Ross Madigan sat at the crowded bar of the Royal King hotel, his eyes narrowed against the smoke drifting past his face. It came from the cigarette of the excessively perfumed woman sitting next to him.

Both the perfume and the smoke irritated him, but not enough to make him move. He'd suffered far worse smells than that in the past eight years.

He knew the woman was interested. He'd given her only a brief glance as he'd perched his hip on the stool, but if anyone had asked him, he could have told them exactly what she was wearing and the color of her eyes. He could feel her looking at him now, assessing, inviting, but he ignored her.

In the next instant he'd forgotten all about her as he saw an attractive blonde emerge from a door at the back of the room and seat herself at the baby grand piano.

She leaned into the mike, and he swung round on the stool, until his back was to her. Opposite him, the long mirrors reflected back the image of the room, and he leaned slightly to one side. From there he could watch her without her noticing. He waited, holding his breath, as her husky voice filled the room.

“Hello, everyone. Welcome to the Starlight Room at the Royal King. I'm Eve Andrews, and I'm here to entertain you with songs old and new. If you have any requests, I'll be happy to try and play them for you, but first, here's one of my favorites.”

His hand trembled when he lifted his glass. He felt the betraying gesture and frowned. In the old days nothing would have made his hand shake.

Andrews, he thought, swallowing his bourbon. She used to be Evelyn Damon. Mrs. Evelyn Damon. She hadn't changed that much. Her fluffy hair was still a soft, ash blonde, but now she wore it loose, brushing her bare shoulders. The last time he'd seen her she'd had it twisted up at the back of her head.

Her face was shadowed in the candlelight and he couldn't see the color of her eyes from there. He didn't need to. He remembered them well. Soft green, and so easy to read.

She'd tempted him, more than once. Except back then he'd had principles. She was his partner's wife, and he'd always steered clear of married women. He'd been a successful young lawyer then, and hadn't been short of female company.

He wondered what those same friends thought of him now. It was a small part of everything he'd lost, but it mattered. Oh, how it mattered.

She played well. The mellow chords died away as she came to the end of the well-known tune, and he wondered if she still sang. As if reading his mind, she leaned into the mike again.

“What does it take to love you…?”

Her voice was sultry now, tightening the tension somewhere else in his body.

Careful, he warned himself. That was the one thing he couldn't afford. He'd spent eight long years in the worst hell he could imagine, and the only thing that had kept him sane was the promise he'd made the day they'd shut the sun out of his life for an eternity.

       One man had put him in that miserable hole, and that man was going to pay. The one man he'd trusted above all others. Bernard Damon, Eve Andrews' ex-husband.