a painting. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

Perhaps I remind you of my mother, whom you raped when she was just seventeen and probably haven’t given a second thought since, you arrogant wanker, Quinn thought bitterly.

“I know. You remind me of Destiny, a painting by John William Waterhouse, particularly because you’re wearing that color. Are you familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites? I own a rather priceless Rossetti. I know it’s a bit childish, but I keep it in a place where only I can enjoy its beauty. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.”

How nice for you, Quinn retorted in her head. “I am more of a modern art girl. I like things that are edgy and new,” she replied, just to annoy him. She actually didn’t care for modern art at all and would have given much to own a Rossetti, but spending millions on art simply wasn’t her style. If she had the money to spend, she’d give it to a charity for children or refugees, not on a painting to hide from the world and gloat over.

They exited the lift, and Robert unlocked his room, ushering Quinn inside. It was a suite, with a large, airy bedroom and a cozy sitting room, complete with a discreet minibar. Quinn stepped inside, eager to put some distance between her and Robert Chatham, but she’d barely taken a step before he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She instinctively pulled back, unprepared for such intimacy. Robert Chatham leaned in, his lips brushing her neck while his hand moved to her breast. He trailed kisses down her neck, moving downward and running the tip of his tongue along the top of her breast, just above the neckline of the dress. Quinn quivered with revulsion.

“You are so lovely,” he breathed as his hand found her buttock and squeezed.

Quinn managed to wedge her hands between herself and the man, pushing him away. She knew he’d make a play for her, but she hadn’t expected it to happen that quickly. Most people took a little time to gauge their prospects and allow the sexual tension to build before making their move. Robert Chatham clearly didn’t play by those rules. He just assumed that Quinn was game, and didn’t seem like the type of man to take no for an answer. Given what he’d done to Sylvia, she should have expected that, no matter how many years had passed. Once a predator, always a predator.

“I need a moment,” she whispered and fled toward the loo the second his hold on her slackened. Quinn rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Her breathing was ragged, and she found that she was shaking as she leaned against the cool tiles of the wall. Robert Chatham was big and strong, and aggressive. She had miscalculated. There would be no flirting over a glass of wine or an opportunity to say no. He meant to get down to business as soon as she emerged from the bathroom, so she had to take what she could and get out before the situation got out of hand.

Quinn looked around the bathroom. It was spotless. There was nothing out of place, not a hair on the sink or the floor, or a used tissue in the rubbish bin. The room must have been cleaned after Chatham showered that morning, the cleaner taking away anything that might prove useful. Quinn found Chatham’s razor and turned it over. The blade appeared to be brand new, not a single bit of stubble stuck behind it. She looked around in dismay. There had to be something she could use. Not even his dressing gown, which hung on a hook behind the door, had any hair on it.

Quinn grabbed the rubbish bin and looked inside. It was empty, but on the very bottom, stuck to the trash bag, was a used plaster. She pulled a pair of tweezers out of her bag and carefully removed the plaster. It had a bit of dried blood and several hair follicles stuck to it. Robert Chatham must have nicked himself while shaving, which would explain the new razor. He must have disposed of the old one. Quinn bagged the plaster and hid the evidence in her bag before taking a deep breath and exiting the bathroom. She had to get out of this room, and fast.

“I am sorry, but I must go,” Quinn said, smiling apologetically. “Duty calls.”

“And what duty might that be?” Robert asked, smiling at her like a cat who was about to devour the canary.

“My husband is expecting me,” Quinn lied.

“Is that so? You weren’t in too much of a rush before.”

“I quite forgot,” Quinn said, shrugging in a nonchalant manner.

“Forgot you have a husband, or that he’s expecting you? I would hate for a woman to forget about me,” he drawled, moving closer to Quinn until she was forced to take a step backward.

“No woman would dare forget about you,” Quinn replied inching slowly toward the door.

“No, she wouldn’t. And neither will you, if I have anything to say about it.”

Quinn gasped as Robert Chatham pushed her roughly against the wall and kissed her hard, pinning her with his body and making it impossible to escape. His tongue invaded her mouth just as his hand invaded her body. He slid his hand up her skirt, pushing his fingers against the silk crotch of her knickers and rubbing urgently to arouse her. Quinn tried to press her legs together, but Chatham wedged his thigh between her own, preventing her from doing anything to stop him.

Quinn tried to break the kiss, but he grabbed her head with his free hand to keep her in place, kissing her hungrily. She felt as if she were being devoured. Chatham’s erection pressed into her pelvis, making her cringe with disgust. She had to get away, and there was only one way she could do so now. Quinn gathered all her strength and pushed him away. His eyes were glazed with desire, and his trousers bulged, his intentions clear. He blocked the door, leering at her.

“Aren’t you the little cock-tease?” he said, advancing toward her again.

“Will Samsung remain in business with you if you’re accused of assault?” she spat out. “It wouldn’t be the first time for you, would it?”

That had the desired effect. Her words hit Robert Chatham like a bucket of cold water. He yanked open the door and held it open. “Get out, you bitch. I will destroy you if you say a word against me. You hear?”

Quinn didn’t bother to answer. She rushed out of the room and toward the lift, which thankfully came very quickly. Quinn rested her forehead against the cold metal wall of the lift. Her legs shook, and her breath came hard and fast as her brain finally accepted how close she’d come to getting hurt. She’d led him on, that was true, but that didn’t give him the right to force himself on her if she said no.

Quinn let out a shaky laugh. He’d done it before, when he was hardly more than a boy, and he’d likely done it since. Few women reported an assault, especially when their story could be torn apart by a clever lawyer, as hers would be if she filed a complaint, had Chatham actually managed to rape her. She would be made to look like a total slag; a woman who flirted with a man, went up to his room, and allowed him to touch her and kiss her before suddenly changing her mind and calling the man’s amorous advances an assault. No one would believe her, as no one believed the countless women who’d been raped and were told that it was all their fault and they had it coming. Quinn suddenly understood why Sylvia, being only seventeen, never filed a report. Bringing her attackers to justice wouldn’t undo what had been done, but she’d have been dragged through the mud, probed, examined, and humiliated, and that’s even before the trial began. Quinn managed to calm herself by the time the lift reached the lobby. She collected her coat, settled into a taxi, and closed her eyes, grateful beyond words to be going home to Gabe.