Dirty Christmas
The air was cool, but the chill had nothing to do with temperature.
Behind him, Sebastian Vale leaned casually against the glass wall, a crystal tumbler in his hand. British. Old money. The kind of man who wore arrogance like an accessory and somehow made it elegant.
“You look stunned,” Sebastian said with a faint smile. “We did warn you Greece would be distracting.”
Luca Moretti laughed softly as he set down his phone. Italian. Finance. Warm brown eyes that lingered longer than polite. He stepped closer, just enough for me to feel the subtle heat of his body.