Dylan threw her duffel bag onto the white Italian leather sofa. It landed with a dull thud.
She walked to the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean and glittering with a million lights.
She unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the terrace. The wind was brisk, whipping strands of hair across her face.
The terrace wrapped around the building, separated from the adjacent unit-Penthouse Two-by a frosted glass privacy wall and a row of tall bamboo planters.
She smelled it before she saw him. Smoke. High-end tobacco. Clove and leather.
She peered through a gap in the bamboo.
A man was leaning on the railing of the next balcony. He was wearing a dark silk robe, loosely tied. A white bandage was visible on his chest, stark against tan skin.
It was the "Doctor" from the train.
Dylan froze. "You have got to be kidding me."
Anson turned. His instincts were sharp. He sensed eyes on him instantly.
He saw her. His eyes widened slightly, then crinkled at the corners. Amusement danced in the gray depths.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice carrying over the wind. "If it isn't my savior."
Dylan recovered quickly. She leaned against her railing. "Stalking me, Doctor?"
Anson laughed. It was a rich sound. "I live here. The question is, how did you get in?"
Sovereign Heights had only two Penthouses. They were sold by invitation only.
"I broke in," Dylan lied smoothly. "Looking for silverware to steal. You know, since I'm a charity case."
Anson toasted her with the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Take the silver. Leave the copper. It's vintage."
He knew she belonged here. No one broke into Sovereign Heights. The security was military-grade. Which meant this girl-the one in the hoodie who fought like a soldier-was his neighbor.
This changed his assessment. Drastically.
"So, neighbor," Anson said. "What's your name again?"
"Still just Dylan."
"Just Dylan. Living in a fifty-million-dollar apartment."
"I'm house-sitting," she deflected.
Anson nodded, playing along. "Of course. for whom?"
"A very private person."
Dylan stepped back toward her door. "Goodnight, Doctor. Try not to bleed on the balcony. It stains."
She stepped inside, locked the door, and pulled the automated blinds shut.
Anson stood on the balcony, watching her window go dark. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
"Investigate the owner of Penthouse One," he ordered. "And find out how her file was scrubbed from my initial security sweep. Now."
