“Okay.” I try to take a readying breath. You can do this, Jane. Nervous heat builds, and I slip off my leopard coat. Thatcher stares so hard at my movements, I think he’s going to pop a blood vessel in his eye. My heart races. “What is it?” I ask. His gaze darkens on my coat. “Tony shouldn’t have been anywhere under your fucking clothes.” He grips his radio, about to kick into action. I hold up a pointer finger. “I’m removing a coat. A single article of clothing that is nowhere near a shirt or a bra and has absolutely nothing to do with Tony other than I’m sweating… a lot.”
