He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Peter blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze - scented of smog and jasmine - felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath.
Peter Killian, curator at Constantine House in Los Angeles, wakes in the hospital to find himself accused of stealing a Tenth Century Chinese sculpture. Peter knows he's not a thief - but that's all he knows. Why is hot and handsome Detective Mike Griffin so sure he's guilty - and so bent on seeing Peter arrested?
And why is Peter having these weird dreams about an unseen lover who somehow reminds him uncomfortably of Michael Griffin?
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