Cultural Properties Curator Sydney Wainsbrook felt her stomach clench and her adrenaline level rise as Bradley Slander sauntered across the foyer of New York’s Laurent Museum. A champagne flute dangled carelessly from his fingers and that scheming smile made his beady brown eyes look even smaller and more rat-like than usual.

“Better luck next time, Wainsbrook,” he drawled, tipping his head back to take an inelegant swig of the ’96 Cristal champagne. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he smacked his lips with exaggerated self-satisfaction.

Yeah, he would feel self-satisfied. He had just outbid her on an antique, gold Korean windbell, earning a hefty commission and making it the possession of a private collector instead of a public museum.

It was the third time this year he’d squatted in the wings like a vulture while she did the legwork. The third time he scrabbled in at the last second to ruin her deal.

Sydney had nothing against competition. And she understood an owner’s right to sell their property to the highest bidder. What galled her was the way Bradley slithered around her contacts, fed them inflated estimates to convince them to consider auction. Then he bid much lower than his estimate, disappointing the owner and keeping important heritage finds from the community forever.

“How do you sleep at night?” she asked.

Bradley leaned his shoulder against a marble pillar and crossed one ankle over the other. “Let’s see. I spend an hour or so in my hot tub, sip a glass of Napoleon brandy, listen to a bit of classical jazz, then crawl into my California king and close my eyes. How about you?”

She pointedly shifted her gaze to the stone wall beside them. “I fantasize about you and that broad ax.”

He smirked. “Happy to be in your fantasy, babe.”