The elevator in Voss Tower was private, mirrored on all four walls, and rose so smoothly it felt like falling in reverse. Cameron stepped in at 7:42 p.m. on a rain-slick Monday, suit jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened, another sixteen-hour day bleeding out behind him. He hit 68—his new executive floor—and leaned against the brass rail, watching the lobby shrink to a postage stamp below.
The doors were three inches from closing when a manicured hand slid between them.
Serena Voss stepped inside wearing a belted trench the color of wet sand and nothing else he could detect. The belt was knotted loosely; the coat gaped at the throat, revealing the inward curve of both breasts and the shadowed line between them. Her hair was twisted up carelessly, a few damp platinum strands clinging to
